Free The Shepherd of Weeds by Susannah Appelbaum Page B

day’s work.”
    “Then it should fit right in with all her other herbs.” Rowan sighed. Staunchweed, Rowan knew from Botanicals, a dreary class for first years, did have its uses—mostly custodial—none of which would help relieve his grogginess.
    Cecil had settled into a moody silence. He had found what appeared to be parsley root, a universal antidote, and was mincing it carefully. Quite wisely, Rowan dismissed Cecil’s foul temper to be what it was: an uncle’s worry for his missing niece. He struggled in the silence to gather his thoughts.
    He and Cecil were in Ivy’s workshop in Templar, where, inexplicably, the taster had found himself the previous day—asleep on the stoop of the Apothecary. One minute he was in Underwood, with Ivy, after emerging through the Thorn Door. They stared with wonder at the series of famous tapestries that had escaped their silken boundaries and come alive.
    Next thing he knew, he was here in Templar, his head heavy—a crick in his neck from spending the night on the frozen stone stoop.
    He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was a greatdisappointment to the apotheopath, who had grilled him hopefully on Ivy’s whereabouts (Rowan had no idea) and their accomplishments (no idea, again) in Pimcaux.
    All he had to show for himself, it seemed, was the acorn.
    “Yes, this acorn of yours is quite remarkable.” Cecil followed Rowan’s gaze, and paused his potion-making to examine the knob of silver on the table beside him.
    The taster nodded absently. His hand rested upon a large clump of spiky white bristle and tusk—the sleeping form of his dear old friend, the bettle boar Poppy. Periodic snorts and low growls escaped her long snout as she dreamed of icicles and mountain passes, the frigid terrain she was meant to inhabit. Out the window was an open, cobbled square, and the citizens of Templar were busy upon it. Beyond, the river Marcel had frozen over.
    “Solid silver, it appears,” Cecil murmured. The apotheopath paused to examine the smooth shell, holding it up to the light. “To think—this grew upon a tree!”
    “It—and the thousands like it—nearly killed us,” the taster explained. He and Ivy had been pelted by them in a windstorm of oaks on their way to find the King in Pimcaux.
    Cecil’s eyes narrowed as he thought.
    “Acorn”
—Cecil was pensive—“means
eternal life.
”
    “Or
imminent death
,” Rowan added glumly.
    The apotheopath and taster were referring to an arcane and ancient communication based on botany, called Flower Code.
    Page 746 of Axlerod D. Roux’s famed
Field Guide to the Poisons of Caux
(titled “The Secret Language of Flowers”) begins a long treatise of various meanings assigned to Caux’s rich plant population. While the origin of the coded meanings remains unclear, Flower Code was said to come from a time when plants behaved in their true natures, and their names illustrated these natures variously. Axle maintained that with the help of his book, it was entirely possible to carry on a secret conversation
in complete silence
while enjoying one of Caux’s many gardens or woods, or by simply fashioning and delivering the appropriate bouquet. The Code had delivered them to the doorway to Pimcaux.
    “Ah, it seems you are learning that much of what’s important in life comes with a range of meanings—some agonizingly contradictive. And that includes the Prophecy,” Cecil said pointedly. Straining his mixture through a fine cloth, he held out his hand, a small chipped glass within.
    “Drink this.” Cecil’s tone was kind. The glass contained a pale green misty syrup. “It should do the trick.”
    Rowan did—it was tart and sweet and not at all bad—and then slipped into silence.
    “Perhaps, when spring finally comes,” Cecil mused, “we shall plant this acorn with Ivy, and see what it might bring.”
    If spring comes
, Rowan thought.
    If
Ivy
comes
.
    The window seat upon which he sat was crowded withIvy’s potted plants,