Free The Poison Diaries by Maryrose Wood, The Duchess Of Northumberland

Father rises from his chair and sits on the edge of the table, nearer to Weed. “It is time to be frank with each other. I value your knowledge, Weed. I admire it. I admit, I envy it. Think of it: belladonna, hemlock, black henbane—the lost formula for a twilight sleep! A sleep so profound a man would not feel his own limb being cut off.”
    He looks at Weed as if expecting some reaction, but there is none. Father seems to interpret this as interest, or at least a willingness to hear more, for he goes on.
    “Behind the walls of my apothecary garden are other rare and even more dangerous plants. Many I acquired without fully understanding their uses—perhaps I found a name mentioned in some obscure, ancient medical text, or came upon an old cure related by a beggar who claimed to have heard it from an ancient witch woman he met once. Based upon such vague hints and clues, and often following nothing more than my own blind instincts, I have bought and traded plants from all over the world. The most powerful ones live behind that locked gate.”
    Weed’s face is impassive; his attention seems to have turned inward. Undaunted, Father continues.
    “I have gone to great pains to try to learn the uses and properties of these plants. I have spent countless hours in pursuit of this knowledge. You could save me a great deal of time and effort, if you wouldonly speak….” Father stops himself. He stands, and spreads his hands before Weed in a gesture of supplication. “Weed. I wish to take you into the apothecary garden. I want you to look at the plants that grow there and tell me what you know of them.”
    Weed recoils as if struck. “No!” he exclaims. “That garden is dangerous. Dangerous for me—dangerous for everyone.”
    Father scowls, puzzled. So far he has not even acknowledged my presence, but I step forward now to explain. “Father, even walking near the apothecary garden made Weed feel very ill. Perhaps he is afraid that some harm may come to him if he enters it.”
    To my amazement, Father places his hands gently on Weed’s shoulders. He speaks warmly, as a father would speak to a beloved son. “It may be a difficult thing I ask of you, but I implore you to at least try. Remember, it is not for me I ask. Think of the people who might be cured.”
    I have never seen Father speak so humbly, so earnestly, to anyone.
    Weed turns his gaze to me. Our eyes meet, and though the table is between us, it is suddenly as if our kiss never ended. Even now I am standing in his arms, our lips pressed together, breathing his clean, sunwarmed scent.
    “Jessamine.” His voice warms me, deep inside. “What would you have me do?”
    Father looks at me too, waiting for my answer. I know full well what he would have me say. Oh, I am torn! Heaven knows how much and for how long I have yearned to go inside that forbidden garden—but does Weed know something I do not?
    Think of the people who might be cured….
    That is what Father said, but in my heart I hear:
    It is too late to save Mama… but think of the others….
    “Father will not allow any harm to come to you,” I say firmly. “You must trust him fully, just as you trust me. And I will come into the garden, too,” I add, looking hard at Father, “and stay by your side every minute, Weed.”
    Father nods his assent.
    “As you wish.” Weed sounds reluctant but resigned, as if a long-dreaded fate he knows he cannot escape has finally come to pass. “Tomorrow it is, then.”
    With no warning, Father turns and hugs me, tightly, as if I were a child. I cannot remember the last time he has done that. I know it has been years.
    “Into the garden we go, Jessamine,” he murmurs into my hair. “It is time.”

9
     
    24th April
    The weather is fair and mild.
    Father says I am not permitted to write about what happens today. The contents of the apothecary garden must remain secret.
    Did I mention that the weather is fair?
     
    T HE KEY TO THE APOTHECARY GARDEN hangs on a