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

continues. “He specialized in plants of the Orient, and claimed to be a survivor of one of Captain Cook’s expeditions. I suspect he waslying about that, but the specimens he offered were quite rare. And the prices he charged were exorbitant, I must say.”
    Father continues to stroll as he talks. He seems fully at ease here inside his locked garden—more at ease than I have ever seen him, in fact. “This is henbane. And this is poison hemlock. A painless death, but a particularly cruel one, don’t you think?”
    “From the feet it begins,” Weed intones.
    Father nods. “Death starts from the feet and travels upward, until it reaches the heart and finally kills you, and the whole time you are fully aware of what is happening. They say it took poor Socrates twelve hours to die. Ah, here is a favorite of mine: wormwood, the ingredient that gives absinthe its peculiarly intoxicating properties.” Father waves me closer. “Take a good look at the white bryony, Jessamine. It is all too easy to mistake its roots for parsnip. That would be the last bowl of soup any of us would ever enjoy.”
    We follow Father from plant to plant. “Bittersweet,”he points out, “and adder’s root, and mandrake. And this potent specimen is called oleander—”
    Suddenly Weed clutches his head in pain. “No!” he cries. “These are not plants to heal the sick. These are poison! All of them … poison …”
    Something twists inside my chest. Is it true? I knew these plants were dangerous if misused, Father always told me that—but is Father’s private, closely guarded collection of plants really nothing more than a poison garden? A locked armory of deadly, living weapons? For what purpose would he, or anyone, create such a wicked place?
    “You must know it is not as simple as that, Weed,” Father says smoothly. “The plant that can kill can also cure, if only one has the knowledge to use it properly. That is why it is so important—so very important—that you tell me what you know.”
    Weed shakes his head violently back and forth, as if he would cast out some deeply embedded pain.
    “Are you all right?” I cry out, but as I reach toward him I lose my balance and stumble into a nearbygarden bed. My arm brushes against what looks like a nettle. It feels like a thousand pins plunging into my flesh. Within seconds, a tiger’s striping of scarlet welts begins to rise and scroll around my skin.
    Father does not even turn around. “Do be careful, Jessamine,” he says casually, walking on. “I paid a great deal of money for some of these plants.”
    I cradle my wounded arm. The burning sensation forces tears into my eyes. Vivid, puffy stripes rise and spread with shocking speed. “A dock leaf will take way the sting,” I tell Weed with forced calm, though I feel suddenly light-headed. “I’m sure we will find one on the walk home.”
    “A dock leaf might, if that were an ordinary nettle.” Weed closes his eyes, then walks in staggering zigzags until he reaches a small group of plants near the southern fence. Dizzily I scurry after him.
    “Weed,” I whisper hoarsely. “please, do not touch anything. Father will be furious—”
    Ignoring my objections, he bends down and tears a leaf from a low, inconspicuous shrub, then standsand rubs it on my skin. The worst of the pain subsides at once, and the sharp pinpricks turn to a dull throbbing.
    Father has wandered far ahead of us; now he turns. “Come along, you two, what is holding you back?” A glance from Weed instructs me to say nothing. I draw my shawl close around my arm to cover the welts, which are already starting to recede.
    Father calls again: “Make haste, Jessamine. I want you to see this.”
    I glance behind me. Weed’s lips are pale and moving rapidly, as if he were reciting some desperate prayer.
Please, let Father not see him acting so oddly,
I think.
    Ahead, Father beckons. Obediently I go to him. He steps aside with a smile.
    “Look—here are some old