The Poison Diaries: Nightshade

by Maryrose Wood

  10

  IT HAS TAKEN THE better part of this long sea journey, but finally I can stand on the deck of this vessel with no churning in the pit of my belly and no bile rising into the back of my throat.

  Still, I am eager to set foot on land again. At sea there are no chattering fields of grass, no nagging trees, no farmland planted with acres of dull, complaining crops. But the algae floats atop the waves like a crimson bedsheet, buzzing like a choir of bees. The din never ends.

  Worse than that has been the waiting, for I can accomplish little shipboard. Now the wait is nearly over. Soon I will be able to resume my search for Jessamine. This time, I pray I will succeed.

  After I left the burning ruin of Hulne Abbey behind me I ran, from this town to that, staying off the main roads, for I knew I looked like a wild man. Along the way I transformed myself. I stole money and clothes, and paid a barber to rid me of my matted hair and beard.

  Soon I joined forces with a travelling mountebank’s show, where I performed simple tricks to amuse the crowds and part them from their hard-earned coins. What a sight I was! Even Jessamine would not have recognised me, dressed in my velvet suit, with a white ruffled shirt and pomaded hair. My signature performance was making a cut rose bloom on command. Afterwards I would take a deep bow and hand the flower to whatever golden-haired young woman in the crowd looked most like my lost love.

  Following each performance I received letters, on monogrammed stationery and reeking of French perfumes, from women desiring to meet me, to bed me, and sometimes even to marry me. It was my own fault, for making such a spectacle of myself, but I did it for my own ends. As a honeysuckle seduces the bees with its bright colour and strong, sweet scent, I needed to do what I must to draw a paying audience. That I refused all offers of companionship seemed only to add to my appeal.

  At night, after my huckstering was done, I would read and reread the sole book in my possession: Thomas Luxton’s poison diary. I am not a strong reader, for my education by human standards has been poor. But slowly and by candlelight I mastered its pages, each written in the small, neat scrawl of that despicable man.

  The diary describes poisonous brews for every possible use. Some work in an instant, bringing death as swiftly as a club. Others are designed to cause a slow, torturous end that masks itself as illness and takes weeks or months to achieve. Some poisons do not even kill but cause incurable madness instead. Some have the power to leave a man paralysed, but fully alive within the prison of his own flesh.

  What need could one man have for so many types of poison? Luxton’s methods are revealed within these pages, but his purpose is not. Again and again he bemoans his frustration at having to rediscover wisdom that has been lost. There are lists of places where he believed dangerous knowledge to be hidden, and the names of long-dead poisoners whose secrets he wanted to claim as his own.

  Near the end of the diary he begins planning a voyage to the place he says houses the greatest apothecary garden that exists. There is nowhere else on Earth, he writes, where this ancient knowledge of the power of plants is better preserved than at the Orto botanico di Padova – the botanic garden at the University of Padua, in Italy.

  That is my destination now. For throughout all my travels I have been unable to get any news of Jessamine. I have asked the green things that dwell in every hedgerow and planted acre in England if they have seen her, and they say they have not. I ask if she is Oleander’s captive, and what dreadful fate he may be planning for her, and they fall silent.

  They fear to tell me what they know, which makes me all the more sure that Jessamine must be in danger. But surely a garden as old and wise as the Orto botanico will not be afraid. Surely the Prince of Poisons will have no power there.

  My time with the mountebank helped me earn enough money to book passage on this ship. And soon – very soon, I pray – the noble healing plants of Padua will help me find Jessamine.

  If they cannot help me, I do not know where else to turn. Jessamine, my gentle love, who taught me compassion for my fellow humans! She has fled, that much is clear, but to where? What drove her to commit murder, not once, but twice? If she has fallen under Oleander’s power, then he is a hundred times more my enemy than he was before. Yet I am ashamed to admit: There is a kind of relief within me, to know that even Jessamine might be stained with sin. For I too have killed. I too am damned.

  There is much I do not understand about the way humans think of punishment and forgiveness, and what happens to sinners when they die. I wish Jessamine was here to explain it to me, for the plants do not speak of heaven and hell. They speak only of the turning of the seasons and of starting anew each spring. Never despair, they counsel, for the orchard that is barren one season may bear fruit in plenty in the next.

  Could Jessamine and I also begin again, in time? I do not know, but as I stand here on the rolling deck of this ship, watching the morning mist burn away and the profile of Venice grow visible at the horizon, I curse the plants for teaching me this way of thinking.

  It fills me with the pain of longing. It fills me with the agony of hope.

  After we set ashore in Venice, a barge takes me up the Brenta Canal to the port of Padua. Following Luxton’s own instructions, I pass through the ancient city walls, hire a gondola to carry me along the canals to the Orto botanico, home to the greatest treasure of knowledge that exists about the powerful plants of this Earth.

  Once within sight of the university there is no need for directions, for the garden hums at my approach. I find myself summoned by a chorus of voices, of an immense variety and ordered in a way I have never experienced before. It is a glorious and terrifying noise, fierce and beautiful. The battle song of angels.

  The garden is large and in the shape of a circle. The stone walls that curve around its edge are white as bleached bone. With my head bowed, I walk along the outside, passing one gate after another, trying to quiet my racing heart.

  There is a large fountain at the eastern gate. I pause there, for the mist of cool water soothes me. Already I can sense the mood of this place, so different than Thomas Luxton’s garden of terror. The plants within these curved walls are just as powerful, but this garden wishes only to heal.

  Cleansed and refreshed by the fountain, at last I am deemed ready. The invitation comes, a swelling song of nonsense words that bids me enter:

  Ba lee oh nee

  I take a deep breath, for courage, and step through the gate.

  Inside is a world of order, of geometry, of balance. The plants nod to me like old friends, and sing their soaring tune, as if it were the answer to every question I might ask:

  Ba lee oh nee

  I lose myself in the ordered paths. I have come a long and dangerous way to discover what I must know, but now that I am here I feel swept up in the grace and the power of this place, and do not know where to begin.

  “Please,” I whisper to a bed of violets. “I need your help.”

  Ba lee oh nee, they sing.

  “My dearest love is missing – her name is Jessamine. Will you help me find her?”

  Ba lee oh nee

  Overcome, I sink to the ground. What will I have to do to win the trust of this garden and secure its aid? I lay my cheek on the damp earth of the garden beds, and close my eyes to listen to its chime of welcome.

  Ba lee oh nee

  Ba lee oh nee

  “You! Get up! What are you doing here?”

  My eyes fly open, and I see someone – a woman, but dressed in boots, trousers, and a leather apron, as if she were a man. She wears a broad-brimmed hat against the sun, holds a spade in her hand like a weapon, and carries a reed basket full of cuttings. Her face is smeared with dirt.

  “I said get up. This is no place to have a nap. You university students will be the death of me.” She leans forward and sniffs. “Are you drunk?”

  I clamber to my feet. “No, ma’am.”

  She looks at me with suspicion. “Are you sure? The medical students are
the worst. First they get drunk on wine. Then they spend the night robbing graves, digging up bodies for their anatomy classes. After that they get drunk again, although I can’t say I blame them. At dawn they come soak their heads in my fountains to sober up before classes begin. Every morning I find them littering the path like weeds.”

  I cannot help it; I smile.

  “Do you find my story amusing? Because I certainly do not.”

  “You said the students lie in the path like weeds. Weed is my name. I know it is unusual.” I can tell she is angry with me, but I like her, although I cannot say why. “I swear to you: I am not drunk, nor am I a grave robber.”

  “Your name is Weed?” She laughs, a free, rolling laugh from the belly. “That would be a terrible name for a gardener. I hope you did not come here looking for a job.”

  “I came here to learn,” I say simply. “But I will do any work you need me to do.”

  She shakes her head and starts to walk away. “No, no, no, I do not have time to teach every ne’er-do-well that wanders through the gates! The work we do here at the Orto botanico is nothing like what you need to know to tend your little farm in wherever it is… Fine! You want to learn? Signora Baglioni will teach you.” She points up. “Sun.” She points toward the fountain. “Water.” She points down. “Dirt. Now you know more than nine out of ten gardeners do. You can open a school if you wish! If you will excuse me, I have work to do, so leave me alone.”

  She walks away, swinging her spade.

  Baglioni, the garden urges. Baglioni!

  I pursue her. “Signora Baglioni, wait! I am not nine out of ten. In fact, I fear I may be one of a kind. Please – I will show you.”

  Thinking I might use my tricks to impress her, I run ahead and find a small rosebush, still finishing its autumn bloom. As Signora Baglioni tries to get past me, I cup my hand around a single arching stem that houses a modest bud on the end. Eyes half closed, I murmur.

  Excuse me?

  Yes?

  Would it be possible for you to bloom for me? I would consider it a great favour.

  Of course.

  As Signora Baglioni watches, the bud grows and swells, until it bursts open to reveal an exquisite pink rose, as dense with petals as a tiny cabbage and as fragrant as a field of lavender.

  Signora Baglioni gasps. Then her eyes narrow. “What did you do? Was that some sort of magician’s trick? An illusion? But no,” she mutters, inspecting the newly opened blossom. “I know this bud was here, I have been watching it for two weeks – and it was not nearly ready to open, not for another four or five days…”

  She plants the spade in the ground and leans on it, fixing me with a hard stare. “All right, Signor Weed. Tell me how you did that. And I warn you, I have no patience for any kind of game.”

  I shrug. “I will teach you what I know – if you will teach me what you know.”

  She opens her mouth, no doubt to scold me for my brazenness. But I hear, as she cannot, the reaction of the rose.

  Only for you will I bloom thus, Master Weed. Perhaps you will bloom for me someday?

  I hold back the answering smile from my face, but not before Madame Baglioni has seen it. She looks at the rose, then at me.

  “Very well. Come with me.” Her tone is changed. She is no longer irritated, but now sounds almost eager, and full of curiosity. “You will accompany me to my house. We will eat some good cheese and bread and late tomatoes from my garden. You will explain yourself, and I will listen.” She glances once more at the rose. “And then, if I think you are being completely truthful with me, perhaps I can tell you whatever it is you wish to know.”

  She walks away without a backward glance, toward the eastern gate. I wait until she is a few paces ahead before I turn back to the rose.

  Thank you, I say. Then I follow the signora.

  11

  THE COURTYARD OF SIGNORA Baglioni’s house is filled with weathered terra-cotta pots in all shapes and sizes, each overflowing with herbs. The trellised walls are overgrown with moonflower vines, morning glories, and flowering sweet pea. Ripened grapes dangle from the pergola overhead.

  As she passes through this miniature paradise, she coos praise, pinches back leggy stems, and deadheads spent blooms with a care and respect I have rarely seen before. The potted plants know I am here; I hear them murmur at my arrival, but all their attention – and devotion – is directed at her.

  “Sit. I will bring us something to eat.” She gestures to the pair of wrought-iron chairs that flank a small circular table in the shade of the pergola. “And try not to make anything bloom while I am gone. I would be sorry to miss it.” She disappears into her house. Soon I hear the soft clatter of dishes and the even thud-thud-thud of a knife against a chopping board.

  I sit and enjoy the low welcoming hum of the garden. The grapes offer me their sweetest fruit, and I gratefully accept. I cup my hands beneath the nearest cluster. One by one, a half-dozen juicy purple treats fall into my waiting grasp.

  “Thank you,” I say, biting into one. I hear a sound and look up. Signora Baglioni stands in the doorway, holding a tray, watching me.

  “You are welcome, Signor Weed,” she says warily. “Unless you were speaking to the grapes?”

  Do I dare explain? At least she does not seem afraid of me. She walks to the table and puts down the tray. She has brought two plates and two glasses, a pitcher of wine, a platter of bread and cheese, and a bowl of oranges, figs, and grapes.

  “I am sorry,” I say, flustered. “I should not have picked the fruit without being invited to do so.”

  “But you did not pick them. They fell into your hands. Am I right? Here, have more.” She offers me fruit from the bowl. Uneasily, I accept.

  Is this why the garden urged me to speak to her – because she already knows what I am? Is it possible that this blunt woman in the muddy boots and patched trousers knows more about my “gift” than I do?

  She seems to sense my discomfort. “Weed, you say you have come here to learn,” she says gently as she sits across from me. “Yet your trick with the rosebud… the way my grapes offer themselves to you, practically leaping into your hand…it seems clear that there is much you could teach me as well.”

  She tears the bread with her hands and puts a piece on my dish. “But you have just arrived, after a long and exhausting journey, yes? I hear the sound of England in your voice. I should not demand all your secrets before you have even had a chance to eat.”

  “You are very kind,” I say.

  She pours wine for us both and pushes a glass toward me. “Still, you have come to the right place. The University of Padua is home to the greatest scholars in Europe. No matter what you desire to learn, there will be some professor here who will be able to teach you. Classes have already begun, but perhaps you can study privately for now, and enroll for next term.”

  “I did not come to enroll in classes,” I say. “You are the person I must learn from.”

  “Me? I am not a professor.” Her voice is sharp. “I do not take students.”

  “Your name is Baglioni?”

  She nods.

  “Then I am sure.”

  “Who told you to seek me out?”

  Trust her, the grapevine whispers to me. I take a breath. A lifetime of being called a freak does not make it easy for me to trust any human.

  “I did not seek you,” I say carefully. “I sought the Orto botanico. I came here from England to see it.”

  Trust her, you must –

  Signora Baglioni gazes at me with an open expression, listening. I take another, deeper breath before going on. “Once I arrived, the garden itself told me your name.”

  “The garden told you?”

  I hesitate. “Yes. The great round garden. Where you found me lying on the ground.”

  My words are met with silence, save for the contented buzz of slim honeybees enjoying the blooms of the potted herbs.

  “Interesting,” she says at last. She spears a chunk of ch
eese with a knife and moves it onto her plate. “And how did you hear of the Orto botanico?”

  “I read of it in a book.”

  “What book?”

  The pots of marigolds flanking the door nod and sway, their bright orange heads a field of affirming suns.

  Show her show her show her.

  I reach into my satchel and remove Luxton’s diary.

  “This one.” I lay it on the table. Its dark leather cover seems to absorb the light. “It was written by an apothecary named Thomas Luxton. The book is beyond evil, but Luxton’s daughter, Jessamine, is beloved to me. She is missing, and I fear for her safety. I came to Padua because I hoped the garden could help me find her.”

  “And the garden told you to come – to me?” She sounds incredulous.

  “Yes.”

  She takes the diary, and opens it. “Madonna,” she breathes, and begins to read.

  Perhaps it is my weariness from the journey, or the soothing effect of the wine, but I cannot stay awake. I stretch out on one of the long benches in the courtyard, on weathered grey wood that is warmed from the sun, and allow myself to doze.

  Now and then I open my eyes to watch Signora Baglioni read. She goes slowly, methodically. I hear her mutter at points, but she flinches at nothing, and stays fixed on the book. At times she nods, as if recognising some bit of information.

  Perhaps this is why I can rest now, I think, settling into sleep at last. Finally, I am no longer alone in this.

  “Weed. Wake up.”

  Gently but firmly, the signora rouses me from my sleep. I open my eyes. She has pulled her chair near the bench where I lie. The sun has moved low in the sky, and the diary is in her lap, open to the final page.

  “I read it all, every word.” Her face is grim. “I confess, I have never heard of this man Luxton. But it seems I should have. This terrible garden of his – un incubo! A nightmare. Nothing good can come of it. Where is he now?”

  I sit up and stretch my stiff limbs. “Dead. Before I left England, I went to his house. There was another man there, dead of poison. I did not see Luxton, but I was told – the deadly garden itself told me – that he too had been poisoned.” I pause, for I do not wish to name Jessamine as the killer. “And his daughter was gone.”