Nightshade

by Maryrose Wood

  I lift the lid of the chafing dish. One drumstick, three potatoes, and a generous spoonful of creamed spinach, gone.

  “You’re a fine cook, miss. You’ll make a good wife some day for some lucky chap. In fact, I might point out that I’m a bachelor myself, and a prosperous business owner, too… a girl could do far worse…”

  I will myself not to scream. I must make him leave, and quickly, before the poison takes effect. “As I said, my father is not here, Mr. Pratt. It is not a convenient time to pay a call, negotiate payment, or conduct any other business. Please go away and return tomorrow.”

  “Now, Jessamine – that is not a very hospitable way to speak to our guest.”

  To my horror, Father strides into the room. He extends his hand to Pratt, who has jumped to his feet. “Tobias Pratt. I heard a man’s voice as I was cleaning my boots at the door. I thought it might be yours; I am sorry to discover I am right. I cannot say I am glad to see you, but I concur with what I heard you tell my daughter. We do have unfinished business between us.”

  He turns to me. “Jessamine, set another place at the table. Mr. Pratt will join us for dinner.”

  Pratt removes his hat and grins. “Much obliged for the invitation, sir. A true gentleman, you are. In spite of all they say about you!” He guffaws, and my father half smiles.

  Ice in my veins, I do as I am told.

  I had planned to feign a headache at dinner and drink only tea, but it requires no subterfuge for me to avoid eating with Pratt here. He runs out of ale quickly. He drops his knife and demands a fresh one. He requires second helpings of meat, third helpings of potatoes, followed by more ale.

  I fetch and deliver, pour and serve. My own food sits untouched, as it must if I hope to live until morning. But it is torture to keep leaving the table. More than anything I wish to watch my father eat, to let my eyes follow his fork from plate to lips, again and again, as he places bite after bite of my carefully prepared meal in his mouth.

  Pratt belches again and loosens his belt. “Don’t think this home-cooked dinner will lower my price, Luxton. I know that boy Weed taught you a thing or two. It’s time I was compensated, and you know it. Here’s what I propose – it’s only what’s fair. I think you’ll agree.”

  He takes a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and passes it to my father. As he stretches across the table he flinches, as if there were a twinge in his side.

  Father makes no move toward the paper. “Now don’t be alarmed at the sum.” Pratt goes on, a hand to his ribs. “Multiply it by what you’ll earn with the potions you learned from the monster, and I think you’ll agree…” He flinches again. I count the seconds: one – two – three, until the twinge passes and he exhales.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Pratt?” My father speaks calmly, but his eyes follow Pratt’s contortions. Lift the fork to your lips, very good, Father – now one more bite, just one more –

  “Sure, sure. Nothing another swig of ale won’t fix. Now, about my money…” Pratt turns pale and groans, clutching his belly. My father puts down his fork. I rise and express concern, and offer to make my special peppermint-ginger tea to settle his digestion.

  Take another bite, Father, I think as I fuss over Pratt. I must keep up this pretence long enough for one – more – bite –

  “Don’t trouble yourself, miss,” Pratt grunts, doubling over. “My stomach’s tougher than a cast-iron kettle. I’m just having a touch of – ow – wind.”

  As Pratt writhes in pain, my father looks down at his own half-empty plate. At my uneaten food. The blue vein in his forehead goes taut, and he rises to his feet.

  “Lord help me!” Pratt yelps, and slips to the floor with a crash. Ignoring him, my father steps toward me.

  “Jessamine. What have you done?” Father and I stand frozen, eyes locked, while our dinner guest moans and retches on the stone floor.

  “Perhaps… the potatoes were too green.” I am in my apron, the scent of cooking still upon me.

  Pratt makes a terrible gurgling sound. Father lunges at me with a roar, murder in his eyes. I seize the carving knife from the table and point it at his chest. Remorse is nowhere within me. Instead I feel free, exhilarated at my own daring.

  “You wretch! Evil child! After all I have done –”

  He grabs at me across the table, but I dodge him easily. Pratt rolls on the floor like a loose barrel on the deck of a ship, nearly knocking Father down.

  We circle each other around the table, the deadly feast laid out between us. I glance down at the plate by Father’s chair. He has not eaten nearly as much as Pratt, but he has eaten enough. The full effect will simply take more time. I am glad. It means his suffering will last that much longer.

  “Murderess! These poisons were meant for me,” he rages.

  “As yours were meant for me, Father. And for my mother.” I hurl the knife at him and bolt for the door, but Pratt’s hulking, unmoored form knocks me to the ground.

  The blade has struck Father’s arm, cutting a long, shallow gash. He looks down at the wound, his expression one of surprise. Reflexively, he grabs a linen napkin from the table and tries to stanch the flow of blood running down his arm. I laugh. How can I not? He will be dead long before the bleeding has time to weaken him.

  He seems to realise it, too. He drops the napkin and wheels toward me. I cringe as he looms above, now holding the knife. In the instant that he raises it to strike, I see it – the change in his colour as the first pain hits.

  “No!” he cries, doubling over. The knife clatters to the floor. “No! I – will – not – succumb –”

  I snatch the ring of keys from his belt and regain my feet. “Follow me, Father,” I taunt from the doorway, in a little girl’s voice. “Follow me to the ’pothecary garden, and I will show you which of your beloved plants I used to make your dinner.”

  “Fiend!” He staggers toward the door. “You do not know – the danger – within –”

  “I know more than you could imagine.” I race out of the cottage, then turn with deliberate cruelty up the hill. For years Father locked me out of his precious garden, but the poisons are my allies now, not his. The closer I get, the more clearly I hear Oleander’s merry, mocking laughter ringing in my ears.

  I open the lock and the gate swings open, welcoming. The plants quiver in anticipation at my approach.

  By the time he reaches the crest of the hill my father is baying in agony, clutching his belly, gagging on his own bile. Still he follows me through the gate. Once inside, he crumples to the ground. I watch as he drags himself toward me.

  “Jessamine, it is not too late… if you tell me what poison you used… I might know a cure…”

  “Look it up in your poison diary, Father. Or have you misplaced it? It would certainly be a pity if your precious book were lost.”

  He looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Have mercy,” he gasps. “I am your father.”

  I gesture around at the inhabitants of his garden of death. “These are your true children. Not me.”

  He moans, whether in response to my harsh words or to the deadly mixture coursing through him, I cannot say.

  “It is not an easy death, is it?” I crouch low, next to him. “I came very close to discovering that myself, thanks to you. Just as my mother did.”

  “Your mother – did what she did – willingly –”

  “Then you should be as willing. I know how poison fascinates you. Surely dying from it will fascinate you, too.” Leaning closer, I hiss, “It is a pity you cannot take notes.”

  With that, I leave my father in the dirt to die.

  The deadly plants nod and flutter their approval as I pass. Their seductive voices remain out of my hearing, for I do not have Weed’s gift. But in my heart I know that they – and their master – are proud of me for what I have done.

  I lift my head to the sky, hoping and fearing to catch a glimpse of Oleander’s presence.

  “I did what you bid me do,” I whisper. “Are you pleased
?”

  A darkness drifts across the sky, and a cool, gentle rain begins to fall on my upturned face.

  I lock the gate behind me on my way out.

  My work is not yet finished. First I must return to that nightmare parlour to dispose of the poisoned food, for I would not wish a bird or mouse to nibble on it. I step around Pratt’s body to do so. He is already dead, purple swollen tongue protruding from his mouth, wild eyes staring into the void.

  For a moment, a sick feeling sweeps through me. Even a cretin like Pratt is one of God’s creatures, is he not? I did not intend to cause his death; it was an accident born of his own gluttony, but still, his blood is on my hands.

  Then I remember how he mistreated Weed, and a great peace fills me. Perhaps this, too, is a kind of justice.

  Next I prepare my disguise. I mix fine powders of Punjabi henna and Arabian katam that I find on the shelves in the storeroom, and darken it with indigo from the woad in my dye garden. I prepare a skin cream of crushed walnut shells and oil, and a lip tint of beeswax, dandelion root, and beet juice.

  While these cosmetics do their work on my hair and skin, I fill my purse with money. I have plenty, earned by my skill as a healer. I pack what few clothes and other items I imagine I will need. And I decide to bring some powerful herbs from the locked case in Father’s study, in case I must defend myself.

  I do not bother to search for the right key on his ring. Instead I shatter the glass with a paperweight and take what I please: belladonna, monkshood, snakeweed, moonseed, and more. I wrap each one in parchment and tie it with string.

  A raven comes and perches on the windowsill as I make my preparations.

  Thank you for your bounty, Oleander, Prince of Poisons, I think. Thank you for all that Mr. Pratt has already received, and all that my father is receiving still, as the poison twists like bramble in his gut, burns within his brain, presses like a boulder upon his heart.

  I am ready. I see myself in the mirror: myself, and not myself. Father thought I had grown to look like my mother. No more.

  I pause for a moment on my way out of the cottage, to say a silent goodbye to my kitchen garden, my cooking herbs and medicinal plants, my teas and dyes. They have served me well, for so many years. I am sorry they will soon be neglected and overgrown.

  But that is the way of gardens. Old plants wither, and new ones sprout. The strongest plants survive at the expense of the weak. Even the most well-tended bed turns to a jungle in a season, without the gardener’s restraining hand.

  You learn quickly, lovely. I am impressed.

  Take me to Weed. I am ready.

  Weed is on the move, even now. And so must you be. First you must get away from this place, and let the trail run cold. Unless having dear Crabgrass watch you hang from the gallows is the sort of reunion you envisioned?

  A shiver of fear and outrage runs through me. Who would blame me for what I have done, if they knew my father’s wickedness?

  Your father was not the only wicked man in the world. Now run. Run far. I will tell you when to stop.

  But in the end, you will bring me to Weed, won’t you?

  I always keep my promises, lovely. You ought to know that by now.

  5

  DEEP IN THE FOREST is another world, yet three hours on foot brings me back to where the humans dwell – to the site of my worst nightmares, and my happiest memories.

  As I descend the familiar paths toward Hulne Abbey, I begin to detect a bitterness in the air, like burning wool. There is another smell, too: the stench of death.

  The cottage door opens with a push. Foul smoke pours from within, but I feel no heat from a fire. Covering my mouth with my sleeve, I enter.

  Splayed on the floor of the parlour lies the body of my old tormentor, Tobias Pratt. He is dead but has not been for long. A few hours, no more. Already the flies are busy doing their work. The stink is horrid even before rot has had time to set in. Then again, he stank when he was alive.

  “I am sorry to see you, Mr. Pratt,” I say, pushing his body over with my foot. “But not sorry to see you dead.” There are no wounds anywhere, though there is a thin trail of blood leading to the door. Pratt was poisoned. Whose blood it is I dread to think.

  I wave away the bitter smoke and quickly find its source. A candle has fallen from the dining table to the carpet, but the stone floor will not burn, and rain has blown in through the open door and wet the carpet’s edge. Edged by stone and damp, the fire has smouldered in place.

  The silver candlestick that started the fire is now cool enough to touch. It is wrought silver, for special occasions only.

  I place it back on the table, and my hand lingers on the smooth metal. The last time I saw this candlestick was the night of my betrothal to Jessamine. That was the night her father first poisoned her, with a polluted toast that was meant to celebrate our future life together.

  I wish he were the one lying here dead, instead of Pratt. If I am lucky I will find his corpse elsewhere in the house.

  But what else might I find? The terrible thought goads me on. I pass through the parlour and climb the stairs, until my head is above the worst of the smoke. These stairs lead to the old bell tower that houses Jessamine’s bedchamber. Coughing and gagging, I catch just enough breath to race the rest of the way up.

  “Jessamine!” Above all I fear to see her sprawled lifeless on the bed. But the room is empty, the bed neatly made. The drawers have been left half open. Some have been emptied. There is no sign of chaos, struggle, or flight. Rather, a calm departure.

  “What has happened in this house?” I demand of the morning glory that twines around her window.

  “Gone, all gone,” it croaks, and can say no more, for the vine is brown and shrivelled, as if from an early frost.

  Pratt is dead. Luxton is missing. Jessamine has fled, but with time to prepare for her leave-taking. Evil is afoot, of that there is no doubt. Out of the cottage I run, up the path to the left, until I reach the dreaded gate.

  It is locked, but through the iron bars is a sight of desolation. Brown autumn leaves are scattered thickly over the garden, though the trees elsewhere have scarcely begun to change colour. I see shrivelled stems and plants dying back to the ground, as if winter were already here.

  I had steeled myself against the sickening power of this place, but it is faint. I reach my hand between the bars and seize the nearest plant, a privet shrub that should still be dense and green. At my touch, the stems crackle, and dry leaves scatter to the ground.

  “What happened in that house at the bottom of the path? Do you know?”

  The brittle, cackling laughter grates at my ears. “Poison happened, Master Weed! Surely you understand.”

  “I understand all too well. But why would Thomas Luxton poison Pratt?”

  “Poison happened, not once, but twice.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles. Did Luxton poison the dead man or not?”

  “Luxton did, Master Weed. But Thomas Luxton did not.”

  Not once, but twice. I struggle to make sense of the words. A terrible understanding gathers in me like a storm. “Tell me the truth, quickly: Has Luxton, Thomas Luxton, I mean – has he been poisoned also?”

  “Poisoned, poisoned, poisoned!” the skeleton plant singsongs with glee. “He has been very well poisoned indeed.”

  She had cause, I think in despair, surely she had cause. But Jessamine? A killer?

  Leaves curl and fall off the privet, one after another. “One more question, Master Weed, for time is short. Winter is coming soon, much sooner than you think –”

  “Tell me where Jessamine Luxton is.”

  “Lovely Jessamine.” The privet sighs. “We all admire her, but she is Oleander’s prize, and no one else may covet her. He is so proud of her for what she has done! Such a brave and talented girl. A natural, one might say.”

  “Where is she?” I rage. “Answer, before I rip you up by the roots and throw you in the fire!”

  “No more questions,
Master Weed. Soon it will be cold, so very cold –”

  Furious, I reach both hands through the iron bars, ready to snap this insolent shrub in two. But I am stopped by a sound. A low moan, human, and yet not human. The wind would moan like that, if it could feel pain.

  “What a pit of evil this garden is,” I mutter. “If I should ever lay eyes on it again, it will be to raze it to the ground.”

  Again the wind moans, but the leaves on the trees do not move.

  The words of the half-withered privet bush fill me with rage. I snap off its brittle limbs at the ground and run back to Luxton’s house of death for the last time.

  Using the dry branches as kindling, I fan the hearth embers into a blaze, and set fire to anything that will burn. I stand outside at a distance and watch until the flames leap out of the upstairs windows and the air fills with the smell of burning flesh.

  One might think that this is some final act of kindness from me toward Tobias Pratt – to let the carcass of my former caretaker burn in the pure flame, and thus deprive the maggots of their meal.

  But truly, it is a kindness to the maggots. I would not wish any innocent worms to feast on those vile remains. And if Jessamine had something to do with it, better that the body be destroyed.

  I watch the flames dance and light up the night sky. My days in hiding are over. I must find Jessamine and rescue her from the path of evil she has stumbled upon. If Oleander has gained some sway over her, it will be a terrible path indeed. Already it is littered with blood, poison, and death.

  I never paid much attention when my old guardian, Friar Bartholomew, would read to me drunkenly from the scriptures, but I heard enough to understand this: Whatever road Oleander has set her upon can lead only to hell.

  6

  I AM ROWAN. I tell myself over and over, in tempo with the steady drumbeat of carthorse hooves slapping against the dirt. Rowan. Rowan. Rowan.

  Not Jessamine. That name cannot be spoken, not until I am back in Weed’s arms and the world has been put right again.