The Poison Diaries: Nightshade (10 page)

T
HE COURTYARD OF
S
IGNORA
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 cheese 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.”

“Jessamine? I read of her in the diary. He did terrible things to her. He knew the two of you were in love.”

“We are in love,” I insist, but my bitterness cannot be hidden.

Signora Baglioni gazes at me searchingly. “If you took vengeance against him, I would not blame you. But it is best if you tell me the truth, Weed.”

“I did not kill him,” I say, meeting her gaze. “But I wish I had. Signora, the plants of your garden are wise. If they say you can help me find Jessamine, I know they must be right. Do you know where she is?”

“Poor Jessamine,” she murmurs. “If I am the one who can help you find her, then she must be in great danger indeed.”

She looks as if she would say more. Instead she shuts the diary with a snap. “Earlier I said I wanted to know your secrets. I see now that I must reveal mine. Do you wish to hear them? I warn you, there is great
responsibility attached to this knowledge.”

I nod.

“Good.” Her voice is low and urgent. “Officially I work for the university as the caretaker of the
Orto botanico
. It was planted here centuries ago by great scholars, for a serious and noble purpose. It was meant to be a place where humans could grow and study medicinal plants and try to determine their properties.”

She leans back in her chair. The light filtering through the pergola makes patterns of light and dark on her face. “Unofficially, but even more importantly, I am the guardian of a special collection of books and artifacts owned by the university. Some are quite ancient; all are rare. Few people know it exists. This Thomas Luxton seems to have discovered it; he alludes to it in these pages. I wish I knew how he learned of it.”

Her face is in shade now, and she removes the hat that has shielded her eyes from the sun. “My grandfather was a professor at the university and a famous
botanist. The
Orto botanico
was his responsibility, and the collection was, too. It was he who ultimately realised the danger it held and moved it from the university library to a more secret location.” Her eyes flit to the house. I nod, understanding.

“After my grandfather died, my father continued to add to and guard the collection. I have followed in his footsteps, and have made some recent valuable acquisitions. Perhaps none as valuable as this, however.” She lays a hand on Luxton's book. “There is much to know. And much, alas, to fear.” She stands, and beckons me to follow. “I will show you. Bring the diary with you, please; it should not be left unattended.”

“You can have it, if you find it valuable.” I stand, but cannot bring myself to move. “Why do you say Jessamine must be in great danger? What kind of danger?”

Gently she takes my arm. “That is what I am about to show you. Swear that you will use this knowledge for good, Weed. Swear it on your life and all you hold sacred. If I discover you don't mean it, believe me,
I myself have many ways to prevent you from doing harm. And I will not hesitate to use them.”

“I swear,” I say with feeling. “Thomas Luxton was my enemy. His work makes a mockery of nature's bounty. I wish only to find Jessamine and secure her safety. I fear she has fallen into the hands of one who is evil – a greater evil than her father was.”

Suddenly the plants of the courtyard begin keening with anxiety. They do not wish me to speak Oleander's name.

“I would like to hear more about this greater evil,” Signora Baglioni replies, leading me to the house. She nods at the marigolds that guard her door. “For protection,” she explains. “Italian folklore says that marigolds have the power to turn back the evil eye. Do you find that idea foolish?”

“No.”

“It is unscientific, perhaps.” She shrugs. “But what harm could it do? And we need all the protection we can get.”

 

The house is small and bright, and filled with the aroma of fresh herbs, but we move away from the light and pass through a small door that leads down to the cellar. The stairwell is so low I must duck my head to get through. Not until we reach the bottom can I stand upright. It is not musty and damp, as most cellars are, but clean and dry. There is a faint, not unpleasant smell of fermented grapes.

“It was a winemaking cellar once.” Signora holds a candle to light our way. “The grape press was there, and along that wall were stacked the oak barrels in which the wine was aged. When the collection was moved down here for safety, my grandfather made sure the cellar was enlarged and improved. Vents were put in to keep the air fresh. Lamps were added – as were many locked doors.” She emits a sharp laugh. “It is a safe place to store valuables, to be sure. Like the vault of King Midas.”

Holding a large ring of keys, she leads me through an underground labyrinth, unlocking one door after another and locking them again behind us as we
pass. “Almost there,” she says quietly, although there is no one to overhear. She fits a key into a shining metal lock, and the final, massive door opens. Signora Baglioni lights all the lamps in the room, until the windowless underground chamber is as bright as day.

The room is larger than would seem possible from the scale of the house. The walls are lined with books and glass cases holding objects that are strange to me – small, full-bellied figurines, dried leaves and nuts, detailed drawings of plants, and other items I cannot guess the purpose of.

Signora Baglioni gestures at the shelves. “Some of these books are scientific diaries, too, though none have the murderous intention of Mr. Luxton's. As for the rest of the items, they come from around the world. Some are thousands of years old.”

“Thomas Luxton longed to see books like these,” I say, gazing at their weathered spines.

“According to his diary he worked hard and without scruple to discover what he could on his own. Of course, in principle I have no objection to using
human subjects, as long as they are already dead,” she adds. “Have you heard of the anatomy theatre? It is where the medical school's dissections are performed. They use bears, monkeys, dogs, and human corpses too, when the weather is cool enough. The students have been known to kidnap a body the night before its dissection, dress it up, and take it for a gondola ride down the canal.”

She shakes her head in disapproval, but seems amused also. “As I said, the knowledge here spans centuries and continents. But there is a common thread that runs through it all, which is this: There can be no life on earth without plants. They provide food for our bellies and the bellies of our livestock. Without them we starve. Plants also have the power to heal and to kill. But they are more than simply tools for our use. They are alive. Many cultures believe that plants have souls. Some worshipped them as gods. In our own time, in this world, this has largely been forgotten. But not completely.”

She waits and looks at me, giving me the chance
to respond. I sense that she wishes me to add something to her story, to reveal what she already suspects I know, or am. But I say nothing, for I am hungry to hear her explain myself to me.

Signora keeps talking, leading me from case to case as she speaks.

“The island natives of the Indian Ocean think the first man – he whom we call Adam – emerged from inside a bamboo stalk, like this one. See this illustration? It is Asvattha, the tree of the universe. The ancient books of India, the Upanishads, call it the foundation of our world. Many other cultures have similar stories about a tree of life. Here, come look at this.”