The Poison Diaries: Nightshade (7 page)

“Old enough for me? I wonder if you are. I wonder why you're running, and what you're running from.” He gathers up my hands in his and lifts them up, as if to kiss them. Instead he holds them to the light of the candle. “Old enough to be a liar, anyway. These are no seamstress's hands.” He turns my palms upward. “More like a farm girl's. These hands know the feel of dirt, I'd wager. Of good rich earth.”

He comes closer still and leans his face down to mine. The slow tenderness of his kiss shocks me, and he pulls away long before I am satisfied.

“You are running, aren't you?”

I stay silent, but my breath comes quick. He smiles.

“Tell me the truth and I'll kiss you again. Are you running from something?”

“Yes.”

“From what?” He draws me close. His cheek is rough and hot against my skin. “Did you flee a wicked husband? A crushing debt? A mistress who treated you like a slave?”

“I have done murder,” I whisper. I know he will think I lie, but a mask made of truth is often the best disguise. I offer him my upturned, parted mouth, and wait for my reward.

Practised healer that I am, I can feel his temperature rise. But he steps back and gives me a hard, searching look. Then he chuckles. “Did you, now? Can't say I'm surprised. There's something lethal about you, to be sure. Very well, man-killer Rowan. Someday you'll tell me the truth. Sleep well.”

He starts to go, but I reach for him and seize the front of his shirt. Wordlessly I fasten the top buttons, to hide the medal he wears.

“Lock the door after I go,” he says when I am done. “There are too many drunken rogues in this inn tonight. Including me.”

He leaves me then, the feel of his stubble still raw
on my cheek. Obediently I bolt the door and blow the candle out.

That night, I do not dream of Weed.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I awaken early. I have only had a few hours' sleep, yet I feel instantly alert, like a hunted animal.

I light a candle, for it is still scarcely dawn, and wash my face with cold water from the basin. With each icy splash, it is as if I rinse away the memories of Rye's presence here in my tiny room. His voice, his form, his warmth, his kiss – all fade until they are no more than the shadow of a half-remembered dream.

My shame is not so easy to wash away. What
would Weed think if he knew how readily I welcomed Rye's embrace? I am lonely and afraid, yes – but is my devotion so weak that I sought refuge in the arms of the first man who showed a moment's kindness to me?

After committing two murders, you feel shame over one little kiss? Really, lovely, you are very foolish sometimes. But the horse trader is right – it is time to move on. I would not have you rotting in some country jail, waiting for the hangman's scaffold to be built…

Oleander's scorn only deepens my shame. But I will obey. As a hunted deer runs through a stream to make the dogs lose its scent, I too must change course often and step lightly, leaving no trail.

I will gather my things and tell no one of my plan. Tomorrow I will slip away before dawn, and leave word with the driver that I have found other means of transportation, so that no one waits or looks for me. It is best not to offer lies and excuses; I wish to simply disappear.

At nine o'clock I go downstairs to get a boiled egg
and some bread from the kitchen. The inn is quiet, the dining room empty. Perhaps some of the guests have gone to church. No doubt many are still asleep, recovering from last night's revels.

I choose a small table for myself and pour a cup of tea. As I do, two women from our group enter the dining room. One of them yawns widely.

“The crying and moaning kept me up half the night,” she complains to her companion. “I hope the child recovers, of course, but I'll tell you, I won't spend another night in the room next door if it's going to be another ordeal like that.”

“If the girl's that sick, the rug sellers will have to stay behind tomorrow. Just as well, if you ask me. We'll go faster and safer without them. That mule of theirs is slow as a barge! It makes us easy pickings for the highwaymen.”

“Are you still dreaming of Robin Hood, sweeping you off to a life of thievery and romance?” Laughter. They have taken a table not far from me. I slide my wooden chair back and clear my throat.

“Excuse me; I could not help overhearing your remarks.” I speak in a rush, before my better judgment can stop me. “Did I understand you to say that the little Persian girl is ill?”

The bleary-eyed woman shrugs. “I only know because I rapped on the door this morning asking them to quiet down. Her mother was all apologies and excuses. She told me the child started burning hot with fever during the night and can scarcely swallow because her throat is so swollen. She claimed her husband was already out looking for a doctor, but they'll not find one who'll come on foot on a Sunday, that's certain.” The woman clucks her tongue. “I got a glimpse of the girl. She's sick enough, to be sure. Her cheeks are red as a harlot's.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” I speak sympathetically, but inwardly I am ablaze with anger. Why Maryam? Why now, when I am packed to leave? If anyone else of our group fell sick, I would walk away from their suffering with a heart of ice.

I could help Maryam, easily. But to betray myself
as a healer now would be too dangerous, especially since the news of the murder at Hulne Abbey has spread. How long before someone remembers that the dead herbalist's daughter also had the skill to heal, and to kill?

Even as I sit there, staring at my cold tea, a war rages inside me. The longer I stay, the more peril I am in. But she is a child, an innocent. Unlike most adults – unlike me – she does not deserve even a moment of pain.

Swollen throat, high fever, scarlet cheeks – the kind of fever she has is one I know to be dangerous. It is also not difficult to cure, if one has the correct herbs on hand, and the knowledge of how to use them.

“In what room are they staying?” I ask it casually.

“Third floor, the last room in the hall.” The woman gives me a stern look of warning. “But don't you go visiting there, unless you want to risk coming down with the same fever.”

“Lord, no! A catching fever, running through the company. That's the last thing we need,” her
companion adds. “Best keep away, for the sake of all.”

“That is why I ask where they are staying.” I add a splash of milk to my cold tea and watch it swirl as I stir, a tiny whirlpool of fate that is about to suck me down into its depths. “I would prefer to avoid them if I can. I have always had a strong fear of illness.”

 

I pretend to drink my tea until the women leave. When the way is clear and there is no one around to observe me, I go at once to the third floor and stand outside the door to the rug sellers' room. Still, I hesitate.
Perhaps the girl is not as sick as those women said
, I tell myself.
Perhaps there is nothing I need do but offer my sympathy.

Why visit her at all, then?
The evil prince croons doubts in my head.

If there is some way I can help her condition without exposing myself, I will.

And what if that is not enough?

My hand hovers in front of the door. Do I dare
knock? Do I dare leave without knocking?

Careful, lovely,
the voice of my master warns.
Locked gates are kept locked for a reason. Open them even a crack, and you never know what demons might escape…

My knock is so faint, it is as if I do not wish it to be heard. Even so, the door opens at once.

“Ibrahim! Has the doctor come?” It is Maryam's mother. She looks worn and exhausted. “Oh… it is you. Miss Rowan.” She peers past me, down the empty hall. “I thought it might be my husband.”

“No. I am sorry.” From where I stand, I see that the family of three shares a room that is scarcely bigger than mine. “I heard Maryam was ill. I came by to learn how she fares.”

“Not well.” Her mother steps aside. When I see the girl, my heart sinks. Her cheeks look painted scarlet, and the whites of her eyes have taken on a yellow cast. She whimpers every time she swallows.

I cannot stop my hands from doing what they know how to do. They fly to her forehead to check
her fever, to her neck to seek a pulse. I bend over and press my ear to her chest to listen to her breathing. “Has she taken any liquids at all?” I ask the mother. “Broth? Tea?”

“I try, but she cries in pain and lets it roll out of her mouth again. Are you a doctor?” Her mother's voice is strangled with hope. “Do they have women doctors in England?”

“No.” The situation is grave. The girl's pulse is rapid and weak. Her lungs labour for air. Her skin is dry and scalding hot. With a fever this strong she may soon begin to convulse.

Don't be sad, my lovely. Soon her ordeal will be over. That is good news.

But I could heal her.

You could. You could kill her, too, and end her suffering this instant. Why not do that instead?

Villain! Why would I?

Cure, kill – what difference does it make? Either way, you decide whether she lives or dies. Why should you be the one to choose? Personally I prefer to let nature
take its course. But then, of course, I would.

Oleander's rolling laughter rattles my brain. I close my eyes. Our fates are linked, Maryam's and mine. To help her risks bringing harm upon me, for the word of the murder has spread this far. If I expose myself as a healer, it will not take long for someone to grow suspicious. And if I am caught now, I will never see Weed again. I will have sacrificed two lives and traded my soul for nothing.

What shall I do?

It is a fool's question, of course. For the child is blameless, and I am a killer twice over. And in the battle between innocence and evil, which one always triumphs?

Silly to even ask, my lovely. You know exactly who triumphs.

Not this time,
I think.

“I can help Maryam, but you must listen to me carefully,” I tell her mother. “I am going to leave, but I will return shortly with some medicine that will help her. While I am gone, go down to the
kitchen and fetch a kettle of boiling water and a small glass of gin. If anyone asks why, say you are going to make a toddy for yourself so that you might get some sleep. Tell no one that you spoke to me, or that I was here.”

She nods but glances worriedly at Maryam. We both look down at the sick girl. Her eyelids flutter and twitch, but her limbs lie heavy, unmoving. “It is safe to leave her for a few minutes,” I say gently. “Right now she does not even know we are here.”

After securing her assent, I fairly fly down the stairs to my room on the second floor. Once alone, with the door bolted behind me, I unpack my small bundle of possessions to reveal the precious herbs hidden at its core.

With practised skill I prepare a remedy from the ingredients I have at hand. They are not ideal, but they will do: willow bark and chrysanthemum root to soothe the pain and temper the fever. Wild indigo and tree moss to give her young body the strength to fight the infection in her throat.

I grind the herbs to a fine powder in the small mortar and pestle I carry with me. This will help release their powerful essences, since there is no time to let the tincture steep. Then I wrap the prepared herbs in a clean handkerchief and tie it shut. Into my apron pocket it goes.

How very ill considered this is. I do not approve, lovely. In fact, I object rather strongly.

I know.

By now there are more people up and about the inn. I stroll to the stairs without rushing, keeping my head down, wrapping myself in anonymity like a shroud. My feet mount the stairs with a slow, deliberate rhythm, one after the other.

I wait until the hall is empty, then veer toward the room in which Maryam lies. Her mother has followed my instructions to the letter. Quickly I prepare my potion, mixing the ground herbs with small amounts of gin and hot water. I stir and stir again, doing all I can to persuade the herbs to release their powers into this improvised remedy.

Her mother moves forward to assist as I prop up Maryam on pillows. The girl is groggy and her head wants to loll to one side, but the pain in her throat makes it snap back. Her whimpers rise and fall in her delirium.

Her mother holds the girl's head steady as I spoon the first drops of the mixture into her mouth. The child grimaces and gags, but together we hold her fast so the liquid has no place to go but down her throat.

Slow tears spill from her mother's eyes, but the woman does not say a word. “It is bitter, because of the gin,” I explain. “She will not like the taste. But it will help her, I promise you.”

“When?”

“Soon. Within a few hours you should see some change. Give her another spoonful, every fifteen minutes, until all the mixture is gone.”

She looks at me, afraid yet indomitable. This woman would do anything to save her child. For her sake, as well as Maryam's, I pray this medicine does not come too late.

“You are a healer,” she says. “Why did you not say so?”

I shake my head. “Tell no one what I have done.”

“Why? Among my people the women healers are much respected. Is it not the same here?”

“Not always, no.” I ease Maryam's head down again, so that she can rest until the next dose, but her mother takes over, murmuring the prayers and endearments that will do as much as my medicines to call her daughter back to life.

Silently I take my leave. I walk to the end of the hall and turn onto the landing to descend the stair.

“Miss Rowan?” Agnes stands on the landing; a half dozen others crowd behind. The two women I spoke with at breakfast flank her, wearing smirks of grim satisfaction. Agnes seems preternaturally excited, and her arms hang stiffly in front of her, fingers interlaced around a dark handle. My eyes travel downward to see what she carries.

It is my bag. The one that contains the few items I took with me when I fled Hulne Abbey. Including my collection of powerful, deadly herbs.

“We told you to stay away from the rug seller's room,” says one of the women from this morning. “Looks like you didn't listen.”

“I will go where I please; it is no business of yours. What are you doing with that bag?” My voice drips with venom. How maddening it is, to see my enemy holding my deadliest weapons in her hands without even knowing what they are!

“We found it in your room, Miss Rowan,” Agnes says, looking smug. “You left the door open when you ran out awhile ago. Didn't see us watching, did you? We thought it best to take the opportunity to go in and have a look around, given what we thought you were.”

“I am a guest at this inn, just as you are. And you are a thief.”

“We didn't find the most common signs, that I'll admit. No pentagrams. No bats' wings. No broomsticks. But we did find this.” She gestures with the bag.

“That bag is mine.” I reach for it, and find myself seized by each arm.

“Is it, now?” Agnes replies. Over her shoulder she
adds, “Did you hear that, everyone? She admits the bag is hers, and its devilish contents as well. Ingredients for potions and poisons! It seems we have a witch among us after all.”

 

I offer no resistance, for I am no fool; I know any attempt to escape will simply confirm my guilt and guarantee a noose around my neck before sunset.

No doubt I will now be tested in some senseless, dangerous way. The execution of witches is no longer permitted by law, but the hanging of those who pretend to be witches is perfectly acceptable. If I am not found to be one, surely I will be declared the other. Either way, the authorities are hardly going to leap to my defence. They believe in witches too, no matter what the law says.