The Poison Diaries: Nightshade (8 page)

My captors surround me and keep their hands upon me. One man squeezes my arm so tightly the flesh begins to go numb.

“You need not hold on so fast,” I say. “Unless you fear I will fly away.”

“Ha ha.” He snorts, but he looks worried nonetheless, and does not loosen his grip. Then, as if to console me, he adds, “The river Tyne is not far. It won't be long now.”

Small comfort. At least now I know they intend to throw me in the river.

By the time this gruesome parade gets to the banks of the Tyne, the crowd has grown fourfold. How could it not? A giddy mob with a stone-faced young woman held prisoner in the centre, being marched toward the river. No explanation is required; the word practically speaks itself:
witch, witch, witch.
It is a form of entertainment not to be missed.

They lead me to the bank, until I am close enough to see the river below. The water is fast and steely grey. The fine spray from where it hits the unforgiving rocks flies up and pricks my skin like needles of ice.

Agnes, my self-appointed prosecutor, steps forward and addresses me. “Don't stand there staring at us with daggers in your eyes, girl. Your fate is in your own hands, not ours. If your heart is pure, it will be
shown to all. And if it is not – repent now, and prepare to meet your maker at the bottom of the Tyne.” She glances at the water, a hungry look in her eye. “Now, would you prefer to jump, or be thrown in?”

Am I expected to answer? I could kill them all with the contents of the bag that Agnes swings so proudly by her side. Perhaps someday I will get the chance.

“I would prefer that the lot of you burn in hell,” I say calmly.

“Toss her in, then.” Agnes signals the command, and my captors seize me again. A man's rough voice trumpets over the crowd.

“You can't throw the wench in like that.”

It is Rye, breathless from running. He must have discovered what was happening and chased after us. He strides directly to me, and the other men step back. His expression is blank.

“He's one of the souls she bewitched,” I hear Agnes hiss to her followers. “Let's see if the spell is broken now.”

Help me,
I long to whisper to him, but I can utter
no sound. He reaches out as if to touch my face, as he did last night in my room. What an eternity ago that seems! Will he be my protector against this unthinking mob? But how could he be? If he defends me, they will take it as proof he is bewitched, and thus of my guilt.

He takes me by the chin, an almost tender gesture. Slowly he tilts my head back, exposing my throat. Then he seizes the neck of my bodice and tears it in two, with one rough downward pull from neck to waist.

I cry out. I am bare, exposed to the midriff. The crowd whoops in merriment.

I wheel around to shield my nakedness from them and try to gather the shreds of fabric to cover myself. Rye picks me up and flings me over his shoulder so quickly all breath is knocked from me. I would scream, but his hard shoulder digs into my belly and I cannot take in air.

He carries me ten paces upriver, my skin chafing against the coarse canvas of his shirt. “Be quiet and let
me help you,” he growls in my ear as we walk. “In the water this dress would drown you faster than a millstone tied around your neck.” At river's edge he drops me carelessly to the ground.

“Stand up, witch!” He yells it for the benefit of the crowd. He lifts me to my feet and spins me to face my accusers. I try to cover myself with my arms, my hair. Then, with a raucous cry, Rye seizes the waist of my skirt from behind and tears it from me. Now I do scream. He steps close behind me and seizes me by the waist, speaking rapidly and quietly so that only I will hear.

“I'm throwing you in where there're no rocks. When I lift you up, take a deep breath and hold it in your lungs. I surely hope you can swim, lass –” His remaining words are lost in the catcalls of the crowd.

Then, with his two strong, rough hands hot against the gooseflesh of my skin, he hoists me into the air, naked and helpless as a newborn filly, and throws me into the cold rushing water below.

 

Even without the deadly weight of the dress, I sink.

It is a shadowy world, beneath the river's surface. The water is cold and clouded with silt. My hair swirls around me like a veil of seaweed, and my limbs are ghostly in the murk. A dying mermaid, I drift downward, ever further from the air. The dim light of the surface quickly fades from view.

A swaying meadow of eelgrass covers the river's bottom; the long, snaking green tendrils beckon invitingly. The air in my lungs presses outward. Now, as the remaining seconds of my life tick away like a clock, the sum of my days becomes visible to me. I see it all at once, like images painted on a globe that spins before my eyes.

Fleeting, infant memories of my mother. Her soft shape, the feeling of being carried, the comforting smells of milk and bread and fresh-laundered linen.

Me as a little girl, my lower lip trembling in shame, trying not to cry while being scolded by my father. Then me again, older, earnest, curious to know all
about this mysterious work of his. I watch myself grow expert in the ways of the garden, while still remaining so ignorant of life.

Then comes Weed, and I tumble into a dream of happiness. So brief and yet so sweet, it seems to erase all that has come before, and blinds me to all that might come after.

And then: Oleander. He is a phantom, a nightmare. Yet it is through him I discover the truth of who I am.

Now, about to die, I begin to understand how terrible this world can be. And I am part of it, not separate from the evil and hurt, but carrying it within me like a sickness –

I warned you, lovely. I told you not to bother with that simpering, sickly child. Now look at you. Like a lotus fighting its way out of the mud. Alas, the mud seems to be winning.

Will she live?

The girl? For another fifty years or so, perhaps. Hardly worth all this trouble.

My chest feels ready to burst. My vision fades to a pinprick of light.

I am Jessamine Luxton,
I tell myself.
I have lived, and I have loved, and I have killed. I have taken all the vengeance I need to take. Why must I suffer any more?

Alive, I am Oleander's slave. Dead, I will burn in hell. I already know which is worse.

Tell Weed I am sorry.

I open my mouth. The stale air races out of me in an urgent stream of bubbles.

Tell him I love him still.

No.

I let the slimy water rush in, filling me up, filling my lungs –

I said no. I have plans for you, important plans, and you are no use to me dead. Rise up now.

Tell him I said goodbye.

Tell him yourself, lovely. When the time comes, the refuge of death will be waiting for you. And so will I – but the time is not now. Not yet.

Like a thousand green ropes, the eelgrass binds
itself around my wrists. I open my mouth wider so that the water can fill me, but the eelgrass gives a sharp pull and then releases me. My puppet arms beat downward, propelling me to the surface.

Against my will, my head rises above the water. I gasp, choking, and sink again, but now my lungs know where the air is. Some animal instinct for survival awakens in my flesh; it takes control of my body and overrules my despair.

Again I surface. This time I stay above long enough to let water run out of my eyes, long enough to see the riverbank. It is not far. Choking, I flail and kick like a dog until within reach of the muddy bank. I grasp at wet tree roots that seem to offer themselves to my hands and pull me from the river's powerful current. With their aid I drag my body up the slope and over the slick, moss-covered rocks.

At last I am over the crest of the bank, on level ground. On hands and knees I rest my forehead on the mud and retch, again and again, as the water rises from my stomach and lungs. Even now I sense the eyes
of the crowd watching me, transfixed. No one moves to help.

Finally the spasms cease. Still on all fours, I lift my mud-covered face to my tormentors. A few look disappointed that I am alive. Some seem relieved. Others are agape at the sight of me. My bare, battered form is streaked with muck and algae, like the figurehead of a wrecked ship.

But I refuse to feel shame. Refuse, even, to cover myself. Made strong by defiance, I find the will to climb to my feet. I stand there, swaying, and let the water stream down over my body to the ground.

It is Rye who approaches first, slipping off his coat as he does. He extends it to me from an arm's length.

“She sank. Not a witch, it seems,” he announces gruffly, for the benefit of the crowd. “Here, cover yourself, girl. No need to drive the men mad. They'll just end up beating the horses later.”

He glances at me, a kind of agony in his eyes. I know he saved my life. I know now, too, that he would do anything for me. Poor fool. He knows nothing of
what I truly am. If he is lucky, he will never find out.

“Thank you,” I whisper as I reach out to take the coat.

“Wait! Don't cover her, Rye.” It is the woman, Agnes. “What has she done to her skin?”

I look down. My arms are still brown, but in uneven patches, as the tint has rubbed off in blotches during my struggles in the water. I know my face and neck must be the same. Wet hair hangs in ebony tendrils over my mottled countenance, but my torso and thighs are the color of ivory, and the sparse hair on my body is flaxen blond.

Even now there is a clear line where the tint begins, above my elbow. There must be another below my collarbone. I cross my dark arms in front of my pale body. They look like they belong to someone else.

“Not a witch, perhaps – but she's not who she says she is, either.” Agnes's voice rises with suspicion. “Who are you, girl? And why have you gone to such pains to masquerade as someone else?”

The crowd rushes closer to inspect my disguise,
like a pack of wolves that would tear me to pieces. Rye shields me with his body. He turns to face me, then reaches out and takes my wrist, pulling my arm forward.

With one hand gripping my wrist firmly, he draws the index finger of his other hand down the skin of my dappled forearm, pressing hard. His fingertip leaves a pale path of cream-coloured skin in its wake.

“You should have told me the truth, Rowan.” His look is hard, his voice resigned. “Now you'll have to tell them.”

T
HEY DRAG ME BACK
to the King's Head and sequester me in one of the private drinking rooms off the main saloon. I still wear Rye's coat; over it is wrapped a coarse blanket someone has tossed around my shoulders. From its rank animal smell, I can guess it belongs to one of the horses stabled here at the inn.

My dress lies in shreds in a heap in the corner. The rest of my belongings are laid out on a table. The women go through them like mercenary relatives fingering the possessions of a newly dead and utterly unloved uncle.

The larger mob has dispersed: no witch, no hanging, and therefore no need to wait around. But Agnes is here, still doggedly seeking a means to cause my downfall. The two women whom I spoke with at breakfast are here as well, and a handful of men, including the innkeeper, who has been summoned as master of this house and final arbiter of my fate.

Rye, my would-be saviour, is gone. It is just as well. I have no shame left to feel, but even so, I would not want to face him now. I am exhausted from my ordeal and cannot summon the strength to feign either fear or distress. Oleander's words –
you are no use to me dead
– have fallen upon me like a frost, and I feel myself going quite still inside, numb and yet full of hatred, even as these idiots argue and assault me with questions that I have no intention of answering.

“Tell us your real name, girl.”

“Why have you changed your looks? Who are you hiding from?”

“What were you doing to that sick child?”

“Remember, even to pretend witchcraft is a serious
crime,” the innkeeper says heavily, clearly wishing to be elsewhere. “What are we to make of all these?” He gestures to the collection of herbs lined up across the table with the rest of my things. Each variety is neatly tied up in parchment. They are unlabelled, thankfully, for I know each one like an old friend.

“Ask her how much money she swindled from the sick girl's parents,” Agnes insists. “No doubt she promised to cast a healing spell, with a magic potion made of carrot tops and herbs for soup.”

I draw the blanket around me, for a deadly chill is beginning to seep through my veins. “There was an old woman who lived in my village, years ago,” I say, telling the tale I practised in my mind during the long walk back from the river. “If she was a witch I never knew it; I was a small child at the time. She could make a tea that cured headaches. She taught me how to do it as well. To this day I carry some of the mixture with me, as I am prone to them. Headaches, I mean.”

Their countenances range from doubt to outright scorn. “When I heard that the child was sick, I felt
sorry. I took some of my headache tea to the family's room. I thought it might ease the girl's discomfort; I knew it could not do her any harm. It was all I had to give. I asked for no payment, and received none.”

The innkeeper lifts a packet of castor beans, which have been dried and ground to a flour to release the deadly poison within. “What's this, then? Headache tea?”

“Yes. And some ingredients to make cosmetics.”
One pinch of what you hold in your hand would end your days on Earth,
I think. Part of me wishes that he might demand a taste – but then I would swing at the end of a rope for sure.

“You're a young, good-looking girl. What do you need a suitcase full of make-up for?”

“To sell at the fairs.”

“She told us she did embroidery! See, she is lying. It is all lies,” Agnes crows, smelling victory.

“I do embroidery as well. But my eyes are not strong, and there is only so much sewing I can do before the headaches come back. The cosmetics are
more profitable, but my customers are often – forgive me for saying it – harlots. It shames me to be acquainted with such people, and I do not boast about that part of my business. However, I need to earn my keep, and those wicked women have money to spend.” I glance up, all innocence, and fix Agnes with a look. “It is not easy to make a virtuous living, as I am sure you know.”

Some of the men begin to fidget, embarrassed. My lie rings true, as all good lies do. Besides, I suspect there are few among them who can honestly claim to know nothing of harlots.

The innkeeper clears his throat. “All right, the girl makes tea and make-up. I see no harm in that. Will you at least tell us your true name?”

“My name is Rowan, and only Rowan. My family name is disgraced, and I swore long ago never to speak it again.”

My accusers begin to argue among themselves.

“Why can't she say her name?”

“Disgraced? Maybe we should call a priest.”

“What if she's a nobleman's daughter? If she is, there may be a ransom.”

At the word ransom they turn back to me, eyes glittering with greed.

By now the chill from my dousing in the river has taken root in my bones. “I assure you,” I say through chattering teeth, “There is no one who would pay a ransom for my life. As far as money goes, I am quite worthless to you.”

“Worthless? Hardly. I would give Miss Rowan my whole fortune if she asked me for it.”

Maryam's father stands in the doorway, hollow eyed with fatigue. “My daughter's fever has broken.” He pushes through the group to where I sit and clasps my icy hands. “Thank you. Thank you for your kindness, miss.”

He turns to my accusers. “Since before the sunrise I have walked the streets. Hour after hour, I go from house to house, searching for a doctor. But there is no doctor to be found. My heart feels like a stone. I have failed. I think my daughter will be dead when I return.”

He pauses. For a moment the only sound in the room is the sharp clattering of my teeth. “Instead I find her fever is broken. My wife says this lady, Miss Rowan – the one you treat like a criminal – came by and held her hand. Offered some tea. Said a prayer for her health. Did any of you do as much?”

There is no answer save the embarrassed shuffling of feet. He glares at the innkeeper. “If trying to help a sick child is a crime, then arrest me too, for going to fetch a doctor. Arrest my wife, for she has been caring for the girl since midnight.”

The innkeeper holds up his hands, as if to stave off the rug seller's mounting anger. “All right, calm down, nobody's been arrested. The fever's broken, you say?”

“Thanks be to God, it has.” The rug seller's voice crackles with fury. “And I will say one more thing, sir. If this is the way guests are treated at your inn, then you will soon have no customers. No business! I will speak of it everywhere I go. I will make sure that every traveller from Inverness to Baghdad knows what terrible things happen inside this establishment.”

The innkeeper grumbles a few words of excuse,
if not apology. But the spell of accusation is broken. He waves his hands at the group and shoos them out, scolding, “The girl wears make-up and drinks tea, and for that you want me to think she's some kind of sorceress! Troublemakers, away with you! If you weren't leaving in the morning I'd toss you out myself, and never mind how much money you spend at the saloon…”

 

Maryam's father finds a robe for me. He stays with me as I gather up my possessions – all my money has disappeared, but at least the packets of herbs remain – and helps carry them back to my room.

After he leaves, I wrap myself in every blanket I can find. If I could only get warm, I know I would sleep the sleep of the dead, but I cannot. My body is battered, but my mind whirls, and rest eludes me. Time is wasting, but I am too weak to do what I know I must.

Within the hour Maryam's mother arrives with a mug of hot broth. She wants to feed me as if I were
the sick child, but I tell her to leave it on the nightstand. “Your daughter needs you,” I say. “Go back to Maryam.”

She nods, wringing her hands. “My husband is with her now. But I had to come myself to say this: I am so sorry to hear what they did, Miss Rowan. I want you to know I said nothing, to anyone. I kept my promise. When my husband returned from town, he told me that he heard many people talking about a witch, a young woman, being drowned in the river by a mob. I remembered what you said to me, and I became afraid. I told him to go look for you – I am glad he found you. And now see how you shiver! I am afraid you will be the next one to get sick.”

All at once my eyes are so heavy I can scarcely sit up. “It is not your fault,” I mumble. “I am grateful for your kindness. If you will forgive me, I must rest.”

She nods and moves to the door but lingers there. “I do not understand these people,” she says. “We will travel with them no more. And you will not, to be sure. Miss Rowan, promise me you will ride with us?
We have room in the cart. My husband does not mind walking. And this way you will be with us – in case Maryam's fever returns, or in case you need someone to care for you.”

“We can talk about it tomorrow.” I offer a weak smile. “And I promise to drink the broth.”

She goes, and I take a few spoonfuls. The heat of it warms me just enough to crawl into bed and bury myself beneath the quilt.

My last thought as I finally drift into sleep is to marvel that there are still good hearts in the world. Not many. But some.

 

I am sinking, again. Pulled down this time. Weighed down, as if a large stone is pressed upon my chest.

The plants at the bottom of the river beckon. I peer through the murk at the greenish figures below. It is no swaying meadow of eelgrass waiting for me there, but the plants of my father's apothecary garden.

Moonseed. Larkspur. Dumbcane. Snakeweed.

“Why are you here?” I wonder aloud, confused. “You
do not grow under water.”

They bend and twist as if consumed by mocking laughter. Then, to my amazement, they speak.

“Welcome, lovely Jessamine.”

“Welcome home –”

I wake from the dream with a gasp.

What sound was it that woke me? I listen, frozen. A quiet click as the door opens. A footstep in the dark.

Someone stands, breathing, quite close, inside my room.

“Don't be afraid. It's me. Rye.”

“But – the door –”

He lights the stub of a candle and holds it near his face. I see him now, half smiling in the flickering light.

“I'm not what you'd call a law-abiding citizen, I'm afraid. Locked doors don't tend slow me down.”

I struggle to rise, to claw my way up from the depths of the dream, but there are weights pressing on my limbs, I feel buried alive –

“Stay under the quilt. You don't want to catch a chill. Not after today.” He kneels at my bedside. “I
came to say I'm sorry for what I did. At the river.”

“You saved my life. I know that.”

“I may have, yes. Still. I don't want you to hate me.”

“For saving my life? Perhaps I should.”

“Don't talk madness, Rowan.” He stops. “Ought I still call you Rowan?”

“It is the name I choose.”

“Rowan it'll be, then. Until we christen you with something better.” He pauses again. “You left me full of questions. I spent the day looking for answers.”

“Did you find any?”

“Perhaps. I heard quite a bit of gossip while I was out. That's the other reason I've come.”

Something in his tone frightens me. “What gossip?”

“About that murder near Alnwick.” He leans close, and his voice drops so low it seems to come from inside my head. “It seems the cottage belonged to no ordinary herbalist, but a well-known apothecary, a favourite of the Duke's. A man with powerful,
dangerous friends. A man who could heal with plants, and do great mischief with them, too. His daughter, they say, was equally skilled.”

I am fully awake now.

He puts the candle down on the nightstand. “I even found out the girl's name. A fair-haired beauty, she was, named for a yellow flower –”

I raise myself up. “What do you want from me?”

He lets out a low, soothing whistle, as if calling a wayward horse. “I want nothing, lass, except what you might freely choose to give me.”

I shiver uncontrollably now, with fear and a bone-deep cold. Without hesitation or permission, Rye eases himself into the narrow bed and wraps his arms around me. Instinctively my body curves into his warmth, like a sunflower reaching toward the sun.

“The sight of you on that riverbank is not something I'll soon forget,” he murmurs into my hair. “Like a siren, you rose from the waters, calling me to the rocks. I've caught you like a fever, Rowan.”

“I could cure you of it, quick.”

“I doubt that.” His lips graze my ear. “Tell me the truth – no, don't flinch, I know better than to ask what you don't want to tell. What I want to know is this: Did you like it when I kissed you last night? No more lies, now.”

“Yes,” I whisper, ashamed. “I did.”

“That's a start, then. Listen carefully. I've a proposition for you. Don't say a word until I'm done.”

I stiffen in his arms, but it only makes him hold me closer.

“Come with me,” he says. “I've been on the road my whole life, a tinker and a smuggler, always on the run. With you I'd have a reason to stop and savour life's pleasures. But we have to get out of this blasted country and never come back. We can do it, too. I know all the smugglers' ships out of Kent and Cornwall, and I'm owed favours up and down the coast. I've made plenty of money, and never paid a penny in tax. Most of it's hidden away back home. We'll book passage on a cutter, and there'll be no questions asked. With the money I've saved we'll buy a little farm in
County Sligo. Or if that's still too close for comfort, we'll go to America. There's fine land in Virginia, they say, and tobacco's a cash crop. It'll be a simple life, a sweet one, and no more running.” He presses his lips to my neck. “Come with me.”