The Poison Diaries: Nightshade (9 page)

“Don't.” My voice is sharp. “You think you know who I am, but you do not – if you knew all I have done –”

“I've no need to know, now or later. Once we cross the Irish Sea, it's a new land, a new life. Your troubles won't follow you there, whatever they are. I swear it.”

Already the bed is warm from his presence, warm as a sun-baked meadow in the long days of summer.

Tempting, isn't it, lovely?

I am promised to Weed. I want no other.

But surely it is pleasant, to lie in the arms of a man who's actually here? Whose kisses stir you even now, despite your protestations of love for another?

It is – pleasant.

And where was Weed when my lovely Jessamine was jettisoned, left derelict at the fetid bottom of the Tyne? The
horse trader was there, ready to save you from peril and buoy you back to life – but Weed? Nowhere to be found. As usual.

“Will you come with me, Rowan?”

Why don't you say yes, lovely?

I cannot. I will not.

Such noble sentiments! Surely you don't believe that Weed is alone this evening?

I know he is faithful to me.

Is he? You may be ignorant of his whereabouts, but I am not. Even now, he is handing a single perfect rose to a blushing young woman. She is beautiful, I must say. In fact, she looks a great deal like you…

Thinking my tears are some show of feeling meant for him, Rye kisses me.

“Will you come, then? Will you?”

Go ahead, lovely. Bestow upon him your tender lies, spread your broken wings of love. Obey me, and I will reward you in the end, as promised. If Weed truly loves you, he will take you back, even slightly soiled. And you know how this kind of thing amuses me…

“Yes.” I twine my arms around Rye's neck and draw him to me. “Yes. I will.”

Happiness spreads like the break of dawn across Rye's broad, unsuspecting face. “Now seal your promise with a kiss.”

He kisses me, and more. He is a grown man, and no stranger to a woman's body. And I am no innocent, to be sure.

Is loneliness a kind of love? Is despair? I do not know, but they open the door to passion nearly as well. Perhaps it is the slow poison trickle of jealousy and doubt that Oleander has fed me, but I am not wholly sorry to surrender. For I have been cold, in every fibre of my being, and Rye warms me. His passion is a furnace that burns my pain to ash.

It is exactly the kind of forgetting I need.

 

He stirs early, long before dawn, and reaches for me once more.

“When we get to Ireland, I want you to marry me, Rowan,” he says, groggy. “Say you will.”

“I already told you.”

“Say it again.”

“I will. Go back to sleep.” He grunts and rolls on his back.

Time to go now, lovely.

I have no money – how will I pay for my travel?

Check the horse trader's pockets. And make sure he sleeps until the sun is well up; I would not have him give chase.

Silently I slip from the bed and go to my bag of poisons and cures. My heart pounding, I do my work quickly and in silence.

I wait until a gentle snore leaves Rye's mouth slightly open. As the sweet drops slip past his tongue, he stirs. Quickly I seal his mouth by pressing my lips to his. It only takes a moment before his sleepy grumbles turn to murmurs of longing. His hands travel to my waist, and he gathers up my gown with work-roughened fingers.

I kiss him once more – he groans – and abruptly he falls back against the pillow, a dead weight. He will not wake again for hours.

I check his pockets and find a thick wad of notes tied in string, but I cannot bring myself to take it all. I remove one bill and put the rest back.

I should make haste, but I cannot help myself: I take a moment to smooth the thick russet hair and caress his stubbled, unresponsive cheek. Asleep he looks younger, softer. Less the cynical horse smuggler; more the trusting, ardent lover.

When tomorrow comes and he discovers I am gone – but I cannot think of that now. I must run, faster and ever further from myself – but where I am running to, I dare not imagine.

I
T 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.