The Poison Diaries by Maryrose Wood, The Duchess Of Northumberland Page A

It is wrong, Jessamine—I fear it is dangerous—”
    “Promise me, then,” I interrupt, for he is growing agitated. “Promise that you will never go in that awful place again. If it disturbs you so, then no good can come of it.”
    “I promise.”
    We fall silent. The morning has arrived in earnest now. One can almost hear the hiss of steam rising from the grass as the dew vanishes into the air.
    I look around. Meadow, trees, hedgerows, patches of wildflowers here and there. I close my eyes and listen. Leaves rustling in the breeze. Birds singing. My own breath, rising and falling. Nothing else.
    “You are right, Jessamine,” Weed exclaims with sudden bitterness. “I am a freak.”
    “No!” I reach for him. “Forgive me, Weed, Inever should have spoken those words. I was angry because I did not know the truth. You have a gift. A precious gift.”
    “You are the first person to think so.” There is both sadness and anger in his voice.
    “Who else have you told?” I ask, suddenly fearful.
    “I told Friar Bartholomew; I was only a child and knew no better. He did not believe me. He pitied me, I think, as a half-wit, and now he is dead in any case.”
    “But you did give something to Pratt’s patients, did you not?” I press. “And what about the villagers?”
    “I was foolish to try to help.” His fingers play lightly in the grass. “But I hated Pratt, and wanted to teach him a lesson. And the plants asked me to do it. They want to make use of their talents—as we do.”
    He pauses for a moment. “I know now it was wrong to put anything in the well. But at the time, the villagers were not as real to me as—all this.” His gaze encompasses the green growing things that surround us. “You have already taught me so much, Jessamine. Your grief yesterday at the castle, the grief of the others,of that poor mother—it was something I did not know before.” He takes my hands. “I too would weep for the child now. I promise you, I would.”
    A soft smile lights up his face. “Before I met you, Jessamine, I never thought any human soul could understand. If you truly believe me, and are not afraid—
that
is the true gift, Jessamine.
You
are a gift.”
    “Weed, I will keep your secret as if my very life depends on it.” My heart flails wildly in my chest, and I reach for him to steady myself. He takes my hands in his own, lifts them to his lips, and kisses them.
    “I trust that you will.” Still holding my hands to his lips, he murmurs, “I know your father already suspects something.”
    The heat of his breath burns my skin.
Here is where the road divides,
I think. Where does my loyalty lie? It does not take me even a single heartbeat to decide.
    “I will not tell Father. I promise.”
    Right away I wish to explain myself, to justify my decision to lie:
Father is a good man, but knowing of
your gift would drive him mad with envy. It would be too much for him to bear.
    Weed requires no explanation. He releases my hands and draws me close to him. Now there is no turning back. The architect of my future has been switched, from father to lover. But is this not precisely what nature intends? There is a time for growth, and a time for blossoming. Father, of all people, should understand that. I fear he will not, though.
    I skim my fingertips around Weed’s face as if I were blind. I trace the curved dark eyebrows, the firm cheekbone underneath the petal-soft skin. My lips move toward his as a bee to a flower, eager to taste.
    We kiss, and kiss again. Dizzy, I lean against the earth, yet I fly.

12
     
    22nd May
    The air is perfumed with spring. The sun warms the skin and melts the heart, and everything grows with abandon. Roots stretch deep in the earth to satisfy their thirst. Stalks race upward, propelled by joy. Leaves flutter and dance, buds swell, and shameless blossoms unfurl and offer themselves freely to the sky.
    I can scarcely sleep at night; I am too restless with excitement. In the long green