The Poison Diaries (13 page)

Father hands the finished drink to Weed and makes another for himself. Then he repeats the process to prepare mine. “For Jessamine, an extra cube of sugar, I think,” he says with a smile. “The taste will be too strong otherwise.”

He hands the glass to me. I am unaccustomed to drink, but the scent is sweet licorice, not unpleasant at all. And the otherworldly green of the drink
reminds me of Weed’s eyes; I wonder if he will notice the similarity?

“What a rich, vibrant hue. It is a garden in miniature, is it not?” Father sniffs his drink appreciatively. “Now, for our toast: To my lovely daughter, Jessamine. And to my new son, Weed.” He gazes warmly at us both. “To your health!”

“Thank you for all we are about to receive,” says Weed, raising his glass to his lips.

I do the same. The licorice perfume, the burn of alcohol, the sweetness of the sugar give way to a bitter, metallic taste that coats my tongue. The complex flavor makes me want to take another sip, and then another.

“Delicious, isn’t it?” Father remarks. “Notice how the mixture turns cloudy after a moment. Truly, it is a most unusual and botanical beverage; you can see why I prefer it to all others….”

Fascinated, I stare into the absinthe. Sparkling multicolor gems float and bob on the surface of the creamy green sea, like survivors of a shipwreck. A
kaleidoscope of light dances within the confines of my glass.

My eyes are still behaving strangely,
I think.

“Now I hope neither of you will make a habit of taking strong drink,” Father says jovially. “But on a special occasion—such as an engagement!—a proper toast is certainly called for.”

An engagement…
Dear Weed—he will be my husband, and with Father’s blessing! It does feel like a dream, but I could never dream Father in such a celebratory mood.

Suddenly I long for Weed to know the joy I feel, but I cannot speak words of love in front of Father. Yet surely someone who can hear the whispered secrets of a dandelion can easily discern my all-too-human heart’s promises of devotion, and see the adoration shining in my eyes?

I search Weed’s face, seeking some answering vow of love in the arrangement of his features. If only we were alone, and could speak freely—the occasion overwhelms me, and I begin to feel unsteady—

“What do you think of the absinthe, Jessamine?” Father asks. “I hope it is not too potent for you. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, but it looks as though you are turning nearly the same green color yourself.”

“I think—I think I feel sick,” I say, and then I do not know what comes next, for I faint to the floor so quickly that not even Weed can catch me.

“J
ESSAMINE? JESSAMINE?”

Weed stands over me, swaying back and forth. That is not right—Weed is still; it is the room that sways. I clutch at the blankets
—there are blankets upon me, I am likely in my own bedchamber, then
—and try to sit up. Instead I nearly slip sideways off the bed.

“Not yet, dear Jessamine,” Weed says tenderly. “Lie still.”

I obey, for I can do nothing else. “What happened?”

“You drank a toast, and then took a sip, and then a
swallow, and finished the rest of the glass, every drop, before we could prevent you.”

My eyes flutter closed; I am too weary to keep them open. “I am not fit to drink real liquor, it seems.”

He squeezes my hand. “Rainwater is best.”

I try to smile; it makes my head throb. “Do you really want me to be your wife?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says, and kisses my palm.

“No toasts at the wedding, though,” I murmur, drifting off again.

“Thank you for all that she is about to receive. Come, you must eat something.”

I am sitting up, pillows stuffed behind my back. It appears that Weed has been feeding me soup, for now he is trying to nudge my lips open with the spoon. I do not even remember him coming in.

I breathe in the fragrant, herb-scented steam. I can feel the hunger and thirst that rack my body, but it is as if the sensations belong to someone else; I have no wish to swallow anything. I turn my head away and
slump back into the pillows.

“You can do better than that,” Weed insists. “You must. Remember how you persuaded me to eat?”

“I have no taste for it yet. I will eat when I am feeling better.” I note the frown on his face. “Why do you seem so worried? Surely I am not the first person in the world to be made ill by drink. It will pass—mmph.”

He sneaks one spoonful of broth into my mouth as I finish speaking. “Many times I saw how the friar made himself sick with too much ale. He would sleep like a dead man, and the next day wake in the foulest of moods. His head would hurt for a while; he would rage and complain. By nightfall he would recover and be ready to start the process all over again.”

“Would you prefer me to be in a foul mood, then?”

“You can be, if you like.” He places his cool hand on my forehead and brushes back my hair. The concern in his eyes cannot be hidden.

“Weed.” I struggle to sit up again. “How long have I been in bed?”

His face pales, but his voice remains nonchalant. “Not long. Two or three days.”

Three days?
How can that be? I try to rise again, and the room spins so fast I fall back to the bed in an instant.

“This is not from the drink, then?” He shakes his head.

“Am I ill?”

“I think so.”

“Ill from what?”

He pauses. “I do not know.”

A tight knot of fear forms in my chest. “Where is Father?”

“He went to London, early yesterday morning. He did not know how ill you were when he left. You were still sleeping, then, though restless and hard to wake.” Gently he lays a hand on my forehead. “He too thought you were sickened by the drink.”

“It was worth it to mark our engagement.” I close my eyes, but they fly open again as a sudden thought pierces my feverish brain. I reach for Weed’s hand.
“Weed, do you think the plants might offer a cure for my sickness?”

“I have already asked,” Weed says anxiously. “I have walked the gardens, the fields, the forest. They say your condition is not of their making, and thus cannot be of their curing.”

“‘Not of their making’; what does that mean?”

“I am not sure.” His voice catches. “It troubles me, Jessamine. They have always been eager, even proud, to offer their cures, even before I ask for them. Now they seem—frightened.”

My eyes close of their own will. “Whatever is wrong, Father will cure me. I know he will,” I mumble drowsily.

“I know he will try,” I hear Weed say as I sink back into sleep.

“How much food has she taken?”

“Very little. I have got a few spoonfuls of the broth you prepared past her lips every quarter of an hour.”

“Have you given her anything else? Any medicines, ointments, remedies?”

“No, sir.”

My hand flies up, lifted by some force outside me, a puppet arm on a string.

“The pulse is weak and fast. Her color is sallow; the skin is cool. Jessamine? Can you speak?”

The words come out as an unintelligible moan, which is just as well, for I am prattling gibberish:
But Father, why can I not enter the ’pothecary garden? I am not a child anymore….

My hand sinks back to the bed. The voices wash over me, lapping each other like waves—

“She is delirious with fever.”

“What can be wrong with her? The illness came upon her so quickly, with no warning.”

The sharp snap of the latch on Father’s medical bag. Bottles clinking against bottles.

“Believe it or not, there is a condition known as lovesickness.”

“Mr. Luxton, do not joke—”

“I am completely serious. For a young woman like Jessamine, innocent, sheltered, with a sensitive and passionate temperament—it is possible that this has all been too much for her. The excitement has worn out her nerves; her body and mind are overwhelmed and seek respite in the only way they can: through a withdrawal into illness.”

“Are you suggesting that I leave her?” Weed’s voice is strangled. “For I will not—I cannot—”

“Noooooo.”
An animal howl of protest escapes my lips.

Silence.

“Good.” Father says after a moment. “Though she is unconscious, it seems she can hear us; that is a positive sign. No, Weed, I would not instruct you to be anywhere but by her side. At this point your departure would only make matters worse. Rest assured, I do not think lovesickness is the sole explanation for her condition. Rather, the excitement created by your engagement may have weakened her constitution temporarily, and thus made her susceptible to
some disease or infection.”

I thrash in the bed. Why do they talk about me so, as if I am not here? Do they think I am dead? With enormous effort I open my eyes. The light plunges into them like hot knives, but before I close them again I see Weed and Father standing shoulder to shoulder at the foot of the bed, shielding themselves from me. Their voices sink to hushed whispers; I can scarcely make out the words.

“Here; I have prepared a tincture of catnip and hyssop for the fever; cinnamon to fight any infection, boiled mallow roots as a tonic, cloves to purify the blood, hawthorn to strengthen her heart—do you agree?”

After a moment, a low, hoarse reply: “It will not do any harm. I am without any further knowledge in this matter. Sir, please do as you think best.”

A pause.

“Very well. Give her one spoonful every ten minutes. She may not care for the taste, but it cannot be helped.”

The door closes. Father has left the room, I can
sense it. Weed’s weight settles on the edge of the bed. Reflexively I curl toward him, like a sunflower bending toward the sun.

“Take this,” he pleads. “It is medicine, to cure you. Just one spoonful, my dear one.”

I obey. It is thick and tastes of sour milk, kerosene, sulfur, mold—the vile, oily mixture gurgles down my throat. I am too weak to gag.

“Is it awful?”

I shake my head no, and force my cracked lips into an imperceptible smile.

“Let it make you better,” Weed urges.

“I will.” I half open my eyes, ignoring the stabbing pain that results. “See? I am stronger already.”

He looks at me as if I am dying.

I love you,
I tell him without words.

“Jessamine,” he says sadly. “Oh, my poor Jessamine. What have I done to you?”

Time passes, unmeasured. My illness persists. The fever comes and goes; I can tell from the dull pressure inside
my skull as it rises, and the way I shiver and shake with chills when it recedes. When the fever is at its worst, my mind overflows with strange, blurred images.

Sometimes I think I can see figures out of the corners of my eyes. When I turn my head to look, they vanish. Only the sounds remain: the whir of beating wings, a soft creak of tree branches in the wind, a low hum that rises and falls like the swell of murmuring voices.

There are other voices, too:

The medicine is not working.

Obviously it is not! If you have a better suggestion I would appreciate hearing it.

I am sorry. I wish I could be of some help, but I have none to offer.

That is hardly sufficient.

Father is in a rage; I listen to him bellow:

“A stranger—an idiot!—strikes his foot with an ax, and you overflow with remedies. But now, nothing. She is to be your wife! Why now, when her life is in the balance, do you have only apologies? Is there nothing that can
shake that mysterious medical wisdom from your head?”

A pause.

“Perhaps, Weed—if you went into the apothecary garden—”

“Why do you say that?”

“The plants in there are powerful. If you examine them closely, you may be able to discover a means to help her.”

What? But Weed promised me he would not go into the poison garden again! He cannot, it is too dangerous for him, I will not permit it—

“Perhaps you are right—but I am afraid—let us talk elsewhere, please.”

They leave me.

I am alone, again.

If Weed ever returns,
I think,
I will ask him to dress me in Mama’s wedding dress. I want him to see me in it, once before I die.

The sky has turned yellow as a dandelion.

The clouds swirl like vicious whirlpools in the sky,
as if they would devour all the earth below. When I dare look out the window I feel myself being lifted up, drawn into its leering maw.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wail. I clutch the blankets and cling tightly to the bed. My body pulls upward, eager for the end. It wants to float away and disappear into that roiling, ravenous mouth.

I do not know how much longer I can hold on.

Weed comes to see me and spoons horrors into my mouth. I try to tell him about the sky. I want to ask him to draw the curtains shut, or tie me fast to the mattress so I cannot be stolen by that gaping hole in the heavens. But no words emerge from my lips. No sound from my throat but a tiny, frightened mewing.

This is the only voice I have left—the sound of a newborn kitten abandoned by its mother, sightless, helpless, knowing nothing of life but thirst and cold, and a faint animal instinct rising from the gut, saying
this is not how it was supposed to be
—to make the long journey from whatever comes before birth, to be brought forth with such effort and wailing, only to be
snuffed out again so quickly—

Poor kitten,
I think. If mama cat does not come back soon, it will be too weak to cry for help. The end will come quickly then.

At least, when it comes, the black night of death will not frighten a creature still blind from being born. That is some comfort, is it not?

No. No. No.
I am no dying kitten. I am a sick girl, sick with something strange and rare. Something Weed cannot help me with. Something the healing plants of the earth stubbornly refuse to name.

Something that Father will soon figure out how to cure.

But I thought your father knew how to cure everything?

Everything but what ails me, I suppose—