The Poison Diaries (The Poison Diaires) by Wood Maryrose & The Duchess Of Northumberland

Author:Wood, Maryrose & The Duchess Of Northumberland [Wood, Maryrose]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Balzer + Bray
Published: 2010-07-14T04:00:00+00:00

11

WE LEAVE THE COTTAGE SILENTLY, by dawn’s light. Father is still asleep. If he rises to find us gone, will he think something ill?

The thought comes to me unbidden: It does not matter what Father thinks.

Weed does not say where he leads me, but except for the early hour, the walk is our familiar one. We arrive at a not-too-distant meadow and lower ourselves onto the dew-soaked grass. Indifferent to the wet, Weed stretches out on his back, his whole form pressed against the earth.

I take my place next to him. Goose bumps rise on my flesh from the cold earth, and from my anticipation, too. What horrifying truth does he intend to show me? Ought I to be afraid? Perhaps, but my sense of excitement far outweighs any fear.

Finally Weed speaks.

“As we walked here, did you see the grass?” he says. “The trees? The dandelions? The fields of oilseed?”

“I did.”

“Can you hear them?”

I think he means the soft, oceanic rushing, the wind in the grass, the fluttering of leaves. “Yes,” I reply. “When there is a breeze, I hear them.”

“But do you hear them in words?”

“No, of course not.”

“I do,” he says quietly. “I hear everything they say.”

“I do not understand—”

He holds a hand up, to silence me, and raises himself up on one elbow. “Look over there, in the shade beneath the hedgerow. Do you see the mat of broad leaves against the ground, the fresh green spike that will soon be covered with flowers?”

“It is foxglove,” I say, also rising. “Father sends me out to gather the leaves sometimes. They are useful to him in his work, and the wild ones are better than what we might grow in the garden.”

“They do not like to be tamed, that is true.” He cocks his head as if listening. “And they are very vain about their flowers when in bloom.” He flinches a little, as if being scolded. “But they have every right to be, as they have just reminded me.”

Is Weed playing a game with me? I turn so that I can see his face. “What are the foxgloves saying now?”

He meets my gaze with reluctance. “They say they know you. You have spent many hours lying near them, in the arms of the meadow grass. They say they hope I am not jealous. And they think you are very pretty. Too pretty.” He listens again. “They are being rude now. It seems they are the jealous ones. You should not pick their leaves any time soon; they would be sure to give you a rash.”

He is mad, I think in despair. This is his monstrous secret. Unless—unless what he says is true—and if it is, dear God, what would Father make of such a power—to gain knowledge directly from nature itself? But I cannot imagine any further. Instead, I will myself to respond calmly, as if conversing with clumps of leaves were a perfectly normal thing to do.

“Is it the same for all the plants?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

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