The Poison Diaries by Wood Maryrose & The Duchess Of Northumberland

Author:Wood, Maryrose & The Duchess Of Northumberland [Wood, Maryrose]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Balzer + Bray
Published: 2010-07-14T05:00:00+00:00

5

25th March

The weather has shifted. The breeze is warm and full of promise.

No time to write more. I have to tend to Weed.

TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY of a new season.

It is the season of Weed.

He is not much company yet. All day and all night he hides in the coal bin, hunched and silent. Father says it must be because that is what he was accustomed to at the madhouse, but I think Father may have frightened him with his wild talk of throwing poison into wells; it is no wonder he does not wish to speak to us. So far he has refused to eat most of the food I bring, though he will drink as much water as he is offered.

I will be patient. Any wild creature can be tamed, if you are willing to wait and be still. I have learned this from the feral cats that lurk around the courtyard. They stare like yellow-eyed demons; they bolt and hide if you approach, but sooner or later, when they are hungry enough, they come and take the food from your hand.

So it will be with Weed—but not yet. In the meantime I have decided that I will introduce myself to him, to get him accustomed to my presence. He may not answer me at first, but that is no matter. I have someone to talk to, at last! My words will be like sunshine and air. My voice will rain down on him, and then we shall see what glorious orchid may blossom from this shy, unwanted Weed.

I race through my chores in half the usual time so that I may spend the rest of the day taming my new friend. since he will not leave the coal bin, I carry my small stool down to the cellar and sit as close as I dare.

“My name is Jessamine Luxton,” I say, as a way to begin. “I am sixteen years of age. My father is Thomas Luxton, the apothecary. You met him already; he was the one that picked you up off the ground and brought you inside the cottage, after that dreadful man on horseback left you lying in the dirt like rubbish.”

While I speak he stays facing away from me, his body curved around his knees as if he were encased in the hard husk of a seed.

“So,” I say, nudging my stool an inch closer, “now you have met Father and me. That means you have met my whole family, for my mother is dead, and I am an only child. My father and I live here alone together.”

I see a finger twitch, flex.

“This place we live in, this house, which I call our cottage—it is very old. some would say it is a sacred place. The Catholic monks used to live and worship here.”

He turns, and his mouth moves as if he would speak.

“Bells,” he breathes.

His voice is so soft it is not even a whisper. More like the rustle of a leaf.

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