Nightshade Read online

  I knew him at once; how could I not? The instant he took the stage I stood transfixed by every movement of his graceful form, those dark unruly curls, the flash of emerald in his eyes.

  Only his manner is new. Once he was unused to human companionship and had an air of wariness about him. Now he has found his place in the world. His grace and quiet confidence would leave any woman breathless.

  He cannot have recognised me – I pray he did not. Not only am I costumed and masked, but everything about me is altered, inside and out. To have Weed see me like this, ruby-lipped, in a dress of clinging gauze, steeped in a potion that keeps the King pawing at me like a drunken sailor, a deadly weapon pinned to my hair – it would be too much shame to bear.

  Is there time to flee? Even now the bell rings for dinner. The guests take their places at the long banquet table and stand patiently beside their chairs, waiting for the King.

  The King – my King, who I am about to murder. How can I perform this evil deed with Weed looking on? The sight of him awakens feelings in me I thought dead and buried. Love. Hope. The knowledge of right and wrong. They fight their way through the poisoned haze I have come to accept as my natural state.

  Weed – I would cry his name aloud, not to the stars on the painted ceiling of this great hall, but to the real ones in the unseen heavens above. I would turn his name to a song of joy – but who would the singer be? Jessamine, or Belladonna? A monster bred to kill, like the Hashshashin? A soul damned for all eternity? Or a fallen, brutalised girl for whom there may yet be some slim hope of grace?

  Members of the Scorpion Society stand like sentries at every door of the Salone. I know them by their costumes, for they are adorned with the flowers of their poisonous namesakes. Foxglove. Chrysanthemum. Rhododendron. Narcissus.

  Any other men here I might be able to charm my way past, but not them. They know of my intoxicating tricks, and their eyes never leave me. If I try to escape, they will have me garroted in an instant.

  There is no place to run. No place to hide.

  The bell rings once more. I take a final desperate look around. I can no longer see Weed in the crowd.

  If he did not recognise me, and left, it is the last and greatest mercy I shall ever know. Now it is time to meet my fate.

  Let the end come quickly, I beseech whatever god might listen to a killer’s prayer. For the King, and for me as well.

  Trailing his sunflower train, the King moves to the gilded chair at the head of the table. He sits, and the guests follow suit.

  A priest leads a blessing, and fawning introductory remarks are made. A new man rises to speak. He is the one I know as Monkshood; it seems he is a high-ranking member of the court. He taps his glass and waits for silence.

  “And now,” he begins with false solemnity, “According to custom, we will mark the feast of St. Martin by uncorking a bottle of the season’s new wine.”

  There are shouts of approval as a bottle is delivered to the table. Its label bears no words, but an image: a spray of oblong, leathery leaves topped with a cluster of white flowers – just like the ones pinned in my hair. A stone-faced servant prepares to pull the cork.

  “Many say new wine is never as good as old,” the traitor continues. “But that is not always true. Sometimes a change from the old is good. Change is natural, like the change of seasons. Not to be feared.”

  “You sound like a revolutionary, Charles!” someone calls. There is a ripple of uneasy laughter.

  “And you sound like an aristocrat,” he replies. “But we are not here to talk politics, surely. Tomorrow we fast; today we feast!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  “Uncork the new bottles and drain the old!”

  As I take my place at the King’s right hand, I make sure to brush close to the men who sit by him. The fog of desire I cast will erase all suspicion, for a short time, at least.

  It will be long enough.

  The King turns to me with heat in his eyes and offers his glass. “Fill this for me, girl. It will taste all the sweeter coming from your hands.”

  I let my fingers stroke the King’s as I take the wine glass from him. “One last bloom for Your Majesty,” I say. With a coy smile, I reach up to my hair and pluck the deadly blossom that waits there.

  As I do, a rain of pure white petals falls from the garland of lilies overhead. They land at the feet of a young man dressed in black silk, with an emerald-green waistcoat the same colour as his eyes.

  It is Weed. Dropping his cape of greenery, he has emerged from the shadows and now stands not ten paces away. His eyes are fixed, not on me, but on the wine glass in my hand.

  Weed! How could I have forgotten the sweetness of life? Of goodness? Of love?

  Too late, lovely.

  The deadly oleander blossom is cradled in my palm.

  It is much too late to change your mind.

  The King watches me with eager eyes.

  Smiling, I drop the blossom in the wine. I swirl the glass.

  And then I drink.

  17

  I AM DYING, DROWNING at the bottom of the Tyne once more. A searing pain splits my chest; my lungs are ready to burst. With my last atom of strength I kick and struggle to rise through the murk, away from the darkness, to the light, but it is so very far away –

  I gasp, and open my eyes. I am lying in Weed’s arms.

  “I know I am dead, but this cannot be hell,” I whisper. “Where am I?”

  His face floods with tenderness. “You are alive. You are safe. You are with me now.”

  I close my eyes again and sink into his warmth. His familiar earth scent. It is almost enough to make me forget everything that has happened – how long has it been since we held each other like this?

  I do so love surprises…

  The fantasy of bliss lasts but a moment, before I remember who and what I really am. How all is not as it was, and can never be again. My eyes fly open again, and I struggle to sit up.

  “Where are we? There are men who would kill me if they found me.” I look around. I am in a small, sun-drenched bedroom in what seems to be a private house. Every windowsill is lined with potted plants.

  “We are safe, under the protection of a trusted friend. The men you speak of believe you are dead and will not pursue.” His voice hardens. “I cannot say the same of their master.”

  “He is my master as well – Weed. I have fallen –”

  He puts his arms around me and holds me as I weep. Finally he speaks. “I went to the masquerade to stop the King’s murder. When I saw you there, so changed” – at this I sob – “I knew you were under the Prince’s power. But until the lilies warned me about the deadly flower in your hair, I did not imagine the assassin would be you.”

  “You must think I am a monster.”

  He takes me by both arms. “I said those same words to you, once. Do you remember? I was sure you would hate me when you knew my true nature. Jessamine, you drank the poison meant for the King. Whatever wickedness has taken root in you, remember – in that moment you refused to do evil. At the cost of your own life, you refused.”

  “I was filled with shame, not goodness. My only wish was that you not have to witness the wretch I have become.” I search his eyes. “I know what poison I put in that wine. Why am I not dead?”

  He smiles. “After you fell to the ground, one of the men leaped up and cried, ‘The King’s glass was poisoned! The girl saved his life!’ All was chaos. Swords were drawn, accusations of treachery were made. In the frenzy I caught you in my arms and tried to flee. The traitors tried to stop me. With the help of friends, we escaped.”

  “The plants?”

  He nods. “They tangled the men in vines, pinned them between branches, and held them back with thorns. Once outside, I gave you a powerful antidote. I had brought it with me to save the King’s life. Instead, it saved yours.”

  “The King – what happened to him?”

  “He is unharmed but furious. Now he and his guards know th
ere are traitors in their midst. In the future they will not be so careless.” He gaze softens. “My beloved, my Jessamine! To look in your eyes again is like being given a new life. They are beautiful. Innocent. Worthy of love. I would know them anywhere.”

  He kisses me then, tenderly, once on each eyelid. My heart is so full of love it aches, but even now it beats with a steady pulse of dread.

  “Weed. I am afraid. I do not know what Oleander will do next.”

  He takes me in his arms and draws me close. “I never should have left you. How could I have let you out of my sight?”

  “We should flee –”

  “Not yet.” His fingertips trace their way down my throat, across my collarbone. “I have waited so long,” he murmurs.

  I freeze. The aphrodisiac is still having its effect. More slowly, now that it is faded with time, but just as surely as before.

  Oleander’s cruel voice snakes through my brain.

  Had you forgotten, lovely? No one, not even your precious, simpering Weed, comes near you except at my pleasure.

  “Weed – no –” I reach for the vial of mithridatum in hopes that it might cure him of this intoxicant – but it is empty. He has given me every drop.

  Without the aid of my powerful potions, do you think this righteous bore would be mooning over you as he is now? Cooing his words of love and groaning with desire? No, lovely. He would despise you, for all you have become, and all you have done.

  “My beloved,” Weed whispers, unfastening my flimsy gown. “Such beauty.”

  How he would scorn you! This carnival huckster who makes virgin buds open on command – what use would he have for a blossom so thoroughly spent and trampled upon as you? Show me a bee in England who has not already tasted your sweet poison nectar –

  “Love me, Jessamine.” Weed takes my face in his hands. “Love me as you once did. I have missed you so.”

  He presses his lips against mine. Our bodies cling to each other like a joining of twin souls. I am clear-headed, for the first time in months. Weed’s cure has cleansed the laudanum from my system, and all of Oleander’s other poisons as well.

  But even as I have regained myself, Weed has succumbed. His eyes are too ablaze with passion. His breath comes too quickly. It is my own body that is poison now – it is my very nearness to him that puts him in thrall to the Prince’s power.

  I try to pull away. “Weed. I must leave.”

  “No,” he murmurs into my neck. “You were lost to me, and now I have you back. I will never let you go again. I love you.”

  His words rain down on my soul, drop by healing drop. If only they were real! But surely the potion began its work the moment he took me in his arms. With each moment he tended to me, wiped my brow, caressed my hand as I slept, the Prince’s power over him grew.

  From the moment Weed first touched me, his thoughts and feelings were not his own. And when the potion wears off, I will be left to face the truth.

  Will there be love in Weed’s heart then? Or scorn? Hatred, even?

  How could I ever dare to find out?

  “I am sorry,” I say hoarsely. “Let me go. Please.”

  “Why?” His face falls. “Do you still love me?”

  Go on, lovely. Put an end to this embarrassing display. At least your last lover was a king.

  “No.” I push him away. “I must go. I must return to my master.”

  Now he does release me. “You mean Oleander? But service to him is worse than death.”

  “You should have let me die, then.”

  Weed’s eyes are full of grief. “Jessamine, what has happened to you?”

  “Everything.” I clench my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching for him. “Let me alone, Weed. I am soiled with wickedness, with murder – I am not even human. I am something beyond hope.”

  “You have killed, but you have healed as well, I know you have. Like the plants of the apothecary garden, you are healer and killer both. As am I.”

  “I would have to give my life a hundred times over to make up for the lives I have taken. I wish I had died at Hulne Abbey! Then I never would have sunk into this pit. I would have died a human being, instead of a devil.”

  His voice catches. “But I am no better than you, Jessamine. I too have killed.”

  His pain moves me to tears. “Do you mean the preacher at the crossroads?” I whisper. I see I am right, for he drops his head in shame.

  “The world will not forgive us,” he says, “but surely we could find a way to forgive each other?”

  “I forgive you, Weed.” It takes all my will to back away from him. “But I can never forgive myself.”

  By the time he looks up I have reached the door. “No! Jessamine, stay! When there is life, there is hope.”

  “Not always.” And then I run.

  With each step I take, my soul dies within me. The pain is unbearable.

  I know only one way to stop it.

  18

  ARE YOU VERY WEARY, lovely? You must be. Even with the help of so much laudanum, forgetting is exhausting work. And you do have a great deal to forget.

  I am weary, yes. I am too tired to think.

  It has been a long journey. You have done wrong; you have disobeyed me, and disappointed me greatly.

  I am sorry.

  And I was so looking forward to the moment when the King lay dying on the floor! His loyal nobles would have tried to kill you on the spot, and poor Weed would have had quite a puzzle to solve – save the dying King, or defend his beloved murderess? But you ruined my little plan.

  I did not know – I did not think –

  Still, you are with me now. You chose wisely, in leaving that foolish boy behind at last. I think you have suffered enough. Let me bear you on my wings now. Winter is coming. It is time to rest. I will take you someplace safe.

  I no longer know what to do.

  Come. Let us fly.

  Here we are.

  Wait – do I know this place?

  As well as I know you, lovely.

  Is that burned ruin Hulne Abbey? And are those the gates of the poison garden my father planted, so long ago? Wait – my father, I think I remember. He is dead, is he not? Or was that only a dream?

  Let us not speak of unhappy things. You are so dear to me, Jessamine. I have watched you since you were a girl, you know. I tempted you for years, calling to you, beckoning you to come closer. Even as a child, your nearness fed my powers. Do you remember how you peered longingly through the iron bars? How badly you wanted to unlock these gates, and enter my sanctuary, and pry all the secrets from my innermost heart? And now you are here. And you are mine. You have no one else, but you need no one else. I am mother and father to you now. I am lover and ruler. I am your sickness, and your cure.

  She looks at me, the dawn of understanding. Ah, those eyes! Pale sapphires, bejewelled with tears. Mine, now.

  Oleander, I am so cold.

  I know.

  I love to see her shiver. It makes her glitter, like a stand of birch when the breeze blows through it.

  Lie down, lovely. I want to see you among the leaves.

  But the earth is nearly frozen.

  Lie down, and be still.

  She lies on the earth and gazes at the sky.

  What now?

  Wait and see.

  At my command, tiny roots rise up and twine themselves around her.

  No.

  I want to see you dressed in lace. Like a bride.

  Slowly, caressingly, the delicate roots weave themselves around her. She lets out a little gasp. Worms rise from the earth, and slither in ecstasy across that pale flesh.

  Are you afraid?

  Rapid puffs of frost pant from her lips.

  Silly question, I know.

  I wave a hand, and the roots tickle their way over her face, until they make a living veil. A wedding mantua. She moans and closes her eyes. Little does she know: This is only the beginning of our life together.

  Look at me
, Jessamine. Look at me.

  Disobedient girl. I crook my finger, and the roots twine around her lashes and pull her eyes wide. The panicked orbs dart around, wild with fear. Unable to even blink without my permission.

  Now do you understand?

  It is a moment to be cherished, when the struggling ends. When all hope is gone, and terror melts into surrender. There is a tenderness to it, as prey bares its throat to predator in supplication, pleading for a final act of love – let my end be swift –

  I feel the joy of that moment now, as those wild, brimming eyes turn to me. To whom else can they turn? I am her world now, and she is mine. But still, a gentleman must ask. On bended knee, as befits a prince taking a bride.

  Will you be mine, lovely? Will you do my bidding with your whole poisoned heart?

  Yes, she whispers. Unless you will let me die.

  You know I would never do that.

  With a wave I bid the roots close her eyes, and seal them. A thousand threadlike fingers run themselves through the mane of her hair. They tug, and her head tips back; she lets out a little cry. I nod, and they tighten bit by bit, from head to toe, until my prize is held fast. A mermaid caught in a fisherman’s net. Mine, at last.

  I gesture down, toward the earth. The roots obey me, as they must. Down into the dirt she sinks, limb by limb, until her form is hidden beneath the dark veil of earth. Only her nose and mouth remain above ground. That lovely, petal-soft mouth. Even gasping for air, rounded as a carp’s, still, so very lovely.

  I place a tender kiss upon those trembling lips.

  Will you be mine?

  Yes.

  Swear it, lovely. On the life you hold most precious. I know it is not your own.

  I swear. On Weed’s life, I swear.

  On his life, indeed. Remember that vow, if you should ever think of disobeying me again. How helpless and irresistible you are! Wrapped up so prettily in the earth, like a gift that only I can open. I am quite breathless at the sight of you, Jessamine.

  Inflamed, I kiss her again, and lay myself upon her. I shelter her beneath my canopy of green. I let my form change, my leaves and stems unfurl. I am full of sap and ripening buds, roots searching for moisture, my leaves turning toward the light, but now is not the time. For winter is coming, and down, down we must go, deep into the rotting, wormy earth. Down we plunge, and my beloved is coming with me –