The Poison Diaries Read Free Page B

desk. The dark wood is pocked and crisscrossed with grooves from a few centuries’ worth of scribbling pens. “Such a simple, harmless drink. Made by your own sweet hands, I presume?”
    “Of course.” I hand him the cup. Lemon-scentedsteam rises between us. As he sips I gather my courage to ask, “where were you, Father?”
    “In my study, obviously. I have been in here all day.”
    “I mean yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that.”
    He turns away. “I was where my services were required; that is all you need to know.”
    “That is not an answer.” I too can be stubbor–I am my father’s daughter, after all. “I was left here alone for three days. surely it is only fair that I know why.”
    He looks angry at first. Then his face softens.
    “I am sorry if you were anxious, Jessamine. I was called away to deal with an urgent medical matter. It took up all of my attention; if you had asked me how many days I had been absent from home, I myself could not tell you.”
    “Called away to where?”
    “I have been in London.”
    “London! why? where? why did you not take me?”
    He holds up a hand to stop my questions. “I have been places I hope you never go, and seen things I hope you never see. I was in London. That is all I will say, and even that is saying too much. Now forgive me; I must get back to work.” He turns to retreat to his chair, then stops. “How are the gardens, Jessamine? Are you tending them well?”
    “Of course. I have turned over all the beds, and planted the lettuce and radishes, and—”
    He interrupts. “And the belladonna seeds?”
    “I have changed the water every day, exactly as you showed me. Tomorrow they will be ready for planting.” On a foolish impulse I add, “May I plant the seeds myself? I have taken good care of them this far.”
    “No. I will do it.”
    “But, Father, why not?”
    “You have already done too much.”
    “Soaking seeds? I’ve done nothing! How I wish you would let me into the apothecary garden! I could help you with your research, your cures—”
    “No! You must not. Swear to me, Jessamine. Evenwhen I am not home—and I may have to go away again, and soon—swear that you will not go in there.” Father walks toward me step by step, forcing me to retreat until I stand in the doorway to the study once more.
    “You needn’t make me swear. The gate is locked, remember?” I sound sullen and sarcastic; I cannot help it. “For I am only a foolish child who cannot be trusted to have sense enough not to poison herself. Isn’t that what you think? But you are mistaken, Father. I am not a child anymore.”
    “You are a child,” Father says flatly, “until I say you are not. Now leave me. I will see you at supper.”
    He steps back, and the ancient door shuts in my face.
    Out the front door of the cottage, through the courtyard, past the ruins and the outer wall, to the footpath, the crossroads, the world. I walk quickly, until my breath comes fast and my heart pounds.
    I may not go back. No—I
will
not go back. If Fathercan disappear for three days, so can I. For three days, or three years, or three lifetimes.
    You are a child until I say you are not.
    Am I really? What child would leave home as I do now, with no destination except away from you, penniless and provisionless, with only the shawl around her head for shelter?
    When I grow hungry I will find roots and berries to eat. Perhaps it is out here, in the wide, wild, unchained world, that I will finally taste all the forbidden fruit you keep under lock and key. Perhaps there are fresh mysteries growing in the woods, delicious, dangerous poisons that even you do not know exist!
    In this way my spiteful, wounded thoughts circle round and round, erasing the passage of time. Am I a mile from the cottage? Five miles? Ten? I break into a half run as the path veers into a downhill slope, and spread my arms like a sail to catch the wind. If only the currents of air could lift me and