A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(64)

Listening to him talk about Rosamund, I had been struck by the pain in his voice, all the more apparent for his efforts to conceal it. He had made his voice light, chosen his words carefully, but I had seen the tightness around his mouth, the white lines at his knuckles, the tautness of his hands. And that moment when he realized I saw and understood, when he had thrown himself into my arms and at last faced his pain . . . it was almost beyond bearing. No matter what happened in the castle, no matter what murderous intent played out around us, I would not abandon him. Tiberius had not thought to ask openly for help from a friend because he did not yet realize that he had one in me. But I would show him.

Thus ran my thoughts for the rest of the night. I slipped into a heavy slumber in the smallest hours, waking just as dawn broke. In spite of my night of broken sleep, I bounded out of bed, determined both to enjoy my holiday upon the island and to make headway into unraveling our mystery. Washing swiftly, I dressed in my hunting costume of narrow skirt and jacket over slim trousers and took up my field notebook and pocket glass. I fitted half a dozen minuten to my cuffs and laced up my boots. A quick stop in the kitchens for provisions—a few rolls and an apple for my pockets—and I was off, making my way through the dew-drenched gardens and into the orchards beyond.

In accordance with my expectations, Mertensia was already about, hands filthy, skirts bemired, perspiration pearling her brow. “Good morning,” she said shortly, responding to my greeting with a minimum of civility.

She was near the gates of the poison garden and I joined her without waiting for an invitation. “I had not thought to meet anyone so early,” I lied. I offered her a roll, which she took, wiping her hands upon her skirts, streaking the fabric liberally with dirt.

“Thank you.” She took the roll grudgingly, her hunger winning out over her obvious annoyance with me. “I ought to have brought something with me, but I came out before Cook was awake,” she told me, breaking off large pieces of the roll and stuffing them into her mouth.

“You’ve been out here awhile, then,” I remarked.

She chewed and nodded. “A few hours. I wanted to work with my Cestrums,” she told me. She finished the roll and moved towards the garden.

“Are you going inside? I should very much like to accompany you,” I said, moving between her and the gates.

She paused, then pursed her lips. “Very well.” She took a pair of gloves from her pocket. “Put these on and you may come with me.”

“Don’t you need them?” I asked, tugging them into place.

“I know what not to touch,” she informed me with a roll of the eyes. “Now, I know you have heard the warnings, but I shall repeat them again. Touch nothing, smell nothing, and for the love of God, eat nothing once inside these gates.”

I swore obedience and she led me inside. The very air within the gates seemed different, charged with an almost narcotic heaviness.

“Don’t breathe too deeply,” she warned. “That’s the Cestrums.”

“Cestrums are nightshades, are they not?” I asked as we moved further into the garden. The air was heavy with the warm, vegetal breath of the plants.

She led the way as she lectured. She might have been reluctant to keep company with me, but her obvious love of her plants won out over her irritation. She warmed as she spoke of them, dotingly, as a mother will her children. “Together with others, yes. All of my Cestrums are toxic, particularly the one whose perfume you can smell. That is Cestrum nocturnum, night-blooming jasmine,” she said, stopping short just in front of a massive shrub starred with small white flowers. “I prefer her colloquial name, lady of the night.” The shrub, in reality a clump of vines tangled together in impenetrable union, reached upwards, snaking its tendrils in spirals that rose far overhead, tangling with the structure behind. As I peered closer through the pointed glossy green leaves, I saw a woman’s face, withered and weathered, the vines wrapped about her throat. I leapt back, causing Mertensia to laugh, a trifle unpleasantly.

“Some of the lads in the village make a living by salvage,” she told me. “They take what they can from ships lost along the islands. Pieces like that they bring to me and I buy them for the garden.”

Belatedly, I realized the sculpture was a figurehead, all that remained of some poor benighted ship dashed to doom upon the rocks. “How very unique,” I said politely.

She pulled a face. “You needn’t worry. There are surprises all over the garden, but none quite so startling as that one. I call her Mercy. Sometimes I talk to her whilst I work.”

This last was said in a tone of near defiance, as if she were daring me to judge her for her eccentricities. “You are fortunate,” I told her.

She blinked. “Fortunate?”

I spread my arms. “To live in such a place. To have full reign here. It is like your own little kingdom and you are the queen.”

She gave a sudden laugh, harsh and rusty, like a child’s squeeze-box that has not been used in a very long time. “I am not the queen. I am nothing but a pawn, moved by the whims of the king,” she added with a glance towards the windows of the castle.

“That would be Malcolm,” I ventured.

“Naturally. The garden, like everything else on this island, belongs to him.”

She turned and began to tie up a slender green tendril.