He fills my head with tales from the ancient forests, tales so old that the trees themselves call them legends. It is as if a veil has been lifted from my eyes, and the world I have lived in all my sixteen years is revealed to be something else entirely, something so marvelous I could never have imagined it.
Maryrose WoodAt least, when it comes, the black night of death will not frighten a creature still blind from being born. That is some comfort, is it not?
Maryrose WoodOnly a fool takes offense at the truth, Jessamine. They are awful, of that there is no question. But they are also very charming. Purveyors of unspeakable suffering and indescribable delights. Performers of murders and miracles! You might grow to like them, if you got to know them as I do. But why has your beloved Crabgrass ventured into this garden of horrors, I wonder?
Maryrose WoodMost often they speak according to their kind – the deep rumble of oak, the whisper of the birch, or the singsong chant of the alder.
The evergreen stands of pine have voices sharp as needles.
But the forest can speak as one, when it must. When the trees so choose, they think with one mind. When there is danger, especially, they speak in one voice of a thousand echoes.
I hate it when they do this. For the forest mind is always right, and will hear no argument.
It is a rare beast that gets such a funeral,” Father remarked, sweating and leaning on his spade. “Lucky cat.”
Personally I think the cat would have been luckier had it lived. Then again, life for a stray, unwanted thing is not always pleasant, so perhaps Father was right after all.
Truth, terrible truth! It is like an ancient curse, from which there is no escape. The truth will drive one mad. Yet without it, how can one make sense of life’s madness?
Maryrose WoodThen you should be as willing. I know how poison fascinates you. Surely dying from it will fascinate you, too.” Leaning closer, I hiss, “It is a pity you cannot take notes.
Maryrose WoodRemember, Weed: The good of one tree is not important. The good of the forest is what matters.
Maryrose WoodListen to the fleshbody,” the dropwort retorts. “A mere seventeen turns of the seasons on this ancient earth of ours, and yet he dismisses us.
Maryrose WoodThank you for your bounty, Oleander, Prince of Poisons, I think. Thank you for all that Mr. Pratt has already received, and all that my father is receiving still, as the poison twists like bramble in his gut, burns within his brain, presses like a boulder upon his heart.
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