Page 1 of Bane Bloom

Prologue

Final diary entry of Charles Carroll of the London Society of Apothecaries

Buttermere, The Lake Country—October 30, 1849

At long last I have given that confounded gardener the slip.

I know we must be grateful to him for his competent management of this important collection in the years since his mother’s passing, but there is something uncanny about the man. Every time I have drawn near my specimen of particular interest—the striking aquatic plant I’ve styled the Bane Bloom—he has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and distracted me such that hours will pass before I recall my intention to make a sketch or collect a sample.

It has frustrated me to no end. Not only am I tasked with providing a sample of every growing thing in former Society member Arthur Bane’s exquisite glasshouse, but I believe the Bane Bloom will be of great interest to my superiors. In fact, if I can only be left alone long enough to make a study of it—so that I might present my own findings along with the sample—it might very well make my career. Perhaps even earn me the guardianship of this place, so long neglected by the Society. While my studies under the apothecaries have proved enriching (spiritually and intellectually, at least), I must own that it would not pain me to separate from London and its hurried, harried masses.

As I sit writing in these dark hours before the first glints of dawn appear above Honister Pass, my candle burned almost through, I am happy at last to make a report of progress . . .

The entryway clock struck 2 a.m. as I slipped into the glasshouse. Nervously I eyed the door at its opposite end—the entrance Thomas uses. (The house itself, he avoids.) The outer door opens onto a grassy area that surrounds the house and gardens and runs down a gentle slope to a shingle beach and the lake. Thomas’s strange dwelling—a stone hut with an overturned boat for a roof—rests at the edge of the grass.

All appeared quiet, but as I took a few slow steps along the cobbled path toward the pool at the center of the glasshouse, a movement drew my eye to the south-facing windows. Along this end of the roughly rectangular lake grows a row of tall Scots pines, which locals call The Sentinels. My gaze spanned the moonlit stretch of ground between the house and the pines, and I saw a kind of white glimmer drift in among the trunks. It soon vanished into the denser oak wood beyond.

One of the district’s ubiquitous sheep, no doubt, though an overlarge one. Then I recalled the local variety were soot colored rather than white, so perhaps simply a trick of the moonlight and my nervous state of mind. With a shiver, I recalled the time and date—the thin stretch of hours between Mischief Night and Hallowe’en. Though a Londoner for some years now, I grew up on the Yorkshire moors, and my gran respected the old ways.

“Bumpkin,” I muttered, nudging myself forward.

Taking garden snips from my pocket, I stepped to the pool, lined with reeds and smooth stones and containing a single specimen, its broad, round leaves so dark they appeared black in the moonlight. A large bloom floated among the leaves.

“There you are.”

The bloom of this aquatic plant is the size of a teacup saucer and has velvety petals, light gray in color but black-veined at the center. Very like the sepals of Helleborus but grouped and layered like the petals of a water lily. The stamens, normally yellow in both types of flowers, are silken threads of silver. The whole bloom glows faintly in the moonlight.

At times, this bloom has the exact appearance of a common water lily, which is one of its mysteries I hope to unravel. My botanical studies have included no other specimen that can shift its shape in such a manner.

I knelt beside the pool with my snips, finding myself reluctant to do violence to the strange beauty. But I steeled myself with the reminder that this could make my career, and heaven knew if I’d get another chance, between Thomas always lurking and the plant’s own odd behavior. I took gentle hold of a petal at the flower’s base. With a tinny snip and soft intake of breath, I destroyed its perfect symmetry.

Quickly I stood and carried my prize upstairs, placing the petal on the windowsill above the writing desk in my room. Then I sat, dipped my pen, and began this entry.

Over the past week, I have written pages on this flower. I have tried sketching it from my memory, but as soon as I put nib to paper, I find I have forgotten details. The bloom’s image fades from my mind like the face of a loved one lost in childhood. When I carry my sketchbook to the glasshouse, Thomas appears and calls my attention to some specimen elsewhere in the garden, talking in his slow and quiet way until I find myself mesmerized by the lacquered crimson sheen on a particularly fat Amanita muscaria cap instead of conducting my intended business.

I have said it before in these pages; there’s something not quite right about Pine Cottage. About its glasshouse. About Thomas himself, who instead of serving as gardener and groundskeeper should perhaps have become master of this place, had the Society not been a financial partner in his grandfather’s work. And had Thomas not been illegitimate of birth. At times it seems he and the house are conspiring to prevent me from uncovering the Bane Bloom’s secrets. Yet I am irresistibly drawn, and the more I am thwarted in my efforts, the more desperate my desire.

I believe it to be a member of the Nymphaeaceae family, despite the unusual flower. Medicinally, water lilies have a calming effect on the nervous system, and they have also been used to treat dysentery. Hellebore (family Ranunculaceae), which the Bane Bloom also resembles, is a rather dangerous plant that has folkloric associations with witches and their nighttime journeys, with visions and otherworldly boundary crossings. The ancients believed it a cure for madness.

Though some apothecaries still utilize hellebore, one of the Society’s most notable members, author Nicholas Culpeper, cautioned the layman against it.

Robust individuals can generally tolerate low levels of toxins. And of course many toxins are valuable medicines when dosed in correct quantities. A properly trained apothecary may conduct experiments without risking his life.

What all of this is leading up to is the following: I’ve quite made up my mind to make a trial of the Bane Bloom’s effects.

My colleagues might consider this reckless, but to them I say, how would the medical field have progressed without experimentation? Without risk? At worst, a little digestive discomfort, or no effect at all. At best, cautious experimentation might show the plant to be a soother of nervous conditions, a dispeller of melancholy, or an effective sleep aid.

I have for days longed for deeper knowledge of this beauty and, truth be told, feel rather giddy at the prospect.

A quarter of an hour has passed since I prepared and ingested the infusion. The petal released a soft, sweet fragrance as I poured the hot water over, reminding me of violets. The flavor of the infusion, too, was delicately sweet at first but soon developed both bitter and spicy notes—nothing close to true Helleborus, which causes few poisonings because it is decidedly unpalatable.

As I write this, I do begin to feel . . . something. Subtle enough to be deemed wishful, unless the sensation develops further.

No, I’m certain of it. A change is occurring. Rather than soothed or sleepy, I feel . . . restless. Confined. As if I must this moment go out of doors.

Glancing out my window, across the lake toward the sleepy valley beyond, I see the moon mirrored in the water’s glassy surface, the satellite’s silvery complexion reminding me of the Bane Bloom. Reflections of the surrounding peaks form deep shadows at the water’s edge.

It is a fine, clear, still night. I know Thomas bathes in the lake, and on a night like this, one can see the appeal.*