Isabeau
Papa’s hands were different. Clean. Unbloodied. Not at all like the last glimpse I’d caught of them tangled in those grotesque rose vines. They moved with the confident precision I remembered from my childhood, turning over the dark purple flower between his fingers like it was both precious and dangerous. I could smell the earth beneath us, rich and familiar, nothing like the musty scent of the abandoned castle bed.
“Do you know what this is, Isabeau?” Papa asked, his voice exactly as I remembered. Gentle but firm, always teaching, always guiding.
We sat at the edge of the forest behind our cottage, sunlight filtering through leaves to create patterns on his weathered face. He looked younger here, in this dream-memory, the lines around his eyes less pronounced, his shoulders unburdened by the weight of raising a daughter alone after Mama died.
“Atropa belladonna,” I answered automatically. “Deadly nightshade.”
He smiled, that small curl of his lips that always appeared when I demonstrated knowledge. “And what do you remember about it?”
“It’s poison,” I said, eyeing the plant with appropriate wariness. “The berries especially. Three can kill a child, ten an adult. The ancients used it to make their pupils dilate—belladonna, ‘beautiful lady’—because they thought it made women more alluring.”
Papa nodded, the sunlight catching in his white hair. Not a single rose petal marred its purity in this dream. “Very good. And knowing this, would you ever touch it? Use it? Bring it into our home?”
I shook my head emphatically. “Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
He chuckled, the sound warming something deep inside me that had been cold since the night of the sacrifice. Since I’d learned of his murder at Gaspard’s hands. “No, my curious little bell, you certainly are not. But what if I told you that you’re only seeing half the truth?”
I frowned, studying the purple-black berries and bell-shaped flowers with new intensity. “What do you mean?”
“Watch,” he instructed, pulling a small knife from his pocket. The blade caught the sunlight as he carefully cut away several of the plant’s leaves, avoiding the berries entirely. “Theseleaves, properly prepared, can ease pain. They can help those with certain stomach ailments. They can even assist women during difficult childbirths.”
My eyes widened. “But it’s poison.”
“Parts of it are,” he corrected gently. “But not all. Sometimes, Isabeau, the things we fear most have aspects we’ve never bothered to understand.” He held the leaves in his palm, offering them for my inspection. “Your mother knew this. She used these very leaves in her remedies for Mrs. Thibault when her baby came early.”
Mama. The mention of her sent a pang through my chest. I had so few memories of her, just fragments really. The scent of herbs drying in bunches from our rafters, her amber eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiled, her voice humming lullabies as she worked.
“She did?” I asked, hungry for this new connection to her.
“Indeed,” Papa nodded. “Your mother understood better than anyone that nothing in this world is entirely what it seems on the surface. ‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ she would say. And she was rarely wrong.”
I reached out cautiously, touching one of the leaves with my fingertip. It felt cool and slightly fuzzy. Nothing like the deadly weapon I’d always imagined it to be.
“But how do you know?” I asked, withdrawing my hand. “How do you separate the healing from the harm? The safe from the dangerous?”
Papa’s eyes crinkled at the corners, so much like Mama’s had. “That, my curious little bell, is why we learn. Why we study. Why we question everything we think we know.” He tucked the leaves carefully into a small pouch. “Knowledge is what transforms fear into understanding.”
Around us, the dream-forest seemed to shift, colors becoming more vivid, sounds sharper. A raven cawed somewhere nearby, the sound eerily familiar.
“But everyone says women shouldn’t concern themselves with such things,” I said, repeating what I’d heard countless times in the village. “Father Simon says curiosity is the devil’s tool, especially in girls.”
Papa scoffed, the sound so familiar it ached. “And what do you think Father Simon would say about belladonna? That the whole plant is evil? That it should be destroyed rather than understood?” He shook his head. “Some men fear what they cannot control, Isabeau. They label it dangerous rather than admit their own ignorance, and that happens mostly against women.”
The words settled over me like a blanket, warm and somehow essential. I’d heard Papa say similar things when I was younger, usually after I’d returned from the village in tears because someone had mocked my interest in his inventions or my questions about how things worked.
“Is that why you taught me to read?” I asked. “Even though the other fathers didn’t teach their daughters?”
“I taught you because knowledge is freedom,” he replied simply. “And because your mind is the sharpest I’ve ever known, including my own.” His hand reached out, cupping my cheek. It felt so real I could almost believe he wasn’t gone, that I wasn’t actually lying in an ancient bed in a forgotten castle, claimed by a beast and hunted by a murderer. “You asked the best questions even as a tiny girl. ‘Why is the sky blue, Papa?’ ‘How do birds know where to fly, Papa?’ ‘Why does bread rise when we bake it, Papa?’”
I laughed despite myself, the sound strange in this dream-that-wasn’t-quite-a-dream. “I must have driven you mad with all my questions.”
“Never,” he said fiercely, his eyes suddenly intense. “Never apologize for your curiosity, Isabeau. It is your greatest gift. It will save you when nothing else can.”
Something in his tone changed the atmosphere of the dream. The forest around us darkened slightly, as if clouds had passed over the sun. “Papa? What do you mean?”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper even though we were alone. “Trust the questions your mind asks. When something doesn’t make sense—like a beast who shows mercy, or a respected man who shows none—question it. Look deeper. Find the leaves hiding among the poisonous berries.”
