Chapter 8
Chapter
Tiberius was as good as his word. The following afternoon he sent a short missive. All is arranged. N even the roots were poisonous.
When the decoction was complete, it had been smeared on arrows and spears in preparation for the hunt.
The wolves died in agony, I read with some distaste.
But wolfsbane had its uses. The purple-blue flowers were strikingly pretty, growing as they did on upright spears some three feet high.
In small doses, the crushed blossoms or dried root might be used to ease pain and inflammation, to settle nerves and give rest. But the line between palliative and poison was thin as a cobweb.
A pinch too much and the patient would never waken.
In the language of flowers, it was more often called by its gentler name of monkshood, the blooms resembling the habits of holy men.
Curiously, it could symbolise purity and respect, although these meanings seemed to have fallen out of favour.
The most common connotation was a simple one: death.
Little wonder Jameson Harkness had reacted with such terror when the flowers were sent to him.
But were they an accusation? Or a threat?
I turned again to my florilegium, reading the final sentence of the entry with interest. An alternate meaning: A deadly foe is near.