Page 19 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

“Let’s go on foot to let your stomach settle,” he said when he rejoined Fairhrim. “Stay close.”

“All right.” Fairhrim slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow, which didn’t give him pitter-patters of any description.

They followed the ancient passage up the Tor. The labyrinth’s first walls were low, but as Osric and Fairhrim advanced, they rose higher and higher, and hid more of the world. Fireflies led them inward and upwards like will-o’-the-wisps. By the time they reached the labyrinth’s third ring, they could see little of the sky, only the full moon, directly above them, laced by ivy and bramble. Both Osric and Fairhrim breathed hard and walked upwards on leaden legs; the ascent was steep and the air felt thin.

“Does it seem odd to you,” whispered Fairhrim, “that there aren’t more Druids along the way?”

“It’s the night of the full moon.” Osric shrugged. “Most of the Druids are off in the henges. Stop worrying. I’m the most dangerous thing here.”

At last they came to the end of the labyrinth, which opened upon the flat top of Glastonbury Tor. There they found a garden, in the middle of which stood the Færwundor: a stone tower girded round by oak trees.

“What a garden,” breathed Fairhrim as she stepped into it.

Osric watched her go, noting that she had a good bum, possibly better than his.

“It almost looks like a library,” said Fairhrim.

It was an adequate description. Plants were heaped over other plants on rocky shelves. Under every plant was a label, written in a Druidic script, unintelligible to either Osric or Fairhrim. The labels were illuminated by phosphorescent moths that were the size of Osric’s hand and were by nature or breeding happy to perch near them.

The entrance to the garden was an archway, curtained over by vines heavy with buds. Osric and Aurienne stepped through it. As though they had been waiting for this moment, the buds on the vine burst open. They revealed mauve petals, speckled with white, exuding the sour-sweet scent of crushed nectarines.

“What blooms at the full moon?” Fairhrim studied the nearest flower. “That variegated purple is lovely. I’ve never seen such petals. They look like galaxies.”

Osric and Fairhrim both got a noseful of the flowers’ potent scent and sneezed.

Fairhrim held her illuminated tacn up as she walked. “I don’t know half of these species,” she said, sounding at first shocked at such an impossibility, and then full of wonder. “Some of these specimens are enormous—straight out of the Carboniferous era. What are the Druids feeding them?”

She squatted to observe a colony of plants with deeply lobed leaves. She studied an elegant cluster of wine-red flowers tumbling over a ledge.

Osric, anxious to get into the Færwundor, asked, “Could you indulge in your botanical sightseeing at another time? We’ve got to get this healing done by dawn.”

Fairhrim stared at the catkin-filled branches of a tree, arching above them, perfuming the air with something sweet.

“I think,” said Fairhrim, awe in her voice, “that everything here is either a drug or a poison.”

“What?”

“Don’t touch anything. Don’t step on anything.”

Osric froze where he stood.

“I don’t recognise all of them,” continued Fairhrim, “but that, just above us, that’s Orphillic—a potent soporific. That black-leafed plant is King’s Ransom. Its sap is a potent stimulant when distilled—see where they’re collecting it? Those pretty white flowers are Frostbell—they’re paralytic. That looks like a type of Creeping Crescencia—causes bowel ischemia. Those berries are Lyphithea—they cause death within seconds of ingestion. That one with the fuzzy leaves is a performance enhancer—I think Bruiser is the street name. Those shrubs—their roots can be synthesized into tevaquine—makes your brains leak out of your nose. This mushroom is Widow’s Lace, I think. Witchthorn there; I’ve only ever seen it in the powder form. And that bed over there is, I suspect, Doom Poppies, only they’ve all closed up for the night.”

Fairhrim walked ahead of Osric, pointing as she went. “That’s a soporific. That one’ll turn your kidneys to mush. That’s Hecate’s Woodbine, we use it as a chemical restraint at Swanstone. And this whole section here—I’ve no idea. I think they may be hybrids. Experimental.”

“This crop must be worth a fortune,” said Osric.

“I know some pharmacologists who would give up a limb for access to this place,” said Fairhrim. “Hang on…”

Upon her face was an expression so alien it took Osric a moment to place it.

It was confusion.

“What’s the matter?” asked Osric.

“I’ve just realised—none of those plants should be blooming at once. Not the ones I know, anyway. Most of them bloom in spring—some are late bloomers and only throw up inflorescences in the autumn. But it’s summer. And we’re in the open air. These aren’t greenhouse conditions. So how are they all blooming at the same time, as though it’s spring and summer and autumn all at once…?”

Osric had no answer to offer. They continued into the centre of the spiral. A crooning, tinkling song filled the air as they advanced.