Poison Princess

Oh, shit.

I hadn’t experienced that tingly feeling in my head during any of the plant interactions because I hadn’t been hallucinating. This was no vision—no delusion; this was real.

Right?

Straightening my shoulders, I stepped into the field, among all the cane. At once, the crop seemed to sigh, the leaves whispering around me.

I followed a row, deeper and deeper, those leaves ghosting over my face. My lids went heavy, as if a friend were brushing my hair.

The cane arched and danced toward me, and I went dizzy from pleasure, from the staggering sense of unity.

If they truly were my soldiers at attention, then I had the largest army in the world—six million stalks strong.

I could picture them moving in certain ways, and immediately they would respond. Bend, shimmy, sway. Left, right, up, back. Because we were utterly connected.

Among this number, I was safe, a chessboard queen surrounded by her pawns. And with this easing of tension, memories started trickling over the mental levee that CLC had helped me construct. I recalled more snippets of stuff my grandmother had told me.

On that last day I’d spent with her, as she’d driven us out on the big highway toward Texas, she’d said, “I’m a Tarasova, Evie, a chronicler of the Tarot. I know things that nobody else on earth knows. And you’re the Empress. Just like the card in my deck. One day, you’ll control all things that root or bloom.”

I’d been barely listening, dreaming about the ice cream she’d promised me.

Empress? Was that why I loved plants so much? Was that why they sighed to be near me? Both Death and the cryptic boy had called me Empress as well.

How insane all of this sounded! What was more likely? Plants moving on command? Or a teenage girl—with a history of mental illness—experiencing a delusion?

I slowed my steps, doubts arising. Hadn’t I had nightmares about the red witch controlling plants, hurting them? Was all this connected in my overwrought brain?

Maybe none of this was real. Maybe I was getting worse because Gran had spread her crazy to me—and I wasn’t fighting hard enough for the life I desperately wanted back.

Evie, do you understand why you must reject your grandmother’s teachings . . . ?

I gazed at the stalks swaying. I could be hallucinating—right at this moment.

I turned toward the house in a daze. On the front porch, I readied to face my mother. Easier said than done.

Mom really could be fierce. A regular Frau Badass. Which was great in some instances, such as when she’d taken over the farm from Gran and grown it into the parish’s largest in less than a decade.

Not so great in others—such as when she’d resolved to get me well.

At the front door, I took thirty seconds to compose myself. I need to learn how to whistle. My roommate at the center had taught me that trick. Parents never suspected their children were unhappy/delusional/high when the kid was whistling. Their minds just couldn’t reconcile it.

As I slipped inside, I puckered my lips, blowing soundless air. Whistling sucked.

I heard my mom on the phone in the kitchen. Was she upset? I froze. She had to be talking to Gran. Every now and then, my grandmother managed to elude the orderlies and ring home.

“I will fight this tooth and nail. Don’t you dare try to contact her!” Mom said, then paused for long moments. “You won’t convince me of this!” Silence. “Just listen to yourself! You hurt my little girl—there is no forgiveness! Cry all you like, this number will be changed tomorrow!”

When she hung up, I joined her in the kitchen. “Gran?”

Mom smoothed her hair. “It was.”

I opened my mouth to ask how she was doing, but Mom said, “Anything you’d like to tell me, Evangeline Greene?”

I hated it when she asked me that. I liked that question as much as I liked self- incrimination.

Where to begin?

Grades, schmades, bitches, think I’ll just flunk this year. For the first time in months, I’ve been having delusions. Or else I can make plants do tricks. Can’t decide which scenario I’m hoping for. I’m tempted to play my V card defensively, just to get this gorgeous, usually wonderful senior to back—the hell— off.

Instead, I told her, “Um, no?”

“You haven’t spoken to your grandmother?”

“Not at all.” Not since I was a little girl, and Mom had dispatched her to a home on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Or at least, the court had, in a plea deal.

I remembered Mom had once tried to reassure me, calling it “the place to send relatives with dementia.” I’d gaped in horror.

Even if Gran had managed to call my cell phone, I would never have answered. My own release from CLC was conditional on two things: medication compliance and zero communication with her.

I’d agreed to both. Readily. By the end of my stay at CLC, my deprogramming had worked; I’d been convinced that Gran was merely disturbed.

Instead of prophetic.

Now I was questioning everything. “I haven’t spoken to her in eight years.”

Mom relaxed a shade. “She’s a very sick woman, Evie.”

Then she needs to be home with us, I almost said. No, two years and out. “I understand.”

“I don’t think you do. She’s very convincing. She’s got an answer for everything. Hell, she could get anyone spooked about this drought, connecting it to her crazy doomsday scenarios.”

“What did she say?” I asked quickly.

Mom narrowed her gaze, blue eyes flashing. “Wrong question. We are not concerned with what she says.” She pointed a finger at me. “She forfeited any consideration from us the day she tried to . . . kidnap you.”

I glanced away, part of me wanting to dredge up memories of that day, part of me fearing to. “I know, Mom.”

“She got you to the Texas state line before the cops pulled her over. God knows where she was taking you. Do you remember any of that?”

“I remember the arrest.” To her credit, Gran had gone with the officers peacefully, her expression satisfied. In a serene voice, she’d murmured, “I’ve told you all you need to know, Evie. You’ll do just fine. Everything will be just fine.”

But I had been hysterical. When they’d cuffed her, I’d kicked the men, screaming.

I glanced up at Mom. “I don’t remember much of the drive, though.” I didn’t remember all I needed to know. If I believed in Gran, then that meant I wouldn’t do just fine.

Nothing would be just fine. Unless I remembered. But no pressure, Evie.

“I’m sure she was filling your head with nonsense.”

Yes, of course. Nonsense. The docs had told me that I’d internalized some of the things she’d said. That sounded about right. Maybe?

“Her mother was sick before her, my great-grandmother too.”

I hated being reminded of that. I snapped, “I filled out the CLC family history, Mom.” I already knew I was the latest generation in a bloodline that had been boiling with madness for ages.

“Evie, listen, we’re on the right track. We can make this work. You’ve just got to