Prompt: Her garden was more lethal than pretty.

Katherine stroked the petals of the Rosary Peas in her mother's garden, the plump Christmastime-red seeds dangling from their stems. She felt her fingertips brush against the smooth surfaces of the seeds and her lips curled into a smile. A brush with death, too, she mused, carefully ambling over the stepping stones in the garden and moving on to the next patch of flowers.

The Daphne was gorgeous in bloom, a sunburst of pinkish hues and mellow rose fading into pure white. Katherine had always loved those flowers, their delicate shape and the way they rustled in the wind – except that their berries were fatal when consumed. Even so, Katherine could admire their beauty and composure, and their deadly secrets. She wondered if the flowers reminded her of herself.

As she walked she noticed the Red Sage was blooming too, extending its tall stalks to the dim light of the overcast sky, its pouting lip-like petals drooping gently. Mother had always liked the Red Sage. While Katherine never approved of her work, she could appreciate her mother's special taste in poisons. Other people with her job would simply grind up seeds or purchase vials of the stuff, but her mother cultivated her weapons. She grew them from seeds and let them bask in the sun of her garden. Sometimes Katherine wondered if the poison did its work so well because it appreciated what Mother had done for it, like a child trying to please its parent, but then she realized she was being frivolous.

The Moonseed was next, looking more like wild grapes than fatal berries, but Katherine knew how to distinguish between the two. Mother had raised her in her art since childbirth, and Katherine had learned very quickly to grow wary of every meal she ate, and to question the most innocuous-looking bit of food her mother placed before her. Thankfully Mother was as learned in curing poisonous ailments as she was at providing them, and Katherine would have died ten times over if it weren't for her. Still, she could see the chilling disappointment in Mother's eyes as she watched Katherine recover from another mishap when she was much younger, and she had resolved that her mother would never be so disappointed again.

Katherine passed under a tree where the mistletoe had clustered, remembering her first kiss with Louis there, and the same mistletoe that had killed him two weeks later. She wondered if Mother was cruel for poisoning him when they had separated, but then her rage had been boiling and she would have done anything to harm him, to make him pay for what he had done. Now she was only empty where he had been, not regretful or pained, just a little lost. That was better than emotions, though, and she avoided the thought of him as much as possible.

The stepping stones were scattered throughout the patch of Jimson Weed, a sea of white and deep forest green that tickled her ankles underneath her dress as she hopped between them. Jimson Weed was far from its original habitat, America, but Mother had influence everywhere, along with her followers, who were more than happy to bring in a new clipping of poison for their mistress. Katherine loved the graceful curves of the flowers in contrast to their sharply cut leaves, striking when laid against each other. It smelled rather foul when first planted, but Mother had it regularly perfumed and the sweet aroma of lilies wafted up from the garden beds. Katherine had lots of experience with lilies - the Lily-of-the-Valley was a wonderful choice when the patient was needed to be confused, delightful for interrogation or manipulation.

Mother was sitting in the gazebo, her shimmering white dress blending with the fog. Even at her age she was still a striking woman, with straight black hair elaborately done in braids and strands pinned up with diamonds, and her green eyes were bright as she extracted the seeds from the Larkspur. She looked up as Katherine approached.

"Welcome, my dear. How are you doing this morning?" Mother's tone was infuriatingly even, as always, and Katherine couldn't remember a time when she had lost the authoritative edge to her voice, even when she was consoling her own daughter, and especially not when she was poisoning her daughter's past love. Katherine wondered if she loved Mother. She certainly respected her, more than she respected anyone else in the world, but she often wondered if their relationship extended past her own survival, as a teacher to a student learning a deadly art.

"Sit down, my dear. This is Larkspur, as you know. Its seeds can cause depression, of all things, along with internal issues. I think it's fascinating how something so lively could bring on such pain. These delicate petals can rage the wrath of wars, can ravage the body, and this graceful neck can trumpet the angels of heaven."

Larkspur really was beautiful, with deep, luscious blues retreating into purples like smeared pigments crushed by a pestle and rubbed into the flower. Small white bursts flourished on the inside of the flower, purity and light in the ocean that was the petals. No fabric could ever equal its natural beauty, nor any woman alive. Mother could go on about that; she was strangely poetic, but the words fell from her lips like honey, and Katherine had learned to interpret the metaphors she used and admire them.

"Are we poisoning another Archbishop today, Mother?" Katherine inquired, taking a Larkspur flower and sniffing it daintily.

"Katherine, don't be sarcastic." Mother warned her. Usually these warnings would set her on edge, because the tiniest action in the gardens could lead to her imminent death, but she had learned how to tarry just out of Mother's reach, her snappy comments and wit teetering on the edge of punishment. And punishment... Katherine resented punishment.

"Besides, you know full well our next victim is Sir William Clancy."

Katherine wrinkled her nose. "An Englishman?" The sprig of Larkspur fell from her grasp to the ground.

"He has come by call of the Duke Versant to inspect the land. A naturalist." Mother scowled, but somehow her features remained lovely, even as she grimaced. Katherine wondered if they themselves were naturalists in a very special field, and was tempted to ask Mother when she remembered Mother might still be cross with her.

"Are we giving him a taste of his own medicine, as they say?" Katherine inquired, lifting her hem from the damp wooden panels of the gazebo. The hem had small splatters of mud on it, but they were barely noticeable. Mother used to say that she should order her dresses with brown hems to match the mud that always appeared after she gardened.

"Indeed. I thought I'd let you have the honors this time."

Katherine smiled again, a serene and carefully measured smile that concealed the racing of her heart. Mother would sometimes let her choose the plant that would kill the victims, but only rarely, and only when Katherine was most in her favor. She was sure her snide comment a moment ago had put her out of whatever favor she might have been in previously. Mother liked to pretend she didn't have favorites, but Katherine knew that sometimes she preferred her work to her own daughter. Katherine didn't mind, though, for sometimes she preferred her work to Mother, too.

"How will you execute it, Mother?" She wondered aloud, holding her trembling hands tightly in her lap, glancing up at her Mother through her lashes,

"Sir William dines with Monsieur Versant every morning on the patio when the weather is favorable, as it has been of late. If it storms they dine in his study, a large and roomy library sort of room with many doors in and out."

"Must I pretend to be a maid again?" Katherine moaned, then straightened her posture and dipped her head when her Mother pinned her with a steely gaze. "I apologize." She mumbled, biting her lip.

"Your apology is accepted." Mother said airily, every feature of her face seeming as if she had let the matter go, except her eyes, which were cold again. Always cold, but Katherine could be cold too.

"If need be," Mother replied in a measured tone, "But I don't believe you'll have to. The job will be simple, and I will be executing it. You only get to pick."

The comment was aimed to would, but Katherine had grown calloused to Mother's barbed words. Anyways, it was better that Mother was to finish the job and not her. Katherine was not inept in any way, but with a Duke in the mix it was better that experience prevail over the apprentice.

And then there was the choice of flora. Mother knew every plant that grew in her gardens, its very scent, size, and poisonous potency. Truly she was a virtuoso in her art, as a violinist would be to their instrument. Katherine could only imagine reaching that level of skill, to accurately predict and utilize every weapon in her natural arsenal. And then there was proper delivery to worry about, and leaving behind no evidence. Mother was under the kind of stress Katherine wondered if she would shatter underneath, but she gained no worry lines on her forehead and gave no indication of any doubts she might have.

Monsieur Versant lived in an elegant mansion by a lake of the same name. Brickwork outlined the walls and short turret-like structures protruded from the ground like columns thrust from the earth. They still had slits for arrows when the Versant family had to worry about attackers. Now only Sir William Clancy had to worry about impending doom.

Katherine had seen the manor many times before in passing, and had always assumed that some fussy old wealthy lady had lived there, polishing her silver and pinching her pennies. Monsieur Versant was about the equivalent of that. He was fantastically wealthy and even more meticulous. The windows shone like diamonds after what Katherine could guess to be a recent polish, and even the grand entryway looked like a stairway to the king's home himself, with sweeping marble steps and intricately carved columns. Beds of flowers sat in pristine rows along the walkway, but Katherine knew none of them, which was good for Monsieur Versant.

Her Mother was waiting for her on the walkway, dressed in an elegant gown and holding a lacy purse in her hand, in which were rhubarb leaves, that could be disguised in a salad with ease. Luckily for Katherine, Monsieur Versant was accustomed to offering salad at breakfast, and being a naturalist, Sir William always took the salad to eat.

Katherine wondered if her choice was unwise. If Sir William was a naturalist then surely he would notice the poisonous plants in his meal. Mother offered a solution by grinding the leaves into a power that would go unnoticed in the salad dish. Monsieur Versant was, along with being wealthy, a man of indulgence, and to him salad was food for the rabbits and his guest, and no one else. Undoubtedly Sir William would be the only one to taste the poisoned meal, and it would be his last sensation.

"I'm going to lace the salad in the kitchens. Monsieur Versant has made the unwise choice of hiring one of my operatives as a chef, and I expect all will go smoothly. When Sir William had perished I will whistle a tune for you," She blew a slow melody with pursed lips, "And you will ride back to the house. Don't wait for me, but make sure my horse is saddled. That is all."

The dismissive tone was clear, and Katherine knew Mother didn't approve of her choice of poison, either. Rhubarb brought swift death upon its victim, and Mother liked to watch the person writhe before the deed was complete.

She watched as Mother walked up to the door and slipped inside, let in by a stiff-looking butler dressed in black, and it was her cue to hurry to the lake. Large shrubs concealed her as she crouched behind the foliage and peered out at the two men dining outside. While they were both far away she could guess that the naturalist was the one not dressed in velvet and silk and not sporting a hefty potbelly.

The two men were talking amicably, waiting for their breakfast to be served, enjoying the morning air. It was a fine morning, Katherine thought, but it would be the last morning Sir William would ever see. She waited tensely behind the bush until a willowy servant girl stepped out of the wide open doors to the house and laid a feast out before Monsieur Versant and his guest – bowls of decadent pastries wafting steam into the air, platters of fruit, large cups of coffee, and, Katherine noted with a sting of excitement, a lone salad. Even now it seemed an odd thing to have at a breakfast, but Sir William took the salad tongs right away, oblivious to the danger his meal possessed. Tilting her head to the side, Katherine examined them further. Sir William was obviously much more handsome than Monsieur Versant, with blond hair and lightly tanned skin visible even at a distance. He seemed to be talking boldly to the other man, but Katherine couldn't hear their words.

She waited for an interminably long time, feeling the mud seep into her dress and boots, until Sir William froze with his fork up halfway to his mouth, then he tilted to the side like a marionette with its strings cut. Monsieur Versant leaped up in alarm, shouting for his servants, when Sir William drooped even further down in his seat, then lurched to the side and landed with a crash on the wooden deck of the porch.

Katherine clenched fists and trembled with fury, feeling her nails dig into her palms. It was not rhubarb that had killed Sir William, it was something swifter, more deadly, and knowing Mother, more painful. She had lied to her. And just when Katherine had showed the smallest ounce of pity, she had snapped. Katherine could care less about the victim – she didn't even know why they were killing Sir William in the first place – but the fact that her mother had tricked her filled her with fire.

As she turned away from Monsieur Versant's porch and hurried back to the main road she made a vow, more solemn than any vow she had ever made before, her cheeks blazing with the heat barely concealed underneath her skin. Mother had been lying to her long enough. It was time to finish the job she was born to do, what any apprentice's job is – to replace their teacher.

When Katherine heard her mother's whistling tune her smile dripped with the poison of a thousand murders. And her mother's murder would be the last.