“It’s understandable, honey,” Mrs. Appiah waved her explanations away. “Your mother’s at peace now, time for you to try and get some, too. Now, look at these beautiful flowers everyone sent. Colleen would have been very touched, I’m sure.”

Heather nodded and obediently went back to the flowers, deciding that she would read each card and thank all the mourners personally. After all, they didn’t know about her fraught relationship with her mother, and they had taken the time to come—it was the least she could do when she’d already caused such a spectacle. As she was bending to read the card on a posy of pale yellow flowers—the florist’s handwriting was atrocious—Lillian appeared next to her, gloved hands folded around the handle of her handbag.

“A lovely service, just what Colleen would have wanted.” Heather turned at the sound of her voice—was that a note of sarcasm? But Lillian looked as composed as ever. “Are you having a wake, dear?”

“At the King’s Arms. I’ve rented the back room. I should have done it at the house I suppose, but …” She stopped. In truth there was no good reason. She just couldn’t bear the idea of other people there, seeing where the dust had built up and peering into the fridge.

“No need to explain, I quite understand. It takes some of the pressure off, I imagine.”

“And we’ve made some food.” This was Nikki’s aunt, who had appeared at Heather’s elbow. “Sandwiches, cold cuts, sausage rolls. Plenty enough for everyone and more besides. I’ll put some in a pot for you to take back, Heather.”

Save me from the old women and their Tupperware, thought Heather, before noticing that Nikki’s aunt was peering with curiosity at Lillian.

“Oh sorry. Shanice, this is Lillian. I guess you must know each other? Lillian is also, uh, was also a neighbor of Mum’s.”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” said Auntie Shanice, holding out one plump hand. “Whereabouts are you on the road, Lillian?”

“Up toward the school,” said Lillian, before turning to Heather again. “Forgive me dear, but I must go—it really was a lovely service. I’ll pop by later and bring you some of the butternut stew I’m making.”

And with that she was gone. Shanice raised an eyebrow a touch, which Heather recognized as an extremely damning judgement on Lillian and the likes of Lillian, before heading back to her sister to make her report. Heather, her eyes caught by an unusually colorful bouquet, wandered down the far end to read the card. To her surprise, most of the flowers were familiar to her, because they were the sort you saw growing wild—violets, dog roses, daisies, foxgloves—and they were all carefully bound together in the shape of a wreath. She knelt and touched her fingers to the card—this handwriting at least was legible.

I know what you are, and I think you do too.

Her stomach dropped away in a sickening lurch. The card wasn’t signed, and there were no other words on it—not even a little printed image of some flowers in the corner like most of the other cards. She snapped the card off the wreath and stood up, bile pressing at the back of her throat.