I’d always imagined wormwood would be twiggy and scraggly, like a bush rather than a plant. This specimen, however, was low to the ground with downy grey-green leaves that were closer in appearance to a geranium or daisy than the plant carried in my head. I read the label, Artemisia absinthium, which gave the clue to its link to absinthe, the drink Archer had prepared for me during our happy cocktail evening. Mugwort was the name preferred by most of my American suppliers of wormwood oil, even though the mugwort variety of Artemisia differs from the stronger absinthe version. Plants with ‘wort’ in their name had medicinal properties, whereas those ending in ‘bane’ – ratbane, witchbane or wolfbane – were toxic.

I bent down to the wormwood to sneak a few leaves, pressed them gently into my palm and then inhaled. The smell was very faint. My brain told me it should smell like absinthe, but I wasn’t picking up on that note so I assumed the fault lay with my nose. When I tried again I detected the scent of faded canvas, or the sun-baked cotton cloth of the old inflatable lilos we slept on whenever guests came to stay and use our beds. ‘It is just like a lilo.’ I said the words softly, intending them for Archer, though I knew he wouldn’t hear. ‘I thought it would smell more like absinthe,’ I continued. ‘I’m a bit disappointed. It’s hardly loucheable.’

I tried the leaves once more, but it was difficult to gain a clear impression because the smell was so fleeting. I crushed the stems between my fingers until the slightest smear of juice appeared. This time I could clearly detect an aroma of licorice. This was minty, but as I continued to smell a touch of celery leaf surfaced, and then a slight hint of cumin. I inhaled more deeply, the smell caught in the back of my nose and I sneezed.

Again, I squashed some leaves hard in my palm, bruising them, and sniffed. A searing pain went through my nose, as if I’d inadvertently inhaled soap or shampoo. It burnt the back of my throat and made it feel raw, as though I’d just vomited. The burning sensation grew stronger, boring a hole in the back of my nose. I cleared my throat but the rawness grew worse. I could clearly taste the wormwood now. It was like the clear nail product I was given as a child to discourage nail biting. Every time I breathed it felt like a hot flame burning my sinuses, and I kept sneezing. I was still snuffling when I finally reached the museum.

The library was empty when I arrived, and after signing in I made my way to a long table that faced a curved wall with windows looking down onto the atrium below. The table was similar to the one I worked at when I was making my perfumes, but instead of oils and blotters there were containers of sharpened pencils and neatly trimmed squares of recycled paper. At my back were dark stained shelves filled with books about New Zealand history and culture, natural history and the arts.