“Yeah, of course—anything,” Greta said quickly, thrilled to be able to offer something in return for Muriel’s kindness and welcome.

“I have several bags I’m donating to a local charity, but they’re in the back room, and these hands—”

She held up perfectly manicured hands that Greta had seen shake as Muriel lifted a cream pitcher.

“It’s the grip, you see? If you wouldn’t mind bringing them to the garden gate, it would be such a help.”

“No problem.”

They went inside and Muriel led Greta to the back room. Her space was a treasure trove of art, artifacts, draped fabrics, and maps yellowing at the corners. Every bookshelf was full of books stacked sideways and crammed on top of each other, knickknacks strewn in front of them. The floor rugs were layered on top of one another—swathes of elegantly muted patterns in maroon and navy and dusky rose. Every room contained an ornate carved wooden fan and a fireplace inlaid with mosaic tile.

The living room sported the most gorgeous paintings of flowers Greta had ever seen. They were boldly done, each flower recognizable. But the colors were slightly exaggerated and there appeared to be a wash over the composition that blended each edge into the next, like a garden seen while spinning.

“These are amazing,” Greta breathed.

“My mother’s.”

“Oh wow.”

She approached the largest of them, hung over the mantel. In maroon, purple, and cobalt blue, Muriel’s mother had rendered frothy peonies, delicate wax flower, and serrated thistle, each flower with its own texture but layered like a living bouquet. From the upper left corner, a hand reached down as if about to pluck one. It leant the whole composition a sense of menace: life that could be ended at any moment, nature at the mercy of human caprice.

“It’s a little upsetting,” Greta said.

“I agree.”

As they passed into the back room, Greta caught a glimpse of still lifes in a very different style. She pointed. “Are those your mother’s too?”

“No, those are mine.”

“Muriel, I didn’t know you painted too!”

“For the joy of it, not to share.”

Muriel’s paintings lacked the drama of her mother’s. In its place was a serenity, a sense of collaboration with nature rather than its agony or ecstasy. One large painting was only foliage, so many greens it felt like being inside the color itself. Another was of the birds-of-paradise currently growing outside. Though the flowers brought drama of composition and form, the painting was still earthy and calm.

“Why don’t you put any of yours out in the living room for people to see?” Greta asked. “They’re beautiful. Really different from your mom’s but beautiful.”

Muriel smiled. “Iris’s paintings are my public face, these my private. I like to remember their differences. It reminds me of how different I am from her.”