The mist had deposited tiny drops of water on the petals of a pale pink rose. Here and there they had merged into large drops that magnified parts of the petal. She saw the fine lines that ran through it turned ever so slightly darker. With the bloom close to her nose, the fragrance was at first delicate but then musky overtones developed.

Towards the end of her degree course she had worked with pearls this subtle shade of pink. The rose, the pearls and the finished piece spoke of innocence. She cut the stem, watching out for the thorns. She hadn’t been innocent for a long time, ten years in fact. Dropping the stem into the basket, she scanned the flowers at the front of the house. The agapanthus were at their best, but she wouldn’t cut those. If she did there wouldn’t be anything in flower visible from the front windows. Of course, the view outshone even the agapanthus.

Light showed in Gran’s bedroom window and the snug, welcoming her. She loved the way the north and south ends of the house bowed out towards the sea. There was a satisfying symmetry about it. Although she knew they weren’t built at the same time, she was pleased they had balanced the building when money had allowed. Of course, it did mean ceiling heights varied greatly throughout the house. As a child she had loved discovering all its nooks and crannies, dancing up and down the many sets of steps on the first floor and up to the attic rooms. Boskenna was a place of endless delight, or had been then. She had brought an end to her carefree days here and she had to live with that.

Raiding a few other beds and some hydrangeas, she went to the kitchen to sort the flowers for her grandmother. Once happy with the arrangement, she climbed the front staircase, carrying her overnight bag along with the vase. August was a tough month for blooms in the garden. Things were well past their summer glory. But Gran had always made use of the most interesting shrubs at this time of year. They provided the architecture for the agapanthus and annuals in flower. Some of the roses should be on a second display by now but she had seen so few. The kitchen garden may have had more but because of Alex she hadn’t paid attention to anything there but him. It had been that way from the first moment she’d seen him, years before he’d become her boyfriend. He’d put her off her agenda then and now he’d unsettled her again, bringing the past to the surface. She sighed, resting the vase on the table outside her room before she went in to deposit her bag.

It was the smallest bedroom in the house, but it was the best. The single bed just fitted and from it she could look out of the window to the view. A view that never bored her even in the rain, or at the moment, fog. Placing her bag on the old chair, she saw nothing had changed from the Russian doll on the windowsill to her old books on the shelves. The dust on the chest of drawers told the same story of neglect she’d seen downstairs. Lottie was surprised to find the bed unmade, too. She’d sort that in a minute once she’d taken the flowers to Gran.