That’s where I have seen the columbine. They grow on the far side of the pond, away from the house. ‘Naomi.’ The words rasp out of my throat and I have to swallow. Or Agnes. But I can’t bring myself to say her name.

‘Naomi?’ Rav pulls away and the chilly night air hits my skin in the gap between us. ‘Don’t be silly, she wouldn’t pick stuff like that, not if it was poisonous. And she would know, wouldn’t she?’

Yes. She would know. ‘I’ll get rid of them,’ I say. ‘You make the bed up and I’ll get rid of them. I promise you, Rav, I didn’t bring them in.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

There are none of Rav’s usual light snores from the spare bedroom as I lie awake, waiting once again for the sun to creep its way up the sky, and I wonder if Rav is lying there as sleepless as I am. The flowers are stuffed deep inside the outside bin, as far away from the children as I could get them. It was only as I shoved the stems deep down into the bin, the hardened leather of the gardening gloves scratching at my wrists that I thought about what columbine could mean. It can mean love, strength, wisdom, given as a gift for a birthday in May. Or it can mean foolishness, deceit, errant lovers, unfaithfulness. Flowers can tell a thousand stories, if you’ll just let them speak.