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“Dare I ask what you’re doing in the dirt?” the shadow that has suddenly fallen over Neville’s head asks.
Such is Neville’s absorption that he answers Gran rather than apologizing for the state of his robes. “Look! Phoenixblossom!” He points excitedly at the small, shimmering flowers. “They’re not native to Britain. I wonder how they got here?”
“I imagine your father planted them,” says Gran, unimpressed. “Sometimes he gardened to relax. Now, come inside and get ready for your Great-Uncle Algie’s visit.”
Neville reaches out to stroke one of the petals. A soothing heat radiates from it. “In a moment.”