“Look!” shouts Garance, pointing excitedly like a child half her age. When Louise glances where she’s told, she is amazed. There is a solitary fragile flower unfurled delicately in one of the plants, a splash of color wavering tremulously in the cool afternoon breeze. It is a pansy, purple and white, an unexpected, daring offspring of this unusually warm November.
“That flower is crazy!” Garance says. “It will die immediately at the first frost. And still it tries.”