"They forget," declaimed the man on stage, "what made this country great!"

She sings while she works, unfinished tunes half-heard, and prods one finger into each pot to check whether any of the plants still need water. Motes of soil cling to the skin, and she wipes them off idly with a rag. It is made from a torn school uniform, she notes, torn by jealous girls’ hands amidst a scuffle of hissed abuse and the thin snap of broken glass. She smiles, wets the cloth in a trickle from the watering can, and runs it over the flat face of the table.

All the flowers have tilted their heads to face the sun slanting in, but she greets it with the assured nod of equals. This is her domain, after all, and she is god in it.

The heavy secateurs brush against the neck of the tallest rose, blooming its way through an artificial life. Her hand does not waver, even as the jaws begin to close, drawing a line of panicked sap from under the broken epidermis. The sweet scent grows stronger in a frantic rush of released molecules, a last-ditch attempt to make her spare its delicate life. As she leans forward to sniff the shrinking centre, she draws the secateurs away, then kisses the outer petals, tenderly.

The blades meet with a click, and he trembles under her soft breath.