Extract from The Still Point by Amy Sackville

Following the trail of it through the dark house, we will find her once more in the garden; how different now in the twilight, no longer scorched by the sun.  Pause now with her on the lawn and breathe in; listen to the insects and the rustle of plants, leaves furling, the fluff and settle of feathers, earth shifting under tiny paws and turned by pallid grubs and worms; the garden easing into the blue darkness.  Night flowers open cautiously, quietly, the warmth of the day transformed into deep sweet perfume.  More vibrant blooms are dimmed without the sun to brighten them, and give up their glory to the pale, fragrant flowers of the dusk.  The night-scented stock, innocuous by daylight, releases its essence.  Honeysuckle, cupping its hands to hold nectar for the moths to sup.  The scent of the garden, the tiny white blossoms like stars fallen on the lawn, and her bare feet white against the grass, and the white sheets; and the moths, intoxicated.

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