Alice put the fire flowers aside, and took the first book from the top of the pile. Her eyes ran over her grandmother’s handwriting in the Thornfield Dictionary. She thumbed through the stories she’d read dozens of times already, of Ruth Stone, Wattle Hart and June herself. Of Clem and Agnes. Of Candy and Twig. Alice twirled the stem of a fire flower between her fingers, considering their meaning. The colour of my fate. Steeling herself, she put the dictionary a safe distance away on a garden chair.
Next, she went through the folder of papers; printed copies of every email Dylan had sent her since she’d left the desert, daily, weekly, and still, monthly. Her eyes snagged on lines she knew by heart, from one of the first.
You’ve left, yet you’re still here, appearing and disappearing from me. The last coffee cup you used. Your dresses amongst my clothes. Your toothbrush by mine. It rained yesterday. I haven’t been able to go outside today; I don’t want to see your footprints gone from the red dirt.
Alice scrunched the page in her fist, breathing through the pain behind her ribs. Held her face to the sea breeze, letting it cool her skin. She glanced sidelong at the Thornfield Dictionary. Pay attention now, Alice, she heard June’s voice, speaking her written words. These are the ways we’ve survived. She smoothed the page out, placed it back in the folder, and put it aside.
Finally, she turned to her notebooks, full of the story she’d been writing in flowers since Agnes Bluff, during her months in the desert, and over the last year at Sally’s; the story that had become her application for the writing residency. You’ve written a book, Charlie had stated in awe when Alice showed him and Sally the first printout of her manuscript. When she read the title, Sally had shaken her head. You’ve spun seeds into gold, she’d said softly, grinning through tears.
Alice took a notebook from the pile and ran her hands over its cover. When she lifted it, a wisp of red sand trickled from the pages onto her lap, glinting in the light, otherworldly. Alice balanced the notebook between her palms and let it fall open. Ran her fingertips over the red granules caught in the stitching of its exposed centre. Life and other people’s stories had always told her she was blue. Her father’s eyes. The sea. Alice Blue. The colour of orchids. Of her boots. Of fairytale queens. Of loss. But Alice’s centre was red. It always was. The colour of fire. Of earth. Of heart, and courage.
She pored over the books. Paused to name every sketched and pressed flower aloud, and speak its meaning; an incantation to end the burden of carrying an untold story inside her.
| Black fire orchid | Desire to possess |
| Flannel flower | What is lost is found |
| Sticky everlasting | My love will not leave you |
| Blue pincushion | I mourn your absence |
| Painted feather flower | Tears |
| Striped mintbush | Love forsaken |
| Yellow bells | Welcome to a stranger |
| Vanilla lily | Ambassador of love |
| Violet nightshade | Fascination, witchcraft |
| Thorn box | Girlhood |
| River lily | Love concealed |
| Cootamundra wattle | I wound to heal |
| Copper-cups | My surrender |
| River red gum | Enchantment |
| Blue lady orchid | Consumed by love |
| Gorse bitter pea | Ill-natured beauty |
| Showy banksia | I am your captive |
| Orange Immortelle | Written in the stars |
| Pearl saltbush | My hidden worth |
| Honey grevillea | Foresight |
| Sturt’s desert pea | Have courage, take heart |
| Spinifex | Dangerous pleasures |
| Desert heath-myrtle | Flame, I burn |
| Broad-leaved parakeelya | By your love, I live and die |
| Desert oak | Resurrection |
| Lantern bush | Hope may blind me |
| Bat’s wing coral tree | Cure for heartache |
| Green birdflower | My heart flees |
| Foxtails | Blood of my blood |
| Wheel of fire | The colour of my fate |
When she was ready, Alice uncapped her pen and scrawled the title of her manuscript across the cover of every notebook, amid her flower illustrations. She piled them in her lap and bound them with string. Gathered them together with the folder of emails and put the bundle on the bonfire. As she reached for the fire flowers and then, the matches in her pocket, Alice faltered. Took a moment to collect herself. Breathe. She slid a match from its box, steadied her hand, and struck it against the flint. A quick intake of oxygen, the smell of sulphur, and a quiet hiss and crackle; the bonfire came to life.