It smoldered, and then the fire went out. Watching them light, I felt a terror unequal to the size of the flickering flames, and for a paralyzing moment I was ten years old again, desperate and hopeful in a way I had never been before and never would be again.īut the bare synthetic mattress did not ignite like the thistle had in late October. They ignited, one after the next, a glowing picket fence across the piped edging. A neat row of wooden matches lined the foot of the bed. Standing in the middle of the room, I located the source of the fire. 1 volume In Vanessa Diffenbaugh's powerful first novel, a damaged young woman, Victoria Jones, who can only communicate through the Victorian language of flowers, goes from being homeless to a sought after wedding floral designer. The sharp, chemical smell was nothing like the hazy syrup of my dreams the two were as different as Carolina and Indian jasmine, separation and attachment. Even so, the moment my mattress started to burn, I bolted awake. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a. The sugary smoke settled in my hair as I slept, the scent like a cloud left on my pillow as I rose. Trees ignited as I passed them oceans burned. the rest is a two time period book where Victorias past is intermingled with her present. the Victorian language of flowers played only a very small part of the book and gave the impression that the flowers held some sort of magical power through Victoria to change peoples lives. Trees ignited as I passed them oceansīurned. ©2011 Vanessa Diffenbaugh (P)2012 Random House US.
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