AURELIA MARLOWE

I was dreaming of the conservatory. The tiles were warm beneath my knees, the air smelled of crushed mint and damp soil, and Maisie was reading out the names of seedlings while I worked my fingers into a fresh bag of compost. Except the compost was strange. It was far too warm, and instead of crumbling, it was firm and smooth and seemed to be growing in my hand. I frowned in my sleep and squeezed, trying to work out which plant it could possibly be, and somewhere very close to my ear, a voice groaned. Maisie did not groan, and neither did compost, and I came awake...