It was hot. I could lie there sweating in the bed no longer. In this unfamiliar house, I disliked the darkness, and had asked if I might leave the shutters open for the moonlight to bathe the room. He slept on, arms outstretched across the bed, unfamiliar with the etiquette of sharing. I didn’t mind that he strayed into my part. I was surprised by the pleasure his body gave me – I do not speak of intimate things, but of the weight of him beside me, his dark hair upon the pillow.

Lighting a candle for fear of spectres in the dark, I retired to the window seat, opening the casement into the still night air. The windowpane was overhung with a honeysuckle that had climbed the wall and entwined the blackthorn. I recalled how Mama had forbidden me from cutting such blooms for my nosegays.

‘It will bring on dreams,’ she said. ‘The wrong kind of dreams for a young girl.’

Well, I was a young girl no longer. I was a bride. A wife, a woman. I breathed deep, letting the sweetness of its scent wash over me. Through the flame of the candle, I saw something fluttering at the edge of my vision. At first, I thought it a hummingbird, but then I caught a glimpse of her colours – the gold of her wings, outlined with magenta pink. A hawk moth, as large as my thumb. She was almost perfectly camouflaged against the flowers, the clusters of pink-tinged blooms, their throats opened wide in yellow. I watched her hover while her long tongue sucked at the nectar, wings beating frantically over the flowers to support her weight.

A rustle of bedsheets. ‘Come back to bed,’ he muttered, his voice heavy with sleep. Whether it was the heat or watching the moth, I am unsure, but, wantonly, I leaned out and plucked a blossom, licking the drop of sweetness from its base, wetting my lips with the taste of it. I climbed back into bed and kissed him.