I struggle to discipline my imagination against treading uncharted and unwelcome waters concerning François changing from his white pyjamas to the navy blue ones during the night. Better not to go there, despite my temptation to ask. Instead, here is the sprig of lemon balm, gift from the kid last night, and now Francois appears curious.
"Where did that plant come from?" And now it occurs to me that neither he nor George or Jeffrey actually saw the kid, just Carl and I.
"Carl says it's lemon balm."
"Yes, but how did it get here?"
I just shrug. I don't think I ought to mention the kid to him, or not just yet anyway, and I really don't know why. But it feels as though there is an invisible hand covering my mouth. "The leaves smell like lemon. Want to check it out?"
"No thanks." I bring the glass of water with the sprig over to the table anyway and we sit there together while the coffee sputters its way into the empty pot.
"Something strange about that plant", he says.
And looking at it myself, I see that he has a point. The leaves appear to be almost glowing. "I'm going to pot it today, then maybe later plant it outside..."
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