The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

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In the weatherboard house at the end of the lane, nine-year-old Alice Hart sat at her desk by the window and dreamed of ways to set her father on fire.

In front of her, on the eucalyptus desk her father built, a library book lay open. It was filled with stories collected from around the world about the myths of fire. Although a northeasterly blew in from the Pacific, full of brine, Alice could smell smoke, earth and burning feathers. She read, whispering aloud:

Alice hovered a fingertip over an illustration of the phoenix rising: its silver-white feathers glowing, its wings outstretched, and its head thrown back to crow. She snatched her hand away, as though the licks of golden, red-orange flames might singe her skin. The smell of seaweed came through her window in a fresh gust; the chimes in her mother’s garden warned of the strengthening wind.

Leaning over her desk, Alice closed the window to just a crack. She pushed the book aside, eyeing the illustration as she reached for the plate of toast she’d made hours ago. Biting into a buttered triangle, she chewed the cold toast slowly. What might it be like, if her father was consumed by fire? All his monsters burned to ash, leaving the best of him to rise, renewed by flames, remade into the man he sometimes was: the man who made her a desk so she could write stories.

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