“Below her, bluebells swayed back and forth in the cool autumn breeze. They would last only another week or so, she knew. And then, the garden would change. The hawthorn would flaunt more red berries while the roses would crinkle and wither, allowing the sour orange hips to bloom freely in their place. Beneath her bedroom window, she would begin to smell the sweet aroma of winter honeysuckle, and at the front of the house, delicate white snowdrops and Christmas roses would soon bloom. The plum tree would lose its fruit, and its leaves would turn and drop, and its branches would extend in all directions like gnarled limbs.
And, of course, there would be thorns. So many thorns.
The ivy, on the other hand, would not change one bit. It would not stop growing. It would not cease moving about as it pleased. It would glow that earthly green all year long. The ivy held everything together--- the house, the garden, even Harriet at times--- no matter what the season.”