“The pictures she drew on were vibrant as ever, though. The crumbling stone farmstead overlooking the great Luberon valley where she was born. The blending room of the distillery in Manosque where she had experienced a kind of rebirth, beginning the transformation into the woman she was now. Scent was memory, and memory a complex blend of scent and emotion:… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
“I still dream in pictures and color, always the world of my childhood. I see the purple Judas trees at Easter lighting up the roadsides and terraces of the town. Ochre cliffs made of cinnamon powder. Autumn clouds rolling along the ground of the hills, and the patchwork of wet oak leaves on the grass. The shape of a rose… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
“After her sister's visit, Marthe's head was brimming with new pictures: the fields of lavender at Valensole, all the subtle grades of… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share Image
“At the door to the shop, a bell tinkled, and moments later they seemed to enter the very flowering of lavender. The… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share Image
“The pictures she drew on were vibrant as ever, though. The crumbling stone farmstead overlooking the great Luberon valley where she was born. The blending room of the distillery in Manosque where she had experienced a kind of rebirth, beginning the transformation into the woman she was now. Scent was memory, and memory a complex blend of scent and emotion:… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
“Dark rocks stood waiting to be sculpted by the wind. Tiny seeds rode the air, waiting to fall and take root. Under the sea,… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share Image
“Even as winter comes, mornings are crisp, and the big, blue sky seems to hang newly washed over the sea of hills.” — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share Image
“The sunlight could not quite dispel the difference in atmosphere now that she had seen the interior of the garden. It was as if a dark underside had been revealed that changed the cast of the whole property. But the whimsy of it, the way the eye was drawn down through every vista, the inventiveness, the fairy-tale quality, the melancholy… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
“Scrubby evergreen bushes released a strong scent of resin and honey; forests of pine gave way to gentle south-facing vineyards disturbed only by the ululation of early summer cicadas. Sitting up tall on the seat, she craned around eagerly to see what plants thrived naturally. It was a wild and romantic place, Laurent de Fayols had written, the whole island… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
I marveled at how they were all closed up, asleep with their secrets unseen until you reached up and took the book down from… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share Image
“Adrenaline fizzed in my veins, provoking that surge of self-doubt you get sometimes on the edge of some high place, that you might -… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share Image
“I still dream in pictures and color, always the world of my childhood. I see the purple Judas trees at Easter lighting up the roadsides and terraces of the town. Ochre cliffs made of cinnamon powder. Autumn clouds rolling along the ground of the hills, and the patchwork of wet oak leaves on the grass. The shape of a rose… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
“Blonde hair and blue eyes," she repeated. "The lavender fairy." "Now, hang on a minute!" "Just like the lavender fairy has. There's an old story about the beautiful fairy called Lavandula who was born in the wild lavender of the Lure mountain. She grew up and began to wander further from the mountain, looking for somewhere special to make her… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
“Eau-de-vie- flavored with myrtle," said the old woman. "Try it!" She watched intently as Ellie raised the glass to her lips. "Myrtle from the garden. I steep the berries with honey in the local firewater, but the secret ingredient is the flower, added for the final day. Such a pretty white flower it is, drowned in purple for just one… — Deborah Lawrenson Copy Share
