Two days. I couldn't believe I only had two days before the first guests arrived.

The garden was a mess of wildflowers and ivy, but it was beautiful, so I didn't have to do anything with it right now. My focus had to be creating a warm and welcoming bed-and-breakfast for the next couple of days. I could work out how it all fit into the sanctuary I wanted to create.

The police still had one room locked off, but there wasn't much I could do about that. At least that room wasn't necessary for the folks who were about to arrive. Police agreed not to tape the room if I kept it locked. At some point, I was going to have to replace the carpet in there. But that wasn't a job for today.

Today the front garden was calling me. I wanted to make the best first impression on my guests as I could. It would be good to do something I was good at. Everything since I'd been in Llyncroft had been completely out of my comfort zone.

I pulled on a pair of wellies, which must have belonged to my gran. Her feet had been slightly larger, but these boots would work for now. I dug some tools from the shed. They were old, but incredibly well maintained. I wondered if Gideon had something to do with that.

I stood back and looked at the overgrowth. I guess many people might consider my job was a case of clearing brambles and cutting back hedges. For me, it was something more. It was about putting right and bringing balance to this small patch of earth.

I started with the hedge surrounding the garden. It was a mindless task, but it put me in contact with the garden and helped me see its potential. A robin landed on the nearby hedge, cocking its head inquisitively.

"Hello lovely," I said to it. The robin just blinked at me before flying off.

"Come on then," I said to myself, as I breathed life back into each plant with every careful cut. Clearing weeds to create space for fresh growth.

I lost myself in the work. My hands moved quickly and purposefully among the leaves and stems. My touch was gentle but firm, and it's familiarly brought comfort.

The lavender needed attention. The fast-growing nettles were a little too close for comfort. I pulled them out. Gran had cultivated a country cottage feel at the front of the property. Roses and lavender alongside the magnificent magnolia tree, which mysteriously still bloomed.

By mid-morning, I was sweating and my body felt the ache of hard work. I felt a sense of satisfaction. I loved clearing the space to reveal gran's design. It made me feel closer to her.

I stood up and looked at a patch of garden hidden by the hedge that looked like it was calling out for some attention. I knelt down beside it and plunged my hands into the soil. I wondered what I would sense after last night's experience by the oak tree.

In the daylight, I could see the connections between the plants less vibrantly, but they were tangled. I ran my fingers over the leaves and stems, noticing how they clustered together. Normally, I would prune back the overgrowth, but I was curious. Feeling the earth's heartbeat under my hand, I wondered if they needed something else.

I would normally have pruned back the overgrowth to promote better health, but today, as I felt the earth's heartbeat under my hands, I knew they needed something different.

The connections between the plants seemed muddled. As I looked at the tangle of leaves and branches, the muddle connections echoed the plants reaching out in all directions for light and space. If I pruned them back now, I sensed I would hinder their attempt to grow stronger. They needed help, not the sharp shock of the shears.

I'd often had that thought in the past, but never acted on it because it seemed to woo woo. Now I wondered if it was because of my heritage rather than social media's influence.

I knelt among them, feeling the damp soil on my knees. "You're trying too hard," I told the plants. "We'll get through this together."

I lay my hands flat on the ground and closed my eyes. I allowed my awareness to sink into the ground and feel the roots and shoots below. It was so strange, I could almost hear them. A soft buzz. Taking a chance, I hummed back at them, a tune of reassurance, or at least that's what I hope it was. I'm not known as a musician.

"Take it easy," I told them. "There's plenty of sun for all of you."

It was as if they heard me. The marigolds, which had been jostling for position, seemed to relax. The roses opened up a fraction more, as if they were releasing a breath they'd been holding, and the lavender exploded with scent.

I stood back and looked. Where the plants had crowded each other, there was now space between them. Wow, that's crazy, I muttered to myself.

I moved a few feet and ran my hands over the plants here. I didn't cut them, but willed them to see where they could grow without encroaching on their neighbours. I felt like a parent encouraging children to play in harmony.

The revelation struck me I didn't need to control the garden. It needed to be understood and nurtured. That would take some time to get my head around. I imagined that each plant would have its own language I would need to learn. Could I be the Doctor Doolittle of plants?

As I worked through each group of plants, I felt something inside me shift, too. With every instruction I gave to the plants, I found my new answers about how to grow strong, healthy plants without hurting them. I saw how I could make sense of the mess and chaos of the energy to foster life.

I noticed a movement at the edge of my consciousness. Looking up from the garden, I saw Maeve Rosewood, the village florist, peering over the fence at me.

"Morning, Evie," Maeve called out, smiling. "I hope I didn't disturb you."

"Morning, Maeve,"

Looking around the now transformed garden, she said. "You have inherited May's unique way of doing things. It looked like you were having a proper conversation with your plants, just as she did."

Maeve pushed off from the fence and walked towards where our gardens met at the corner. She knelt down and ran her fingers through the leaves of a young fern that seemed to lean into her touch.

"I've always had a way with plants myself," she said, without looking up. "There's something about this place. It's special, isn't it?"

"Gran always said there was magic in this soil," I said carefully.

Maeve looked up. Our eyes locked over the budding ferns.

"Magic," she said. "Yes, that's one word for it." She held my gaze.

I felt like she could see right through me. But there was no threat in her eyes, just openness.

"We might have more in common than you realize," Maeve said, standing and brushing dirt from her hands before leaving.

With the garden now sorted for now, I considered my next job. Provisions from the village shop. I wondered if I could get someone like Gideon, who went out of town to do some bulk shopping for me.

Just as I was about to leave, something in the sunlight caught my eye. It was lying partially hidden in the earth, half-covered by the roots of the magnolia tree. I picked it up. It was a locket, old and tarnished, but still beautiful.

I wiped the dirt off it and opened it. Inside was a small photo of a woman who looked a lot like my Gran. There was a small piece of paper inside next to the photo. The locket had the same symbol on it as the one in the photo I found in the safe.

I felt uneasy. Why was there a locket here? Why was it buried? It was like I had found a secret that Gran had never told me.

I shook as I unfolded the paper. Spidery, old-fashioned handwriting filled the paper. 'Remember who you are.'

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