[Her smile is a bit like a grimace.] So long as I'm not on your list.

[It's wry: unless he's lucky, or better than she expects, or picks just the right time, she has nothing to fear from him. She knows that. But it doesn't sit as easily with her anymore, this talk of death. So instead, she picks up the flower again, handing it to him instead. He sounds awful, but she can fill the silence.]

It's called a heartsease, in my time. I'm not sure if its name changed, later. There were fields of them around Cornwall and Camelot, when I was a girl. Valleys covered in purple and yellow.