Botanical stems inside a geometric gem outline

The needleman came up from Sheffield on Tuesday with a leather roll of tools and a face like a wet Sunday, and I have been waiting ever since to tell you what he did. He would not put a mark on me until I had pressed the flowers myself, so I walked the lane behind the mill with a trowel and an old hatbox. Pansies from the vicarage bed, a carnation Mr Pettit let me take from his greenhouse before he could object, and the last asters from the canal towpath, purple going brown at the edges.

He wanted them laid flat between blotting paper for a fortnight under the Bible in the front room. Mother said this was sinful and then sat down to watch. When they came out they were thin as tissue, and he set them against tracing paper and drew round them until the flowers sat inside a diamond of clean lines, sharp as a cut stone. Every edge has to be decided before it is made, he said, or the light gets lost.

He drew the design onto the inside of my forearm in pencil, then went over it with a needle and a little ink, dotting the pansy's face so it looked as if a fine rain had settled on the petals. It stung less than I expected. Mother still will not look at it, though she has asked twice whether the pansy will fade.

I am writing this at the kitchen table with my sleeve rolled up, so the ink can breathe. Come at Easter and decide for yourself whether it is a sin or a bet I have lost.

Your loving sister, June