was a quiet fury. June brought fog that clung to the hills like a ghost. The sun rose at 8 a.m. and set by 4:30 p.m. Frost etched the windows. Maeve would sit by her potbelly stove, drinking tea made from lemon myrtle, and listen to the rain lash the iron roof. Sometimes, the rain turned to sleet. Rarely, to snow. The orchard slept, bare-branched and patient. It was a hard season—fuel bills, isolation, the ache in her knees—but it was honest.

"Summer's already leaving," she said. "Watch. Tomorrow, the fog will come."

The rest of Australia, Maeve grumbled, had forgotten. Up north, there was "hot and wet" or "hot and dry." In Sydney, autumn was just a week of sad, brown leaves before summer snapped back. But here, in the deep south of the island, the wheel still turned.

arrived not with a bang, but with a trickle. In September, the snow on Mount Wellington would begin to weep. The rivulets ran down into the Derwent River, and the whole valley smelled of damp earth and apple blossom. Maeve would walk the rows of her orchard, touching each bud. "Slowly, now," she’d whisper to the trees. "The frost might still bite." And it did. A late-spring frost could kill a harvest. Spring in Tasmania was a promise held in a clenched fist—beautiful, but untrustworthy.