Rose looked around. Her grandmother seemed quite alert, especially compared to nights when she would stare at her blankly. So often Rose felt as if she were a stranger in this household, or at best treated as some kind of gentle intruder. She didn’t really blame her grandmother. She knew she was teetering on the edge of some sort of dementia. Yet here in the greenhouse her grandmother was always alert. She seemed “grounded” in this soil, this old dirt that Rosalinda had called good dirt.
Rose continued to help. And each night after her grandmother went up to bed, Rose would set out some milk in a tin pan with some crumbled biscuits for the cat. She rarely saw the cat, but she had the sense of being observed by those tilting green eyes. She had decided September was a “her.” And occasionally she did hear her meowing. When she did, she always thought of the girl with the pointy red shoes. She loved those shoes!
And she loved September too. She wished the cat wasn’t so shy. September, she decided, was not an ungrateful cat. Just an eat-and-run cat. Cats were odd creatures. One had to give them time. Never rush a cat, Rose thought. Perhaps someday she might write a book about cats. Tips for Cat Owners. But that was the catch, of course. No one ever really owned a cat.
There were always new things to do in the greenhouse. New seeds to plant—some of which had to be soaked overnight to give them a good start—and trays to be fertilized. Plants that had grown too big needed to be transplanted into larger pots. It was Rose’s task to prepare the new pots with a mixture of peat and the granular stuff called vermiculite. She used Rosalinda’s formulas, all neatly written in a book.
Rosalinda’s attitude about homework was rather casual. She told Rose that she would learn much more from working beside her in the greenhouse. And one evening when Rose brought her laptop down to look up some plant information on the internet, Rosalinda was captivated. “Such treasures!” she exclaimed. For indeed Rose found a solution for controlling the bugs that wreaked havoc on her grandmother’s tiny ruby-red carrots, and then five minutes later discovered a special kind of bonemeal as a nutrient for stunted toad lilies. From that point on, Rosalinda insisted that Rose bring her laptop with her every evening. Dinner continued to be served in the greenhouse. As the days began to grow shorter, the night fell earlier, turning the glass house into a starry empyrean, a timeless place of simultaneous seasons and the endless blossoming of flowers. Yet never during their evenings had the cupolas dissolved or the aisles transformed themselves into woodland pathways as they had before. It had been a dream, surely just a dream. Rose had almost convinced herself.
On this particular evening, her grandmother had just gone up to bed and so Rose, as had become her habit, stayed a bit longer and ascended the spiraling staircase to one of the cupolas. Rosalinda had started some winter violets from cuttings, and Rose herself had sown a flat of violets that afternoon that needed to be elevated into the cupola. As she carried the tray, for it was too large for the pulley lift, she heard the ping of a text message—most likely it was Joe, who’d gotten into the habit of texting her with questions about homework. But she didn’t reach into her pocket now—not until she had put the plant tray down safely.
She was in the largest of the cupolas, where they kept the orchids. Orchids were brought down only for brief periods—mostly on holidays to decorate the house. There was also a myriad of lilies, bromeliads, and hibiscus up here, all of which thrived in the warm, moist air in the upper levels of the greenhouse. Rose felt as if she had been transported to a rain forest. She set the rootling violets down and took out her cell. The green text bubble floated up on the screen: I don’t exactly hate you, but if you were on fire and I had water, I’d drink it. She didn’t recognize the number it came from, but it wasn’t hard to guess that it was one of the Mean Queens. Well, she supposed this was bound to happen. Had she really expected them not to bother her once they had her number? She should have changed it.
There was another ping and another bubble. This time, Rose gasped. Nausea swept through her. There was a screenshot of the front page of a newspaper and a photograph of a car on fire—the inferno her mother had died in. She felt herself growing dizzy. A strange sensation of powerlessness flooded through her. She grabbed the railing tightly and watched her knuckles turn white. She shut her eyes. Don’t fall, don’t! You’ll die if you fall! But then the strong fragrance of the jasmine swirled through the air and filled her senses. She opened her eyes as the vines grew before her, stretching all the way to the floor. Shakily she began walking down the staircase. It was happening again! She no longer felt nauseous. Not even frightened. By the time she was on the bottom step, the concrete floor of the greenhouse had become a grassy path, and she felt something soft brush across her leg. “September!” she gasped. It was the cat. She did not sprint off but turned around and peered at Rose as if to say “Come along.”
She began pressing through thick foliage, the streak of gold just before her like a light in the green leaves, or a maverick autumn leaf. The foliage soon gave way to an expansive lawn, and she was now on a wide drive that curved around the edge. Then September disappeared into some brush.
A voice behind her suddenly spoke.
“Come along, girl. I can’t do this on my own. Two pails we have to get up to the palace. I could certainly use some help.” Rose turned around slowly, hardly daring to breathe. A small scrap of a girl stood before her, leaning on a crutch and carrying a pail. She had white-blond hair and a scattering of freckles that stretched across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were an astonishing blue—blue as any sky, blue as any sea, blue as the bluest flower that ever bloomed. Rose was unsure why she used a crutch. Her skirt was long, but it seemed as if her left foot turned inward. This was a girl just about her own age.
What had happened to her?
“Who are you?”
The girl did not answer immediately but squinted at her as if she was trying to place her face.
“Franny,” she replied slowly. “I work in the dairy. And if you’d go back over there”—she pointed to a low, thatched building—“I left another pail of milk right by the door. You could save me a trip if you’d bring it.” She nodded at her crutch. “The crutch robs me, you see, leaving me with only one working hand to carry.”
“Yes, of course.” But Rose did not move. She continued to stare at the girl. Franny.
“God’s kneecaps, what are you waiting for, girl?”
“Uh . . . don’t you want to know my name?” Rose asked.
“Oh, yes,” Franny replied somewhat indifferently.
“I’m Rose—Rose Ashley.”
“Oh, one of the Ashleys.”
“You know my grandmother, Rosalinda?”
“I don’t know any of them. They’ve been serving Her Highness—and the family—for a long time here at Hatfield. Since before she was born. Makes sense you coming. They’re fiercely shorthanded up there. They’ll hire you soon as they set eyes on you. Very thin on staff to serve her.”
“Who’s ‘her’? Who’s ‘she’ exactly?”
“Blimey! Are you daft? She is the royal princess.”
“Royal princess?”
“Elizabeth, daughter of Henry! Henry the Eighth and the late and cursed Anne Boleyn.” Rose noticed that she almost couldn’t say the name Boleyn. “Now, Rose Ashley, have you had the skittles knocked out yer head?” She laughed warmly.