Yet here in this cottage she knew better than any place on earth, Lily waited for the answers. She couldn't help the joy she felt—she loved the warm breeze, the smell of her grandmother's roses. She led Liam into the largest bedroom—the one her grandmother had always saved for guests—in the front of the house, where dormer windows jutted out over the sloping roof, facing the moonlit bay. Lily cranked open the casement windows as wide as they could go.

A gust of air fluttered the sheer white curtains and cooled Lily's hot skin. The sound of waves, rhythmically splashing the rocks down below, came through the windows. Lily went to check on Rose. She bent down, watched her daughter's chest rise and fall. Rose's breaths were like the waves—steady, sure, one after the other. Lily knew that Rose would be in good hands with Liam, but the idea of letting her beautiful girl out of her sight was almost impossible to bear.

“Lily,” Liam whispered, in the doorway behind her, his hand on her shoulder. “Come to bed.”

Lily shook her head. She couldn't move. How could something so peaceful fill her with such fear? Rose was sleeping in Lily's own childhood bed; the summer breeze carried scents of honeysuckle and hundreds of red, pink, and white roses. The old words came back to her: White roses bruise so easily. Staring down at her daughter, she calmed herself with the hard-won certainty that Edward wasn't even aware that Rose existed.

As far as Edward knew, Lily was dead. She had died—everyone believed—nine years ago, when she was eight and a half months pregnant. Lily felt a rush, and she shuddered. It was as if she had just been granted a free pass by the gods. Edward didn't know about Rose. . . .

“I want you to do it,” she said without turning around, not taking her eyes off her daughter's face, long brown lashes resting on delicate cheekbones, mouth ever-so-slightly open. Her left arm was bent at the elbow, fingertips on her neck, protecting the scar where she'd had open-heart surgery. “I want you to take her.”

“I'll take care of her,” Liam whispered.

Lily nodded. “I know you will. You always have.”

She knelt by Rose's bed, staring at her for a long minute—until Rose sighed and turned. Not wanting to wake her up, Lily kissed her sleeping daughter's head, and followed Liam into the bedroom. She knew that nothing in the world could make her send Rose away, force her to take this action, except for one thing: a need to see her grandmother, the woman who had raised her, and make sure she got well.

Nothing else could do it.