“One-celled little bitty things. They’re found on the underneath part of the fern frond. They’re in charge of reproduction. No romance. They can do it all by themselves. But still there’s a history. So you always start them in a nice little mixture of vermiculite, peat, and some soil that their ancestors have grown in. People always say that when you die you can’t take it with you. But with plants, especially very old plants, you can take it with you. So old dirt is good dirt. Let the soil cling—otherwise they’ll wither and die.” She paused and inhaled sharply. “It’s almost as if they get lonely.”

Rose shut her eyes. An ache swelled within her. Rosalinda reached out and touched Rose’s hand. Above, a flash of moonlight filtered through the glass ceiling. And outside she thought she heard the meow of a cat.

“You know, my dear, I’m too old, but that staircase winds up to the central cupola. It’s lovely on the night of a full moon. When shafts of moonlight fall through the tinted panes, it’s as if there’s a garden of light blooming up there. Go see for yourself. And say hello to the queen’s petticoat. It’ll have to be lowered tomorrow. We don’t want the poor thing moon-blinked. You know too much moonlight can do that.”

“What’s moon-blinked?”

“Slight confusion and then . . .”

Rose was already starting up the spiraling staircase. She felt the pools of colored light falling down on her. An intensity of scents swirled through the air. There were cinnamon and rose fragrances, then the spicy scent again mingled with something like lilies.

“And then what, Grandmother?” she asked over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.

“Won’t bloom in its proper season—it will make a surprise appearance, too early or maybe too late,” her grandmother was saying from below as Rose ascended the staircase. “It will go catawampus. Plants can do that when confused.”