“You don’t know, Gran?” Rose narrowed her eyes and drew her face very close to her grandmother’s. It was amazing. Rose felt as if she were getting a bird’s-eye view of a landscape. Tiny purple veins webbed across her cheeks like the streamlets pouring out of river deltas. There were so many wrinkles, some deeply gouged. Others spread like silken spiderwebs across her face. There were age spots and a scar, a tiny one above her bristly left eyebrow. It was a remarkable landscape, a vast expanse, a cartography of Rosalinda’s life on Earth. “Are you sure, Gran, that you don’t know who my father is . . . or was?”

“I don’t know his name, but I think yes, he was from that time. If I knew his name I would tell you. You see, your mother went away before she became pregnant with you.”

“Didn’t you ever see Mom again?”

“I did. But it was always very tense. I didn’t want to pry. Your mother was very smart. Went to an excellent college. Then a fine business school and did well.”

“So will you forbid me to go back?”

“No. Never. I learned from my mistake. I don’t want to lose you too, Rose. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And, of course, the death of your mother was the worst thing. When she died . . . well, it was too late.”

“So you’ll still love me if I . . . I . . .”

“Go a-wander?” Rose nodded. “Rose, I shall love you through all time and place. Through every century imaginable. But now we are here. And I love you so very much.” Her voice cracked. Tears slid down Rose’s face and dropped onto that old veined hand. Rosalinda smiled and, still holding Rose’s hand, lifted it with her own and kissed the tear.

Chapter 28

Radishes and Jane’s Shoes

Rosalinda was home from the hospital within three days. She seemed perfectly fine. She and Rose resumed their evening suppers in the greenhouse. Gran complimented her on finishing the transplanting of the Italian radishes. “They grow lickety-split. We’ll be eating them in a week.”

The subjects of Hatfield, of her father, of time travel were carefully avoided, or so it seemed to Rose. She was dying to ask her grandmother if there was any way she could control her journeys. Could she ever come and go as she pleased? Must she always be in the greenhouse to leave? And what triggered her returns to her gran’s house? She also wondered why no one seemed to miss her in the old world of England when she was gone. How it was as if she had left a shadow self behind who did all she was expected to do. But she pushed these thoughts away for now. She mostly wanted her grandmother to regain her strength.