It was almost midnight by the time Rose finished her essay. She fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. But it was at dawn that the damask rose would bloom. So she was careful to set her alarm in case she overslept. A soft purring in the night awoke her ten minutes before the dawn broke. She sat straight up in bed. “September,” she whispered. But nothing stirred. She must have dreamed it. Nevertheless, she got out of bed and put on her woolly socks, her sweater, then her down vest, all over her pajamas. She stopped in the front hall and got a stocking cap for her hair. She noticed it was snowing lightly. She hoped the sun—the real sun—would shine through for the damask rose. She began to walk toward the greenhouse. There were no grow lights on, no false moon for the moon-loving flowers, just darkness. She felt as if she were crossing a vast, dark sea. She found her way to the damask rose. It was so close to opening. The black of the night began to fray and grow threadbare as she took the rose and walked back through the house to the conservatory. She had this strange sensation, as if the furniture were floating in a shadowy sea, that the Oriental carpet she was walking across had become unmoored and she was somehow adrift. There was an eerie stillness. In this moment she seemed to be a trespasser in the dawn as she walked away with the damask rose.

Entering the conservatory, she gently set the rose in the trough. Was there a glimmer staining the sky? She watched as a gray light began to leak over the edge of the windowsill just as she felt her cell phone vibrate in her pocket. She must have left it there from yesterday. She checked the time: 6:58. Three minutes to go. She’d missed a text message from Anand from several hours ago—eleven o’clock the night before, just when she was working on her essay.

Joe broke ankle. Out of competition. Skates messed with. Time to slay a dragon or two or three.

She read it again twice more. How could that be? What bad luck. She kept staring at the phone. Two minutes past dawn now, and in the next second a blade of sunlight sliced through the windowpane, striking the damask rose. Rose’s eyes opened wide. The petals were unfurling, huge petals. But at the very center were pale ones that were almost white. She had never seen anything more beautiful. And then she felt it. I’m not in the greenhouse . . . but I am going back . . . back on a rose . . .