The blossoms of the petticoat plant were lovely, tiny bells no bigger than a baby’s fingernail. They hung on long green strands and swayed in a ghost of a breeze. The tinted glass showered them in an array of colors. Standing at the top of the winding staircase, Rose felt as if she were in the midst of a blooming rainbow. A calm stole through her. All the terrible words, the terrible images etched in her mind since that horrible day when her mom had died seemed to fade away. She felt free, and it was as if for the first time she could breathe again. She didn’t care what those three horrid girls thought of how she dressed. She wasn’t going to change because of them. She might even start writing her blog again. For some reason, her grandmother’s words about spores came into her head: “Let the soil cling—otherwise they’ll wither and die.” She had lost so much, but she couldn’t lose herself. She would wear her favorite skirt, one she had made out of a huge sweater her mom had bought for herself and then never worn. It had big deep pockets that Rose turned inside out, which made flounces on either side. She’d wear it with yet another bow tie—a big floppy one that she had made from a tablecloth she’d found in a vintage shop that specialized in lace. It made her feel good planning her outfit. She just wished the boxes with her sewing machine and other stuff would come. Caroline had promised to send them right away.

Rosalinda was gone by the time Rose descended the staircase. Betty had come to take her upstairs to bed. Outside, however, she thought she saw a fleeting bright shadow. Could it be that cat, September? Her glass was still filled with milk from her snack. She could pour it into one of the little pie tins that were stacked for soaking seeds. She quickly filled the tin and then walked to a door at the back of the greenhouse and set it outside. She couldn’t see the cat, but she sensed it watching her.

Rose left the greenhouse through the passage that connected it to the entry hall, where Betty was helping her grandmother into the stair-lift chair. Her grandmother leaned toward Betty and whispered, “Who’s that girl?”

“It’s Rose, your granddaughter.”

“Oh, of course.” But there was no hint of recognition. Rose sighed, saddened. It wasn’t the first time since she’d arrived that her grandmother stared at her as if she were a stranger. An intruder. The vague look in her eyes had returned. There was a hum as the stair lift began to glide upward on its rail. Just before it reached the big curve, Rosalinda raised her hand and gave a faint wave, opening and closing her palm like a baby might wave bye-bye.

“Bye now,” Rosalinda murmured.