“Oh dear,” she whispered as she read the text about Joe again. Slay some dragons. Obviously Myles felt the dragons were the Trio of Doom. How had this happened? Rose was torn. On one hand she felt horrible about Joe. This would mean that Brianna would get the lead role in the ice show. But on the other hand, she didn’t want to be part of some middle school warfare anymore. She was desperate—yes, desperate—to get back to England and the year 1547 and find her father—Nicholas Oliver.

Was there any way she could will herself back to England? What if she just cut school today, pretended she was sick? She hadn’t missed any days so far. Maybe somehow, some way, she could get back.

Shirley was busy setting the breakfast table.

“You know, Shirley, I’m not feeling so well this morning. I think I’ll stay home from school.”

“No breakfast?”

“No thanks, my stomach feels a little queasy.”

“All right, dear. I’ll tell your grandmother.”

“Think I just want to sleep.”

“Then run along upstairs.”

She was just about to walk out of the conservatory when she thought of September.

“Shirley, you haven’t seen that cat around, have you?”

“The three-legged stray?”

“Yes.”

“No sign of her, dear.”

“Okay. See you later.” She looked at the damask rose, which was perhaps one-third open. She wondered what her grandmother had meant when she had spoken of the bewitching hour for this rose.

She crawled into bed, pulled her covers up, and reached for her diary.

Opening the diary, she crossed out the current date, December 2, the time which she thought of as her home century, the twenty-first, and wrote in February 27, 1547, for that was the day that she and Franny had ridden to Stow-on-the-Wold. She began writing.

I want to go back. I need to go back. But I’ve absolutely no clue as to what triggers my tumbles through time. I call them “tumbles.” To merely call it time travel doesn’t seem right. The word “travel” makes it sound as if there is a schedule. Like it’s a train I can catch, or a plane, if I just make my reservation and show up at the station or airport. But as you and I know, dear diary, it’s not that way at all.

One thing seems important. When I left this last time, I was not in Gran’s greenhouse. I was in the conservatory at what Gran called the bewitching hour. I had just set out the damask rose.