Rose said nothing, but she was truly upset. The remnants of what had been her life were in those boxes—the sewing machine, yards of wonderful fabric, books, her sketch pad and three whole folders full of designs, her own designs for outfits past and those that she had hoped to make. But admittedly it was hard to even think of a future without her mom. And getting back to her blog? She might not be ready yet.

“No snack? No dinner?” Betty asked softly.

“Nothing.”

“I’m sure Cook could fix you some soup. And there’s angel food cake that Cook baked. That’s very soft, you know. Your grandmother will be so disappointed. She enjoyed her time with you in the greenhouse.”

But Rose was already off, tearing up the stairs to her bedroom. She flung her books on the desk and flopped onto the bed. Beating her fists into the pillow, she sobbed, “Why . . . why did you have to die, Mom? How could you?”

There was soon a sodden patch against her cheek. It was as if she had cried an ocean into that pillow. The last thing she remembered hearing was the scraping of her grandmother’s walker outside her bedroom door and then Rosalinda’s voice. “Leave her be, Betty . . . leave her be.”

It was the plinking of raindrops against the windowpane that woke her up. Outside there was only pitch black. The glass of the windowpane was a sheet of sliding water. Except for the sound of the rain, the entire house was quiet. She felt a gnawing hunger and decided to go to the kitchen and find something to eat. Passing her grandmother’s room, Rose could hear Rosalinda snoring softly. She made her way down the stairs toward the kitchen. She dared not turn on a light, but her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness.

Under a glass-domed platter, a cake perched. It had already been cut into and seemed to invite her to take a slice. There was a knife set beside the platter. Quietly she removed the dome cover and cut herself a piece. She was just about to take a bite when she looked through the kitchen window that had a fine view of the greenhouse. She noticed that the glass roofs seemed to glow. How could this be on such a pitch-black and moonless, rainy night? she wondered. It was as if the greenhouse possessed a moon of its own. She set the piece of cake on the counter and went out through the kitchen pantry and across a hall that led into the glasshouse from the rear, the door Cook always used when delivering dinner to Rosalinda.