As she stepped into the greenhouse, the air swirled with the scent of the jasmine vines that now tumbled from the cupolas, almost reaching the floor. The tray of love-lies-bleeding that she had thinned out had burst into bloom, with dangling blossoms like pendulous ruby necklaces. Foliage that had barely unfurled was now thick and stirring softly in a phantom wind. It was as if magically a fragrant jungle had sprung up around her. There were no longer trays neatly arranged in rigid rows awaiting her grandmother’s tender attentions.

She looked up once more at the cupolas, but there were no cupolas. A flawless blue sky stretched overhead, and beneath her feet was a woodland path. Ahead she heard a meow. September? Rose stopped abruptly and listened. All was silent, and then suddenly she heard a giggle.

“Grandmother?” she called out softly. Hesitantly she continued down the path and soon heard footsteps. She realized that she must be far beyond the confines of the greenhouse. There were no walls of glass. The roofs had dissolved into this bright new morning, and straight ahead there was a girl. She wore a sapphire-blue dress that reached the ground. It was trimmed with ornate braid. The bodice was tight-fitting and heavily embroidered. From beneath the hem of the skirt peeped pointy-toed scarlet shoes. Those shoes! Rose thought. What she wouldn’t give for those shoes! The girl’s bright red hair was arranged in a circlet of elaborate braids atop her head, although a few strands streamed out from the braids like escaping flames. They looked at each other, startled.

“Guards! Guards!”

What in the world? Rose wondered as a man came around the bend in a fitted jacket emblazoned with brass buttons, gold epaulets, and ballet tights! Had she stumbled into a Shakespeare play? She didn’t wait to ask but turned and bolted.

She ran breathlessly through the thickets of shrubbery laden with large exploding blossoms, burrowed through openings in the tall hedges and tangles of brush. Soon she smelled the familiar muggy odor of the greenhouse and the path gave way to the neat aisles with the tray tables of seedlings. The long, dangling vines of the jasmine had retreated in an orderly fashion to the airy realms of the cupolas. She heard the welcoming patter of the rain against the glass. It was once more pitch black. She raced up the stairs and back into her bedroom, where she shut the door firmly, then slid a chair beneath the handle to jam it, to lock out whatever it was she had encountered.