There was another ping and another bubble. This time, Rose gasped. Nausea swept through her. There was a screenshot of the front page of a newspaper and a photograph of a car on fire—the inferno her mother had died in. She felt herself growing dizzy. A strange sensation of powerlessness flooded through her. She grabbed the railing tightly and watched her knuckles turn white. She shut her eyes. Don’t fall, don’t! You’ll die if you fall! But then the strong fragrance of the jasmine swirled through the air and filled her senses. She opened her eyes as the vines grew before her, stretching all the way to the floor. Shakily she began walking down the staircase. It was happening again! She no longer felt nauseous. Not even frightened. By the time she was on the bottom step, the concrete floor of the greenhouse had become a grassy path, and she felt something soft brush across her leg. “September!” she gasped. It was the cat. She did not sprint off but turned around and peered at Rose as if to say “Come along.”

She began pressing through thick foliage, the streak of gold just before her like a light in the green leaves, or a maverick autumn leaf. The foliage soon gave way to an expansive lawn, and she was now on a wide drive that curved around the edge. Then September disappeared into some brush.

A voice behind her suddenly spoke.

“Come along, girl. I can’t do this on my own. Two pails we have to get up to the palace. I could certainly use some help.” Rose turned around slowly, hardly daring to breathe. A small scrap of a girl stood before her, leaning on a crutch and carrying a pail. She had white-blond hair and a scattering of freckles that stretched across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were an astonishing blue—blue as any sky, blue as any sea, blue as the bluest flower that ever bloomed. Rose was unsure why she used a crutch. Her skirt was long, but it seemed as if her left foot turned inward. This was a girl just about her own age.

What had happened to her?

“Who are you?”

The girl did not answer immediately but squinted at her as if she was trying to place her face.

“Franny,” she replied slowly. “I work in the dairy. And if you’d go back over there”—she pointed to a low, thatched building—“I left another pail of milk right by the door. You could save me a trip if you’d bring it.” She nodded at her crutch. “The crutch robs me, you see, leaving me with only one working hand to carry.”

“Yes, of course.” But Rose did not move. She continued to stare at the girl. Franny.

“God’s kneecaps, what are you waiting for, girl?”

“Uh . . . don’t you want to know my name?” Rose asked.

“Oh, yes,” Franny replied somewhat indifferently.