She was only eight when her mom gave it to her for Christmas. The people at the sewing-machine store felt that it was perhaps too complicated for a girl her age, but her mom said no. That Rose had been using a rickety old one and was ready for something more complicated that could do the kind of meandering or S-curve stitching that she liked for decorative and appliqué work. It had a touch screen for selecting new stitches. Patterns could be scanned in, and there was a program with which Rose could create her own designs. When Rose first unwrapped it that Christmas morning, she gasped. She never thought her mom would spend so much money on a sewing machine. “Mom! This . . . this is the Millennium Falcon of sewing machines!” she screamed. And thus her first project had been a Princess Leia gown. Both she and her mom were huge Star Wars fans.

In anticipation of her sewing machine’s arrival, Rose had cleared a place on a table in front of the window that looked out on the northeast cupola of the greenhouse. She had also cleared a bookshelf for her stacks of fabric. Her button box she put in a desk drawer.

With each object she touched she felt a rush of joy and yearning. These things were the last tendrils that connected her to what now seemed like a charmed life with her mom, an enchanted time. She spied a piece of the daisy-patterned blue silk that she had used to make the bow tie she had worn that first day of school. There were a couple yards or more of chambray fabric. So perfect for soft, swingy skirts. She had made one in a lovely peach color for her mom. Perfect for a garden party her mom had been invited to. Tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered her mom going off to that party. “Wish me luck. Lots of potential real estate clients there, and I’ll be sure to tell them that my skirt is designed and made by you.” Her mom had even ordered labels that read Designed by Rose.

There was a soft tap on her door.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Rose.” The voice creaked.

“Gran?” Rose got up quickly. Tucking the locket inside her shirt, she went to open the door. Her grandmother had never come into her room the entire time she had been living here.

“Hi,” Rose said, opening the door. Her grandmother was fragilely propped up on her walker. Betty stood behind her.

“Gran? That’s what you’ve decided to call me?”

“Oh, sorry. I meant to say grandmother.”

“Don’t be sorry, child. Gran is fine. Very efficient. Why waste syllables? I’m Rosalinda. Your mother’s Rosemary, and you’re just plain Rose. Seems simpler. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“And how was the riding lesson?”

“Fine.” She paused. “Good, actually. He said I was a natural.”

“Did he now?”