“Yes, Gran.” Rose looked at her grandmother directly. “Said I had the genes.”

“Peter? Peter Elkins. What is he, a geneticist?” She harrumphed. “Horse breeding, I suppose. But you’re hardly a horse.” She cackled. “Come downstairs. I want to thin out some of the herb seedlings. Dinner in the greenhouse, as per usual.”

“Yes, Gran.”

She watched as Betty led the old lady to the banister stair lift.

“All aboard!” Betty exhorted as she guided Rosalinda into the chair.

“My specs, Betty! My specs!”

“Right around your neck on the ribbon, Mrs. A. Here, I’ll help you on with them.” The huge oval frames dwarfed Rosalinda’s face. Her pale, nearly colorless blue eyes were magnified and appeared to quiver slightly as she peered at Rose.

“My horse!” she exclaimed. This time she didn’t cackle, but snorted. Indeed, just like a horse. Betty rolled her eyes.

“All right! All right! Off we go. Tallyho!” Rosalinda waved merrily as the soft whir of the stair-lift motor hummed and she glided down the curving banister.

“Be right down, Gran!” Rose called.

Then she heard her grandmother mutter something unintelligible to Betty.

“That’s your granddaughter, Mrs. A. Rose, that’s who she is.”

“Oh yes. Just plain Rose.”

A few minutes later Rose came down.

“We’ll have dinner over on the table with the winter herb trays. Second table to the left after the winter lettuces. I planted those lettuces two weeks ago, I think. Take a look and see if they’ve started sprouting.”

How could her grandmother remember where she planted what and when, yet not remember at times that she had a granddaughter living with her in her own house?

“Oh, and look at this, dear.”

“What, Gran?”

“The bud on this rose. A damask rose. A true old damask rose. Very different from these newfangled hybrids. It should bloom by Christmas. Out of season here in the greenhouse, but why confine it to summer? And you know it is the rose of a royal house.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I think your mother might have had it in mind when she named you Rose—just plain Rose.”

“Really?”

“Why do you keep saying ‘really,’ dear? It’s as if you disbelieve everything. Not to mention you should be trying to expand your vocabulary. For example, you might say ‘how incredible’ or ‘unimaginable.’ Now please go check on those winter lettuces.”

Rose peered over the lettuce tray. The dark, rich soil showed no sign of any “sproutlings,” as her grandmother called the stage just before they graduated to become true seedlings. Behind the sproutlings’ tray, there were some bright nasturtiums beginning to climb up a dozen or so thin stakes.

“See anything, Rose?”

“Nothing. . . . Oh, wait.” She hunched over the tray. Did she spy a little bit of green? “Yes, actually. I think so.”

“Like little green snouts, like . . . like pixie snouts?”