“Oh,” her grandmother replied softly. “Sorry. Someone from so long ago. Very sad story. I think for a long time I was her only friend when her husband began to tire of her. What a heel he was, that Henry.” Although the words appeared muffled, there was a terrible regret in her voice. “Henry who?” Rose was about to ask, but saw her grandmother clasp her hands and bend her head as if she were sinking into a deep prayer. Her shoulders shook a bit. Don’t cry, Gran, please don’t cry.

Rose could not quite figure out what had just happened. The sadness of her grandmother seemed to grip the air. It was pitch black outside, but in the greenhouse various lights in certain sections began to blink on. They were all controlled by timers, according to the light needs of the different plants. Night-blooming flowers had their own area. Rosalinda had found a special light some years ago that she called her fake moon for the night bloomers.

It suddenly struck Rose as very peculiar that within the greenhouse, seasons could be reordered; the transits of “sun” and “moon” could be manipulated. Yet she had no control over her own transits to that other world. Rose, as far as she could tell, came and went at the whim of some unseen power. She was a victim of time. Might there be any hope of controlling these visits? What triggered them? The more she thought about it, the more intrigued she was. Why did she have no control over the things that happened in her life? Why did things just happen to her? Her mom died. She was left virtually an orphan. Then she was shipped off to Rosalinda, her grandmother, who didn’t even know who she was half the time. She felt as if she were a dandelion flower gone to seed, its fuzz caught and tossed by whatever rascally wind might blow through. Well, she didn’t like that feeling. Not at all. The anger she had felt when Sara was removing the locket and handing it to Princess Elizabeth surged within her—my history, my destiny! Mine to control, not yours!