sat next to Rose, and Margery’s friend Gail all tried making friends, but Rose did not want their friendship, and they left her alone. At home, Aunt Nan in her casual, chattering fashion, Uncle Bob and George in their own ways, began to take her for granted. Even Sam, although he was not gracious about it, seemed to have accepted her. He once tried to share part of a chocolate bar with her on the bus. But Rose would have nothing to do with Sam. The memory of his cruel wordswas too sharp. She made no effort to be especially friendly with any of them, although she did give in to the twins’ pleading to tell them a story. She told them about a princess who could not get back to her own country, and she made it so sad that they cried.
Even Uncle Bob, who was not very good at noticing people, said to Aunt Nan one evening in Rose’s hearing, “Do you suppose we insulted that child in some way?” Aunt Nan said she didn’t think so, that they would just have to be patient because Rose was probably missing her grandmother.
But it was not her grandmother; it was Will and Susan and a whole lost world.
“I spent just one day there,” she lamented, over and over. “One day and now I can’t go back!”
Every day after school, while the boys wrangled in the kitchen, she went out to the glade and down the rotted steps into the root cellar. It was always the same. The first time was a shock. Instead of the sturdy inside door that had been there the first time, there was a door as rotten and full of holes as the outside ones and it was hanging by a badly rusted hinge. Inside there were no shelves, no crockery jars. There were only cobwebs and dust and, in one corner, a dead rat. Rose jumped back in horror and fled up the steps, dropping the doorsbehind her with so much noise she was sure she must have been heard from the house. After that she was quiet, even secretive, and in spite of the dead rat, she still went every day, hoping, praying for whatever magic had been at work that first day. The puzzle of it occupied all her thoughts. She searched her memory for every detail of that day, every move she had made, and could find no clue.
She walked up and down the road all the way around the end of the bay. There were tall reeds there where the water had been high in 1862. Nothing looked as it had looked on the night she had walked away from the Morrissays’. The modern road was dirt, but it was wide enough for cars to pass each other, and on either side there were just fields, no high bushes and trees.
October became November. Some days the creek had ice along its edges and the little hawthorn tree was almost bent double by the wind. Winter came in, bleak and gray, to the island. The low, rolling countryside looked bare and vulnerable. Rose had never been so unhappy in her life.
One afternoon, as she sat at the back of the school bus, she felt as if she could not stand another moment of screaming, fighting kids, and when Jim and Phil Heaton from down the road got off the bus, she got off, too. The twinscalled anxiously after her, “Rose, Rose, where are you going?” The Heaton boys looked at her curiously, but she paid no attention to any of them. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, kicked angrily at a stone that lay in her path, and started walking. It was very cold, but the day was bright. A few white clouds were whipping across the sky like sailboats in a race. Leaves were swirling up from the ground.
“You want to come along over here and give a hand, youngster?” Rose started. She had been so engrossed in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed she had stopped by a house. It had an iron fence around it, and an old man was standing by the gate with a length of stout wire in his hand.
“Here,” he said again. He was thin and stooped, with a small tuft of white hair on top of his long face. His eyes were blue—like Will’s eyes, Rose thought—and they had smile wrinkles at the corners. His face
Even Uncle Bob, who was not very good at noticing people, said to Aunt Nan one evening in Rose’s hearing, “Do you suppose we insulted that child in some way?” Aunt Nan said she didn’t think so, that they would just have to be patient because Rose was probably missing her grandmother.
But it was not her grandmother; it was Will and Susan and a whole lost world.
“I spent just one day there,” she lamented, over and over. “One day and now I can’t go back!”
Every day after school, while the boys wrangled in the kitchen, she went out to the glade and down the rotted steps into the root cellar. It was always the same. The first time was a shock. Instead of the sturdy inside door that had been there the first time, there was a door as rotten and full of holes as the outside ones and it was hanging by a badly rusted hinge. Inside there were no shelves, no crockery jars. There were only cobwebs and dust and, in one corner, a dead rat. Rose jumped back in horror and fled up the steps, dropping the doorsbehind her with so much noise she was sure she must have been heard from the house. After that she was quiet, even secretive, and in spite of the dead rat, she still went every day, hoping, praying for whatever magic had been at work that first day. The puzzle of it occupied all her thoughts. She searched her memory for every detail of that day, every move she had made, and could find no clue.
She walked up and down the road all the way around the end of the bay. There were tall reeds there where the water had been high in 1862. Nothing looked as it had looked on the night she had walked away from the Morrissays’. The modern road was dirt, but it was wide enough for cars to pass each other, and on either side there were just fields, no high bushes and trees.
October became November. Some days the creek had ice along its edges and the little hawthorn tree was almost bent double by the wind. Winter came in, bleak and gray, to the island. The low, rolling countryside looked bare and vulnerable. Rose had never been so unhappy in her life.
One afternoon, as she sat at the back of the school bus, she felt as if she could not stand another moment of screaming, fighting kids, and when Jim and Phil Heaton from down the road got off the bus, she got off, too. The twinscalled anxiously after her, “Rose, Rose, where are you going?” The Heaton boys looked at her curiously, but she paid no attention to any of them. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, kicked angrily at a stone that lay in her path, and started walking. It was very cold, but the day was bright. A few white clouds were whipping across the sky like sailboats in a race. Leaves were swirling up from the ground.
“You want to come along over here and give a hand, youngster?” Rose started. She had been so engrossed in her own thoughts that she hadn’t noticed she had stopped by a house. It had an iron fence around it, and an old man was standing by the gate with a length of stout wire in his hand.
“Here,” he said again. He was thin and stooped, with a small tuft of white hair on top of his long face. His eyes were blue—like Will’s eyes, Rose thought—and they had smile wrinkles at the corners. His face
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