Three roses with leaves design

The cuttings came over the pass on the back of Old Tomas's mule, wrapped in wet sacking and cursing the whole way. Three of them, sticks no longer than my forearm, and I was certain they had died somewhere above the snowline. Tomas swore they had not. He said the mule had been fussing at the bundle since Haverdale, which he took as a sign, though he also took the last of my tea as a sign that he should not come back for a month.

I have potted them in the lee of the south wall, where the frost cannot reach. Every morning I brush the grit from the leaves with my thumb and check for black spot, which has ruined everything else I have tried. Two have swollen buds already, tight and green as peas. The third is still deciding. Mother would have called that one the stubborn one and therefore the best.

The old men at the inn have started calling the nursery the rose house, which makes me laugh, since there is nothing up here but stone, wind and a single mule. Yet on clear mornings the light comes down the pass road in a long gold strip, and I catch myself standing in it with a watering can, waiting.

Come up in June when the first bloom opens. Bring your good shears and your wool coat, and come before the wind strips the petals. I have kept the largest one for you, though I cannot yet tell which of the three it will be.

Your sister, Marta