I shook my head.

"It's called that," she told me, "because when it blooms, it smells like the rotting dead."

I shuddered at the thought. "I guess the cemetery's the per­fect place for it, then," I said nervously. Why on Earth, with all the wonderful-smelling plants she had, would she choose to grow this thing?

She must have read my mind because she said, "Oh, the scent of roses and gardenias is fine, but everyone needs a break from all that cloying perfume. Now and again I treasure the scent of something... other."

I took in another breath, trying to imagine what the flower would smell like once it bloomed, but I guess my imagination wasn't pungent enough.

"The beautiful and the terrible, the sweet and the rancid―it's all part of God's glory and has its reason to be," Miss Leticia said. "Just like you, Cara."

Suddenly she grabbed my wrists so tightly I could feel her nails cutting into my skin. "You have a destiny, child," she said. "Don't let anyone tell you that you don't."

Then she looked at me, and I swear she could see me through the deadness of her cataracts. "You came to me in your dark time, confiding in me, and that binds us," she said. "And so I will make it my business to be there when your destiny comes calling."

All the way home, I felt the sting of Miss Leticia's nails. I knew her nail marks would be in my forearms for days―but I didn't mind.

You have a destiny; she had said. Those marks were a reminder.

Miss Leticia was weird, but she was wise in a way few people could understand. Whether she knew things or just suspected things, I didn't know―but then, to a person with intuition, sus­picion had to count for something. No one had ever suggested I had a place and a purpose in the world. My parents, who on their best days saw life as an inconvenience, had never―could never― make me feel the way Miss Leticia had in the short time I had known her.