The Butterfly Formatted

by Vale, Victoria

  Contents

  Copyright

  Free Bonus Book!

  The Butterfly Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon

  More by Victoria Vale

  About the Author

  The Butterfly

  Victoria Vale

  Copyright 2018 by Victoria Vale

  Edited by Zee Monodee (Divas at Work Editing)

  Cover Art & Formatting by Victoria Vale

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, laces, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Get your FREE copy of Hart: A Villainous Short Story when you sign up to receive Victoria’s email newsletter

  Click here to sign up —> https://www.subscribepage.com/Hart

  The Butterfly Playlist

  Click to listen on Spotify

  Time Travel by Daley

  Lithium by Evanescence

  Lullabies by Luna

  Harveston Lake by Johnny Rain

  Place by Mar

  Bring me to Life by Evanescence

  Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine

  Harder Than the First Time by Black McGrath

  Hold on, We’re Going Home by Drake feat. Majid Jordan

  Rise by Katy Perry

  Iris by The Goo Goo Dolls

  Slip by Elliot Moss

  If You Let Me by Sinead feat. GRADES

  I Found by Amber Run

  Breathe by Delilah

  She Fades by Daley

  Love in the Dark by Leroy Sanchez

  To Build a Home by Grace Page

  Made for You by Niia

  Pretty Little Birds by SZA feat. Isaiah Rashad

  Unsteady by X Ambassadors

  Leave my Body by Florence + The Machine

  Hold Me Down by Halsey

  Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin

  Hello by Evanescence

  Best Part by Daniel Caesar feat. H.E.R.

  The Way I Love Her by Stanaj

  Unsteady (Erich Lee Gravity Remix) by X Ambassadors

  All To You by Sabrina Claudio

  Exhumed by Zola Jesus

  Fix You by Coldplay

  Devoted by Adrian Daniel

  Trade It All by P.J. Morton

  9 by Willow feat. SZA

  Once in a Lifetime by Nicki Phillip

  Over and Over Again by Nathaniel Sykes & Ariana Grande

  True by Daley

  no tears left to cry by Ariana Grande

  PROLOGUE

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  1802

  weat trickled from the hairline of the stable boy as he walked in his father’s wake, his long legs helping him keep up. At ten years of age, Niall Gibbs stood almost as tall as most men—a fact that made his maw lament that she could never keep him fitted in shoes or trousers. Studying the wide back of his da, he supposed it had come honest. A pair of braces crossed those massive shoulders, work-hardened muscles rippling under his dingy linen shirt. Niall remained ever-aware of the strength contained within the large hands flexing at his father’s sides.

  “C’mon, lad,” his da snapped, annoyance sharpening his thick Scottish brogue.

  Despite already being upon his heels, Niall picked up the pace, trotting until he walked at the man’s side. The sun stung his eyes as he craned his neck to stare up at his sire’s face. The few times Niall had been able to glimpse himself in a looking glass, he’d seen a similar visage staring back at him—pitch black hair falling over a wide forehead, dark, glittering eyes, full lips.

  “Stand up straight,” his da urged, forcing him to halt so he could lick his thumb and use it to smear something off his forehead. “Dinnae look the master in the eye, or speak unless spoken to. Ye ken?”

  Niall nodded, deciding to practice his silence now. His hands began to shake, so he mimicked his da and curled them into fists. The sun disappeared as they stepped into the shadow of Dunvar House—a towering structure looming four stories over him. He served its residents day in and day out, but had never stepped foot inside.

  As Stablemaster for Lord Rowland Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor, his da practically lived in the stables. From time to time, he might travel with the earl to one of his other estates for some matter related to the care of his horses, but he resided primarily at Dunvar House. The wooden outbuilding attached to the carriage house, fenced-in paddocks, and a tiny, two-room cottage had been the totality of Niall’s existence for the past ten years.

  Since he had grown old enough to work mucking out stalls and caring for the master’s impressive stock, he’d had one imperative fact drilled into him. What went on inside Dunvar House was none of his affair. Its occupants were his betters, not his equals, and he was not to think he could ever stand head and shoulders with them. He’d been born for one purpose—to serve the master’s household by caring for their horses; as his da did, and his da’s sire had done.

  He was not to interact with the Callahans while he served on the lowest rung of the servant hierarchy. Perhaps once he’d become a groom, he might be good enough to speak to the master while preparing his mount. For now, he was merely a stable boy wearing shit-stained boots.

  Which was why he couldn’t fathom the reason his da wanted him by his side while he spoke with the earl on an important matter. All Niall knew was that he had not dared to question it when he’d been told to scrape his boots clean, wash his hands in the barrel outside the stable, and follow his father into the house.

  They paused near a servants’ entrance, and his da turned to give him a once-over.

  “Keep yer hands in yer pockets. The fancy things in this house are worth more than yer life, boy.”

  “Aye, Da,” he murmured before clamping his lips shut, remembering he was supposed to be silent.

  The door swung open, and they stepped into a corridor filled with other servants. Indoor staff who wore nice, clean clothing and seemed as much a part of the house as the gleaming sconces and rich wallpaper. Dodging maids carrying linens and footmen toting envelopes, decanters, and stacks of china, they moved deeper into the house, where the corridor turned into one lined with heavy oak doors. Everything around them became decidedly more opulent—thick, patterned rugs, bigger, shinier sconces, mirrors, and paintings clearly delineating this part of the domicile from the section servants came and went from.

  Despite his da’s insistence that he keep his eyes down, Niall could not help his wandering gaze. He’d never seen such fine things in his life. Even the wood panels lining this passage seemed as if they’d come straight from Heaven, a far cry from the rough slats comprising the inside of his own home. Oh, his maw did her best with making their little cottage into a home. But her hand-sewn curtains and knitted quilts seemed like horse blankets compared to the rich drapes hanging from the windows here, their furniture crude and primitive against the elegant tables, chairs, and other bits he glimpsed through open doors.

  So, this was how his betters lived. He’d had an inkling, often seeing the widowed master and his children coming and going dressed in all their finery.
But this … stepping into their home and getting the slightest impression of the way they lived made him realize his father must be right. He didn’t even know what some of these things might be called, let alone how to use them. He bet the people who lived here did. He bet they’d been born knowing.

  “Here,” his da declared, pausing before one of the doors and knocking.

  Niall glanced down the corridor, seeing that it opened into the front vestibule of the house. A bright, airy space with stained glass windows that allowed in the light of the sun through rainbow prisms. A large, round table stood in the center, upon which stood a vase containing an arrangement of fresh flowers brought in from the gardens.

  “Enter,” called a man’s voice from the other side of the door.

  His da pushed it open, and Niall followed him inside. Just as in the corridor, he became entranced by his surroundings. The yawning space was blanketed with plush rugs that made him feel as if he walked on clouds. Two floor-to-ceiling windows with their drapes pulled back allowed in plenty of sunlight. Between those big windows sat a massive desk of carved cherry wood, its surface gleaming from a good polish. More of the sumptuous decor filled this space, as well—brass sconces, gilt mirrors, a sideboard matching the desk covered in crystal decanters and tumblers. Their contents ranged in color from dark amber to reddish brown—a far cry from the stinking gin his father swigged each night before he passed out in a drunken stupor.

  The imposing man seated behind the desk glanced up from his work, a feather-tipped quill hovering over parchment upon which he’d been writing in immaculate rows. Tall and broad like his da, he wore a fine coat over a waistcoat and perfectly tied cravat. His mode of dress only served to enhance the sharpness of his aristocratic features—a high forehead, straight nose, square jaw. His eyes, a glittering muddle of green, brown, and gold, fell on his da, then shifted to Niall, holding for a few seconds.

  It proved too long a time to bear such scrutiny, and Niall began to squirm, dropping his gaze to the rug and shifting foot to foot. The man seemed as if he could see through the layers of Niall’s flesh and bone.

  “Conall,” the earl said, his tone brusque and clipped. “Is something amiss?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Master,” his da said. “I dinnae mean t’ disturb ye, but there’s a matter I thought ye needed brought t’ yer attention.”

  Niall’s gaze slid to the left, where he observed rows of bookcases stretching from wall-to-wall. The shelves overflowed with books bound in leather. He’d never seen so many books, let alone ones this ornate, some even having golden adornments on the corners. Daring a glance at his father from the corner of his eye, he edged a step toward the cases, then another. He would not touch anything; he simply wanted a closer look.

  “There’s some kinda sickness sweepin’ the stables,” his da said, approaching the desk now that the earl had addressed him.

  This put Niall behind him, Conall’s attention affixed on the master as he went on describing the illness that had laid three horses low within the past fortnight—heedless to Niall edging closer and closer to the shelves.

  “It starts when they willnae eat,” his da went on. “Yer dappled gelding—the one with the black star on its nose—has lost a stone or more of bulk.”

  “Hm,” the earl murmured, his voice sounding far away as Niall neared the shelves. “Three horses in a fortnight, you say?”

  “First the gelding, then two of yer four carriage greys, Master. The gelding is half-dead as o’ yet, I’m afraid.”

  Niall reached out, his spine tingling as he became aware that he was now going against his father’s specific orders. There would be hell to pay if he were caught, but he only wanted to touch a book for a few moments. There were none in their cottage, as neither of his parents could read. His da tended horses, and his maw slaved in the kitchen … there was no need for either of them to know how to read, and so, he had never been taught.

  He grinned as the men went on talking on the opposite side of the room, his da telling the earl that the fever, lack of appetite, and fatigue seemed to be contagious and could wipe out the entire stable if certain measures weren’t taken.

  The leather that kissed his fingertips had looked quite hard bound over the spines of these books, but proved soft and supple. Curiosity prompted him to move his hand over more of them, finding that each one felt slightly different, those with the gilded adornments his favorites. The texture of them tickled his calloused fingers. He bet that Sam and Glenn, Dunvar’s other stable boys, had never touched anything so fine. He would enjoy rubbing this in their faces.

  “Is there a way to quarantine the sick beasts?” the earl asked. “Perhaps that will keep the disease from spreading. If they can be nursed back to health, all the better. Otherwise, it might be best to put them out of their misery.”

  Niall glanced over his shoulder and found that his da was still intent upon the earl, head bobbing as he nodded in agreement.

  “Aye, Master … a shelter can be put up in a matter of hours. I’ll keep ye advised …”

  Niall turned back to the shelves, finding other little objects he had not noticed before—large wooden things wedged between books, as well as little glass and porcelain figures. Senseless things that seemed to serve no purpose other than demonstrating that the earl was wealthy enough to own them for no reason.

  His eye was drawn by a white sculpture edged in gold—a warrior of some sort, holding a sword with a hilt made of solid gold. The man was fierce, his bare chest edged with deep grooves, his arms bulging with sinews. It was just the sort of knight his maw had told him stories of from the days of old. A rebel laird perhaps, leading his people in battle wearing nothing more than his tartan, baring his chest in a show of fearless pride.

  Biting his lip, he gave in to the urge to touch it. Just for a moment. He’d never handled porcelain, which was what this figure seemed to be made of. He had touched the book without repercussions, and his da was still engrossed explaining what would go into constructing a makeshift shelter for the sick horses.

  He smoothed the tip of his first finger over the side of the soldier and released the breath he’d been holding in wonder. The porcelain was cool, and quite possibly the smoothest thing he’d ever touched. It was too good to walk away from, so he kept touching it, his fingers skimming over the point of the sword, then down to its golden hilt. So enraptured was he by the figurine that he was quite startled when his da’s voice came lashing out at him from across the room.

  “Niall!”

  He flinched, his heart leaping into his throat as he swiveled to face his da. In his haste and fear, he moved far too fast, his hand knocking into the figure and sending it falling from the shelf. He grappled for it, but was too clumsy and ungainly, his long limbs still taking a bit of getting used to. The thing slipped right through his grasp and bounced off a lower shelf, the delicate porcelain shattering upon impact and raining all over the rug at his feet.

  His face heated with embarrassment as he glanced up with wide eyes to find his father descending upon him, hands balled into fists, face gone crimson with rage.

  “Ye bumblin’ fool!” he bellowed, reaching out to grasp Niall by his shirt collar, hauling him away from the shelves. “Look what ye’ve done!”

  “I-I’m sorry, Da,” he blurted, his stomach twisting as he became acutely aware of the earl, who had risen to his feet and begun to approach, displeasure written all over his face. “I didnae mean t’!”

  Conall shook him so hard, his teeth rattled. Then, he was swung around to face the master.

  “Dinnae apologize t’ me … tell him how sorry ye are!”

  Niall’s throat clenched as he gazed up at the earl, the frigidity in those odd eyes making his blood run cold. “S-sorry, Master. It were an accident!”

  The earl cast a glance at the shattered porcelain upon the floor with a heavy sigh. “That piece was quite expensive, you know. In the future, you ought not touch things that do not belong to you. The lair
ds in the days of old might have had your hand for such an offense. Clean this mess up, and while you’re at it, thank God you live in less barbaric times.”

  “Aye, Master,” he said, grateful for the chance to get out of his father’s hold so he could pluck the bits of porcelain off the floor.

  “Conall,” the earl said, biting off his father’s name in that brusque tone of his. “If your little whelp is to come crashing through here like one of the horses, leave him outdoors with them.”

  Niall’s face heated even more, and he was surprised his hair did not go up in flames. He felt his da’s glare settling on him and his stomach clenched, instinct preparing him for the crash of a fist.

  “Of course, Master,” Conall said, his voice gentler than Niall had ever heard it—softened to placate the earl. “The lad knows better … he’ll be dealt with.”

  “See that he is,” the earl snapped.

  By then, Niall had finished gathering all the bits of porcelain in his hand, along with the whole pieces of the sculpture that had remained intact—a head, a leg, the sword. It was the weapon he pilfered for himself, slipping it into his boot when his da wasn’t looking. The earl would likely discard the ruined art, but that bit of porcelain and gold was worth something to Niall. It would be the most opulent thing he’d ever touched … the prettiest thing he’d ever owned.

  His da jerked him up by his collar and pushed him toward the desk, where he deposited the fragments with another mumbled ‘sorry’. Then, he was being shoved toward the door, and out into the corridor. With a few more words exchanged between his da and the earl, that door slammed, leaving them alone in the passageway.

  Which gave his father the opening he needed to let loose, cracking the back of his hand across Niall’s face. The blow sent him reeling against the wall, the sting of it radiating across the entire left side of his head and making his eye water. The heat of it lingered, burning with the flush of shame he would carry for the rest of the day.

  He knew not to cry out or sob, so he pinched his lips together and held it in, his chest burning from the effort. Straightening, he raised his chin, knowing his da would only beat him more for cowering or showing weakness.