Owen peered into the jar. “Do you suppose you’re the only woman on the planet who thinks that?”
Nora shrugged. “Possibly.”
“Does it bother you, being unlike anyone else?”
“Should it? What’s the alternative? Being afraid of creatures like this?” She flicked her nail against the glass and shook her head. “I wouldn’t want to be anything but who I am.”
Owen grinned, a crooked one that did odd things to her belly. “I wouldn’t want you to be anything else either.”
Early that evening, after Nora and Owen had returned from their exploration, Mr. Alford formally invited Nora to join them for the outing. He thought they’d be more likely to find a Papilio buddha after the worst of the day’s heat had dissipated, so they set off after a light dinner, each of them carrying a rucksack over their shoulders and a few of the men bearing lanterns for the return trip.
“Of course, gather anything you think might be useful, but I mainly want to find the Malabar banded peacock. I had one in my collection before leaving for India, but it wasn’t mounted properly and degraded.” Mr. Alford led them deep into the forest, and soon the towering pines blotted out the sun and a carpet of needles muffled their steps. A light drizzle misted the air, and he groaned. “Let’s fan out. We’ll be more likely to find the butterfly that way. Hopefully the rain doesn’t begin in earnest. Call out every few minutes to keep track of the rest of the group. I don’t want to have to search for anyone. Plus, the noise will frighten away any animals.”
He stomped in the opposite direction as Nora, muttering about bad luck and the quickly approaching monsoon.
Nora disappeared around the bend in the path, eyes peeled for the Papilio buddha’s bright green and aqua markings. Every few moments, a male voice called out “Here!” but she hardly registered the shouts. It wouldn’t hurt to be the one to find the butterfly Mr. Alford most wanted. She knew how much a prized insect could soften the heart. She swiveled her head in every direction, paying particular attention to the fruit trees the butterfly loved to feed on, and pushed even deeper into the forest.
The air was heavy and moist, cloying as it threaded sticky tendrils around her exposed skin. She strained to see through the fog that filled the woods with clouds. It wove around the base of the trees, muffling everything, and she felt surrounded by ghosts.
“Nora, where are you?”
Owen’s low call pulled a startled “here” from her throat. Turning in the direction she’d heard his voice, she pushed through a bush the height of a maple tree and tripped over a thick vine crawling around its trunk, catching herself on her hands. A centipede scuttled over her knuckles. She forced herself to stay still so it didn’t pierce her skin with its forcipules and watched, enthralled, as its hundred tiny legs roved over her fingers, tickling her.
She smiled when it toppled to the ground, and she stood and brushed at the leaves and clumps of dirt clinging to her damp skirt. She needed to find the rest of the team. Dusk bathed the magenta-flowering rhododendron ahead of her in silver. A moth, larger than her palm, landed on one of the flowers. She approached it with soft steps. Its pale green wings shimmered against the bright flowers.
How lovely.
She held her finger to the flower and, when the moth stepped onto it, brought it to eye level. Two fern-like antennae framed its furry face. She smiled when it lifted its pink legs and traveled the length of her hand.
She pinched the wings between her fingers and turned it over. Its underdeveloped mouth worked as she squeezed either side of the moth’s thorax, careful not to crush it. When it became immobilized, she pulled a jar from her sack and slid the moth inside.
Paralyzed, the moth didn’t beat its wings against the jar and damage itself, and Nora watched as its wiggling legs grew still.
She held up the jar, allowing the shadowed light to filter through it, and admired her new specimen. Through the glass she saw past the moth and into the canopy of a cluster of trees. She lowered the jar and squinted at an odd, pieced-together globe hanging from a branch.
She tucked the kill jar back into her rucksack and approached the tree. Brittle brown leaves looked to have been sewn together to make the globe, and a few orange ants crawled from a crevice and marched around its perimeter.
She gasped. Oecophylla smaragdina. Weaver ants!
Tramping feet alerted Nora to someone’s approach, and Mr. Alford and Owen appeared from between the leafy foliage of the rhododendrons.
“Anything?” Mr. Alford asked. His lank hair hung over his eyes, and he pushed it back with a fine-boned hand.
“Not the butterfly you wanted, but look.” Nora pointed up at the weaver ant nest, and Mr. Alford cast a dismissive glance its way.
“We may as well head back.” He looked at the sky. “It’s going to pour any minute. What a waste.”
“I’m going to look at it,” Nora said, grabbing a low branch and pulling herself up onto it. Her skirts twisted around her legs, and she grabbed a fistful of the material and bunched it in her palm. With a gentle bounce, she tested the branch’s strength. Satisfied it would hold, she pulled herself up to the next one and wrapped her legs around it.
“Nora, we aren’t here to study ants. Come down.” Mr. Alford’s curt words just barely cut through her mission.
“Just a few moments. I’ve been fascinated by weaver ants since Professor Comstock first told us about them. Don’t you remember, Owen? It was last year during his discussion on the world’s most painful insect bites. Light the lamp for me and hold it up. It’s getting too dark.”
Owen chanced a glance at Mr. Alford but lit his lamp and held his arm aloft. “Give her a second. There really is no dissuading her.”
As Owen and Mr. Alford argued, she inched toward the nest. The weaver ant was aggressive. After biting, it would rub its abdomen against the skin, infusing the fresh wound with a smear of formic acid. Nora’s hands shook with anticipation. How marvelous.
She sat so close to the nest now that she could see a steady march of ants exiting it. They walked downward over each other, clinging to one another to form a chain that swung over the ground. Nora laughed at their behavior. She’d never seen anything like it.
They must have felt the vibrations from her movement against the branch, because the chain dissolved, the ants scattering over the branch. One moved toward her, and not willing to vacate her perch, she flicked it from the tree.
“Nora! Come down now. The other men have gathered.”
Her head shot up at Mr. Alford’s call, and she wrinkled her nose. “Just one more moment. I want to see inside it.” She pulled a twig from the branch above her and slid closer to the nest. Just as she poked at it with the stick, another call came.
“Maybe you should come down,” Owen said. “Haven’t you learned your lesson climbing trees?”
She sighed. “Owen Epps, what type of entomologist is so afraid of falling from a tree that they’d abandon their study of such a fascinating creature?” She used the stick to separate two of the glued-together leaves and pushed one to the side. She peered inside the nest and grinned. Over a hundred ants scurried around, dancing to music only they could hear. “They’re incredible.”
A few of the ants scuttled from the nest, and Nora removed her twig when they began to walk along it. She banged it against the branch, knocking the ants free, then stuck the twig back into the nest. This time she leaned over, only inches from the opening, and saw the larvae glowing white against the leaf wall. She poked at the nest with her finger. How had they made it so sturdy? Amazing.
The tree trembled beneath Nora, and Owen grunted. “How did you get up here? That wasn’t easy.” He popped his head above the branch where she sat.
“I’m good at climbing trees.”
“You’re also good at falling out of them.”
“I won’t fall this time.” She lifted the nest with the stick, intent on seeing how they had attached it to the tree. “Look at this. They use the silk from
the larvae to glue together their nests.”
She bit her lower lip. Steady. She propped the twig beneath the nest, and . . . it popped from the tree and tumbled through the air.
Mr. Alford screamed. Nora and Owen looked at each other with wide eyes, and Nora chanced a glance below, where their team leader smacked at his head with his hands, the weaver ants swarming his hair, face, and neck.
“Oh no . . .” She pushed at Owen and scrambled off the branch.
Owen jumped from the tree, and after she sat on the bottom branch, he gripped her waist and lowered her to the ground. She hurried to Mr. Alford and joined the other men in brushing the ants from him.
Razors sliced at her palms as the ants used their strong mandibles to bite through her skin. Her admiration at their cunningness fled as fire spread across her hands. She stomped and crushed every little devil she saw.
Finally, their frenzy ended. Mr. Alford pressed his hands against the raw, reddened skin along his temples, jaw, and neck. His fingers spanned his face, and through the gaps between them, he glared at Nora, tears pooling in his eyes.
“You—” The word came out as an accusation, and in it Nora heard all manner of insults.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Her palms throbbed, and she spread her fingers so that the air circulated around them.
“You stupid girl.” Mr. Alford spun and pushed through the weeds and brush. Mr. Steed smirked at her, then followed.
Mr. Taylor pushed his hat up and scratched his head. “Well, this will probably set you back in your quest to prove yourself to him.”
“It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone,” William said in a mournful voice. “But it’s bad luck it happened to you.”
When they turned and left, Owen came alongside her and gripped her hand in his. She gasped at the pain but allowed the comfort of his touch to soothe her heart.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
“Your optimism in me is undeserved.”
She shook off his hand and followed the men back to the road, an easy feat given the loud string of curses trailing behind Mr. Alford.
Chapter
Eleven
Nora watched William and Mr. Alford pull the table from the cabin. Mr. Taylor followed with a couple of cardboard boxes, which she knew contained the butterflies the men had found over the previous two days.
“Oh, honestly.” She stomped over to Owen’s tent. “I must talk with you.”
He pushed aside the flap, and she stepped back at his sudden closeness.
“You need to talk to Mr. Alford,” she said. “He still has me working only on illustrations, and he hasn’t spared me a word since the . . . incident.”
Owen bent over her, and she caught the scent of his lovely cologne. It had to be imported, though how he managed to smell so good when the other men stank of body odor and garlic was beyond her. When he spoke, his breath sent the tendrils that had escaped her chignon dancing, and they tickled her ear. “You should do something to endear yourself to him.”
It took a moment for his words to register, but when they did, she frowned. “I’m not going to manipulate him in order to further my career.”
“Making yourself useful isn’t manipulation. Try being . . . pleasant.”
Nora’s mouth dropped. “Aren’t I always?”
His eyebrows leapt as though they pulled a laugh from his throat and held on while it danced across his face. She watched with fascination. She’d never seen a man so expressive.
So handsome.
She inhaled sharply. Where had that thought come from?
“It might be hard for Mr. Alford to see pleasantness,” Owen said, “beneath all of your other idiosyncrasies.”
He sauntered toward the cabin, where the rest of the men huddled.
Idiosyncrasies? That sounded like an insult.
She stalked after him, catching up before he reached the cabin, and poked him in the back. When he turned, she said, “Fine. You’re right. I haven’t properly apologized. But I’m not admitting to any idiosyncrasies.”
Nora took a few steps toward Mr. Alford, whose face was mottled by angry red marks. He drew his thin brows—so different from Owen’s—together, and his mustache drooped, giving him the look of a sad hound.
Something twinged beneath her ribs. He looked terrible. And, as much as she wanted to blame him for standing under the tree, Owen was right—it was her fault. She’d been bullheaded in her determination to study the ants despite Mr. Alford’s probably appropriate objections.
She stopped in front of him. “I’m truly sorry you were hurt, Mr. Alford. It wasn’t my intention, and I never dreamed that thing would go flying through the air.”
Mr. Alford ran a finger over the welts covering his jawline. He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
“I’d like to go out with you today. I give you my word that I’ll do only what you ask of me, even if I see something interesting. I’d be a help to your team. My knowledge and experience in tracking butterflies would be an asset.”
His pale skin between the ant bites turned vermillion, and Nora couldn’t tell the marks from his flush. “No.”
Her shoulders sank, and she could almost feel herself shrinking. She tried to resist the despair. Tried to throw back her chin and look him in the eye and demand he respect her abilities. But she knew he was no longer denying her because of her gender. He didn’t want her around because he didn’t trust her. And she had only herself to blame for that.
A deep sigh shuddered her chest, and she pressed her lips together, knowing she had to overcome an even steeper mountain of effort to win his favor. “Okay. I understand. I might, though, when my work is done, do a little exploring on my own.”
“There are tigers and leopards in the shola and grasslands. You may go if you wish to be eaten. It is safer in a group.” He shrugged.
“Mr. Taylor goes out alone all the time searching for his elusive land leeches. Do tigers not like the taste of British men?”
Mr. Taylor, who stood beside the fire, drinking a cup of tea, leveled a stare at her. “Few things like the taste of British men.”
Owen snorted and leaned close. “Something you have in common with them, Peculiar?”
She nudged him with her shoulder and didn’t break eye contact with Mr. Alford. “You leave Pallavi and me alone every day in camp. Is that unsafe?”
“Tigers won’t attack a human if they have an abundant food supply. However, if you chance upon one outside of camp, they just might grow annoyed enough to bare their claws and teeth.” Mr. Alford stared at her, unblinking, until his eye twitched. He whirled and waved his hand above his head. “Come on, men, let’s get things packed up.” Then he stomped toward his tent and disappeared inside.
Owen laid his large hand on her shoulder. “You tried.”
Warmth traveled down her arms at his touch, right to her fingertips. “It didn’t seem to help.”
He turned her toward him and gripped her hands. “A soft answer turns away wrath. Don’t worry. He’ll come around.”
“I didn’t realize you were a philosopher.”
His teeth flashed in a boyish grin. “That’s from the Bible. Proverbs. Do you want me to finish it?”
His blue eyes fixed on her. Nora thought it incredible that the same theory observed by Hooke and Newton—structural coloration—could affect both insect wings and Owen’s eyes. She tipped her head toward him, trying to get a closer look.
“All right, tell me,” she said, hoping to distract him a moment longer.
His mouth tipped to one side as though he knew her motive. “A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” He blinked, his fair lashes sweeping over his eyes, cutting them from her observation, and she focused on what he was saying. “I admire your strength and drive, but sometimes those things need to be tempered with grace. Words, especially, can bring healing or pain.”
“Have I ever spoken to you in a way that
brought you pain?” she asked, not sure she really wanted to know. They’d gone to school together long enough that she was certain she must have.
He rubbed his thumbs over her knuckles, and Nora, having forgotten he still held her hands, drew a deep breath. His eyes grew soft, almost as though someone had filled the pigment with pastel chalk.
“It doesn’t matter. Your words don’t intimidate me.”
“Do you think that’s what I mean to do?” She dropped her voice and stepped closer so that only the whisper of a dragonfly’s flight separated them. What had gotten into her? Her hands began to sweat, and she didn’t know if it was the sticky humidity, Owen’s clasp, or her own forward behavior.
There was something about India. . . .
Owen’s lips settled into the laugh lines running down the sides of his face. She wanted to run her finger over those creases. She tugged one hand from his and kept it there, hovering between them like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Trapped between the wanting and the knowing. She felt the languid pace of her new home seep into her pores and thicken her blood so that it traveled through her veins as unhurried as the Indian people who lived life without any clocks.
Nora lifted her hand, her trembling fingers only a hairsbreadth from his jaw. And for once, Owen’s brows stilled. They rested over eyes so filled with wonder and hope that her breath hitched, and she made a small noise in her throat.
And then something sounding very much like an elephant stampeded into camp and shook Nora from her hazy dream as it shrieked and stomped and wailed.
Nora whirled. Pallavi wrestled a little girl—about eleven—in an embrace that seemed more intent on harm than affection. She could hardly keep her grip on the child, though, who hollered and struggled.
Owen rushed toward them. “Pallavi, what are you doing to that poor child? Let her go.”
Pallavi loosened her grip but gave her head a harsh shake. “No. She can’t be here.” She smacked the girl on the side of the head, sending her eyes skyward.
When Owen pried Pallavi’s hand free, the cook let loose a stream of Tamil and shook her finger in the girl’s face. The child remained stoic, standing just outside Pallavi’s reach, but a single tear dripped down her dirt-streaked cheek.
A Mosaic of Wings Page 12
