A Mosaic of Wings

by Kimberly Duffy

  “Papa, I want that butterfly for my collection.”

  “Bumble Bea, it’s too far away. The tree isn’t sturdy enough. We’ll have to find another one.”

  Nora looked at the pretty blue insect that rested on a spindly limb of the willow oak extending over Cascadilla Falls.

  Her father started away, leaving Nora to wonder if she could scramble up and snatch it before he noticed. She was fast.

  But he had still noticed.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  Get them off!” Nora’s scream bounced off the thick trees and reverberated around the camp.

  “Calm down, Nora. It’s okay.” Owen cupped her jaw with one hand, and when she stilled, he used the other to run his fingers through her hair, picking the roaches out one at a time and tossing them into the weeds.

  Violent tremors shook her body, and she sank to the ground. She grasped fistfuls of velvety-soft grass and pulled. Over and over, until the patch around her became barren. Owen knelt near her, close enough that she knew he was there, but not so close that he interfered in her doomed attempt to forget.

  She never forgot, though, and the roaches tormented her with guilt and regret.

  Heavy footsteps drew her attention. Frederic stood over them, glaring down his nose and scratching at his head, which signified another pest altogether. “What is going on?”

  Nora just shook her head.

  “It’s nothing,” Owen said, standing. “She was startled by some rather large cockroaches.”

  Frederic’s thin lips twisted. “Cockroaches? You were frightened by some roaches? Of all the ridiculous things.”

  His words cleared her fog, and she got to her feet and clapped the dust from her hands. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

  “I should hope not. I thought Comstock sending you here showed a lack of common sense, but now I know he’s completely off his crumpet. An entomologist frightened by roaches, indeed!” He spun and stomped back to his tent and the still-sleeping porters.

  Nora chanced a glance at Owen and saw curiosity and concern in his knotted brows. “I think I should return to my tent,” she said.

  “I think you should tell me what just happened. It wasn’t the first time. You had the same response in class when the cockroach—”

  “Yes, I remember.” She shuddered, still able to feel its wiry legs prickling her calf through her stockings. She rubbed at her head, trying to erase the ghost of the mating pair’s touch.

  “I’ve never known you to be fearful, especially of an insect. What’s going on?” Owen asked.

  She wondered if confessing her sin would absolve her of it. Maybe she’d spent too long holding it within her own mind, and if she gave it wings, it would fly away, and she’d be left with peace.

  She knew her feelings were irrational. Knew it wasn’t really her fault. She’d been impulsive and headstrong, yes, but Father had made his own decision. The image, though, was seared on her soul.

  “The day my father died, he took me collecting. He’d given me a drawer in his cabinet and told me I could fill it with whatever struck my fancy.” She drew Owen deeper beneath the tree’s canopy, hoping the dense branches muffled her words. She inhaled, drawing strength from the rush of oxygen, and plunged into her story. “We spotted a beautiful blue butterfly I hadn’t seen in my father’s collection, and I wanted it—more than anything I’d ever coveted. It rested on a tree branch, and my father told me to leave it. The branch hung over Cascadilla Falls.”

  Even in the thin moonlight, she could see the pallor curtaining Owen’s face. He knew, of course. Everyone knew how Professor Shipley had died. But they didn’t know why. And now she was about to tell the one person who’d come to mean more to her than almost anyone else.

  She grabbed the ends of her shawl and knotted it at her chest. Then she untied it and tugged at the fringe, fiddling until Owen covered her hands with his. The warmth of his touch was a balm.

  “You may have learned I’m willful,” she said.

  He smiled. “You wouldn’t have accomplished all you have if you weren’t.”

  She flexed her fingers inside his, and when he released her, she grasped his hand. She needed that connection. Needed to be grounded by his touch.

  “When my father turned to go, I attempted to climb the tree. Looking back, I can see how idiotic it was. The falls were swollen from rain, and they tumbled below in a frenzy that should have warned me. But I wanted the butterfly.”

  She hadn’t cried when her father died. Nor at his funeral. Nor afterward when her mother isolated herself in her room and sobbed for months. She didn’t cry at holidays or his birthday. It was as though her part in his death forever forbade her from showing how deeply losing him affected her. As though she was too unworthy to share in the grief.

  But now, as the words slipped from her mouth like the millstones they were, tears trickled down her cheek. She disentangled her fingers from Owen’s and swiped at them. “My father saw me and pulled me down before I got too high. He laughed and called me his resolved little Bumble Bea—that was his pet name for me because my middle name is Beatrice—and then he said something that sent my heart soaring. He would get it for me.”

  Owen drew her toward him. He wrapped his arm around her back, and she pressed her head against his chest, the thump-thump of his heart beneath her ear. He didn’t make her finish the story but spoke it for her, and she loved him for it.

  “He fell while trying to capture that butterfly, didn’t he?”

  She nodded. She had watched him tumble into the falls. Heard his shout and then a sickening splash. And she saw the butterfly lift from the branch and fly away after his spirit.

  “It took me so long to get to the creek bed that when I arrived, his body had already washed up onto the grass. I pulled him out, but I couldn’t leave him, and so I screamed for help. But no one came. For hours, I just sat with him. A cockroach crawled on top of him. It moved over his face, into his mouth, down his shirt. I was too scared to do anything but watch. They torment me. When I see one, I feel as though I’m watching him die all over again.”

  Owen cupped the back of her head, and her tears wet his shirt. He didn’t say anything. He only stood with her as she remembered, the reassuring sound of his heartbeat joining with the chorus of cicadas, serenading her in its healing hymn.

  Two days after they had returned from their exploration, Nora stood with Frederic at the fire, sipping a cup of tea. He grimaced but swallowed anyway. Nora imagined he felt the same way about her as he did about the spiced tea—tolerating both of them because there were no other options.

  Frederic coughed. “I’m taking the men out today since we’re done cataloguing everything. You will stay here, of course.”

  He had no butterflies for her to illustrate. But she didn’t blame him for refusing to allow her to join them. She’d made a fool of herself. Again. And she was too tired to fight it.

  She set down her cup and went back to her tent in search of a peace offering. She reemerged a moment later and carried the orchid tit to Frederic. “I stumbled upon this while we were gone.” She shoved the jar into his hands. “It’s been relaxing for a couple days and is probably ready to be mounted today. I’ll illustrate it, as well.”

  His mouth dropped. “Is this a Chliaria othona?”

  She nodded. “I managed to study it for over an hour. I’ve already had Sita transcribe my notes for you.”

  “I’ve been looking for one of these for a month. Where did you find it?”

  Nora waved her hand. “Just saw it mud-puddling while we were hiking about. Along with a Delias eucharis. I have that, if you’d like to see it.”

  Frederic stared into the jar, only darting a quick glance at her, and said, “I’m sure you’re mistaken. The Jezebel doesn’t puddle.”

  “I’m certain of what I saw. But I’ll add it to my own collection if you don’t want it.”

  He tossed the contents of his cup into the fire, shrugge
d, and said, “It’s yours. Even if it is a Delias eucharis, those are too common to be worth space.” He held up the Chliaria othona. “But this one is going in the book. See that you do it justice.”

  When he had gathered the men and they’d all left for the shola, Nora called to Sita, who had been arranging sticks in geometric patterns near the fire. “Take this back to my tent. I’ll show you how to mount it later.”

  Sita beamed, took the jar from Nora’s hand, and rushed it to her tent. Nora’s fondest memories were of her father leaning over her while he guided her in mounting insects. She’d offer that to Sita, so that when Nora left, there would be a string of memories connecting them across the ocean.

  Nora’s scalp prickled. What would Sita do when she left? She had to find her a safe place before then. She’d been in India for less than three months of her six-month stay, though. She had time.

  Pallavi moved from tent to tent, gathering dirty laundry from each one into a basket resting atop her head. She disappeared around a thicket of trees as she headed for the stream. Nora wished she could rely on Sita’s aunt for help, but she knew Pallavi wouldn’t risk angering her god to free Sita from her father’s vow.

  Sita peeked out from the tent flap. “Can we draw it first, Akka? Now?”

  They had nothing else to fill their time. Sita had spent hours the day before reprinting Nora’s notes in tiny, uniform letters. No flourishes, no embellishments. Just lines of neat print and perfectly rendered copies of her observances. First for the Chliaria othona, and then for the Delias eucharis. She deserved a more engaging task.

  “All right.”

  Nora laid fresh canvases on the table and pulled her boxes of watercolors from their place in the stacked crates.

  Sita stepped from the tent, carefully cupping two jars. When she reached Nora, she pressed the jar containing the Chliaria othona to her nose and peered at the butterfly waiting for them to immortalize it in watercolor.

  “Do you want to illustrate the other one too?” Nora pointed a paintbrush at the jar in Sita’s other hand.

  Sita shrugged. “It was on the table. I see these all the time, though. It’s not as special, is it?”

  Nora smiled and took the jar. She unscrewed the lid and, using a pair of narrow forceps, removed the butterfly and placed it on her canvas. “Just because something is common doesn’t mean it’s not special.” She carefully spread its wings so that they fully displayed their brilliant colors. Maybe not as brilliant as she recalled, though. This one’s wings were a little faded. “Look how pretty it is. The Common Jezebel has lovely orange points.” She turned it over and pointed toward the markings. “See how they’re arrow-shaped . . .”

  She blinked. That wasn’t right.

  Sita giggled. “They don’t look like arrows.”

  Nora’s heart lurched, and she spread the hind wing so that it separated from the forewing. She gasped. This isn’t a Common Jezebel.

  Sita shook Nora’s arm. “Akka, what is it?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  What is it? Nora didn’t know of a butterfly that mimicked Delias eucharis. Her father had had one in his collection, sent to him by a friend in Asia. Its hind wing was much wider than this one, and it most certainly had arrow-shaped orange spots along the edge of its wing. She’d spent years of her life poring through her father’s treasury of insect publications. She’d never seen this butterfly.

  “Sita, come with me.”

  With nimble fingers Nora plucked the butterfly from the table and cupped it gently in her palm. Motioning for Sita to follow, she loped toward the cabin.

  Inside she gently set the butterfly on the table and rustled through the stack of books until she found A Catalogue of Asian Insects. Rupert Mills had never failed her before. In fact, it was this book that had provided the name of the caterpillar Owen had shown her.

  Flipping to the right page, she sat on a wobbly chair, settling the book in her lap and the butterfly on the book. Right there, halfway down a paragraph about the Common Jezebel, was a picture of it. And though her butterfly resembled it, there were obvious differences.

  Nora covered her mouth with her hands, capturing the shriek that slipped past her lips.

  Sita, peering over Nora’s shoulder and sighing over the beautiful illustrations, jerked. “Akka?”

  “Oh, this is wonderful!”

  “What is?”

  Using two fingers to scoop up the butterfly, she nudged it into the palm of her hand and held it up for Sita to see. This was going to make all the difference. It would win her the scholarship, and Lucius would have to turn the journal over to her.

  “Sita,” she said, her voice shaking with the promise of a granted dream, “we’ve discovered a new species.”

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  I feel like dancing, Sita.”

  After they illustrated the surprise butterfly—they both decided that would be more interesting than the other—they ate a lunch of leftover flatbreads and papaya so juicy it left sticky trails dribbling down their chins. Satisfied and dozy, they lay on a thick carpet of grass. Nora crossed her arms behind her head and stared up at the brilliant sky marred only by misty gray clouds gathered above the Western Ghats in the distance. The sun, not yet clothed in the filmy veil, shone a beatific face over them, bathing everything in its smile.

  “Then dance.”

  Wouldn’t that be lovely? Dancing when one felt like dancing instead of only when one ought to. Nora imagined what her stepfather would say if she flouted expectation and did a jig just because the joy rushing through her blood made her want to move.

  Toss it all. “I think I will.”

  Nora clambered to her feet, Sita following suit, and lifted her skirts to her knees. Counting the beat in her head, she turned a quick circle.

  Sita laughed and clapped her hands.

  Nora whirled, the tents, trees, crackling fire, and cabin swirling together as though she’d run a wet paintbrush through her palette. When her breath gave out, she grabbed her knees and panted.

  Sita continued to clap. “Sing, Athai,” she called to Pallavi, who laid clothing out to dry in the sun.

  Pallavi squinted at them but shrugged and warbled a high-pitched melody.

  Sita swung her arms over her head, and with jerky little movements, her hands, arms, chest, hips, and legs kept time with the song. Her bare feet stomped the ground. Her white teeth flashed, along with her dimples, and with every wiggle and flick of her fingers, she tossed joy toward Nora.

  “Dance with me.” Sita sway-stepped around Nora and put her hands beneath Nora’s elbows. With only a bit of guidance, Nora’s stance resembled Sita’s, and she thought she might look like one of the female reliefs she’d seen carved into the stone walls lining the harbor when their ship docked in Madras Port.

  Nora pretended she wore a belly-baring top and a brilliant emerald sari—how shocking!—and she undulated her arms so that they brought to mind the movements of a caterpillar. So fluid and natural. Maybe God created us to move this way. Not in the precise, stiff patterns of a waltz. She knew she should have been horrified at her unconventional thought, let alone at the way she moved her body. But she only wished she could dispense with her corset and stifling layers. Feel the sun hot on her arms and the breeze weave its way across her torso.

  The excitement of the morning’s discovery buzzed through her, twitching her fingers and wrists, her feet and knees. Bouncing her shoulders and fluttering her lashes like Sita, Nora gave in to her emotion, perhaps for the first time in her life, and enjoyed the brief moment of being.

  With her eyes closed, Nora found herself borne away on Pallavi’s song, which had somehow tangled itself in her very movements. She heard neither the wind brushing the leaves on the trees nor Sita’s light-as-air steps tapping out a telegraph. She felt nothing but the sheer freedom of being alive where she was at the moment, glorying in God’s blessing.

  Until Sita giggled and tugged on her arm, and Nor
a opened her eyes to see Owen watching her from across the campsite.

  He stared at her, slack-jawed and covered in a sheen of perspiration.

  Nora froze, her arms akimbo and her hip jutting at an awkward angle. “What are you doing back here so early?”

  “I don’t feel well.” He took a few steps toward her and raised his hand. “You’re incredible.”

  Then he crumpled to the ground.

  The candle flickered, sending a long shadow against the tent’s wall. Owen, feverish and restless, groaned and rubbed his head against his small flat pillow. Nora dipped a cloth into a bowl of cool water. She squeezed it, the droplets the only sound breaking the silence, and laid it against his forehead.

  She shifted on the tiny camp stool and undid her shirt’s top button. Swiping her fingers beneath her clavicle, she turned an ear toward the tent’s roof. Rain, released from the clouds in a sudden river, pounded the canvas. Maybe it would bring relief from the heat. The inside of Owen’s tent ventured toward hellfire. She’d thought fresh air might serve Owen more than being closed up, but Frederic refused to allow him near anyone else, lest the illness spread. If William’s and Leonard’s lengths of incapacitation were any indication, Owen would be unable to work for at least a week.

  Nora watched the shallow rise and fall of Owen’s chest beneath the light blanket and wanted to rest her hand against his heart. Feel the strength of it beneath her touch.

  She dipped her fingers into the bowl and touched her forehead, allowing the water to dribble down her nose and onto her lap.

  “I’m sorry.” Owen’s voice held no strength.

  She set the bowl aside and took his clammy hand. “What for?”

  “For becoming ill just when you most needed me.” His eyes had taken on a feverish glint, and she didn’t know if his sickness or his feelings for her had caused it.