Chapter
Seventeen

Two days later, when Mr. Alford was well enough to sit unassisted and bark commands at anyone unlucky enough to enter his line of sight, Nora rapped on the front door of a two-story house made of pale brick. Nearly overtaken by purple clematis, it housed the Greater British Missionary Alliance, and she was eager to meet with Christians who had dedicated themselves to the welfare of the native people. Mr. Alford’s conscience might have been consumed by thoughts of the mating rituals and life cycles of tropical butterflies, but surely the missionaries would be more sympathetic to Sita’s plight.

A servant wearing a full beard and turban opened the door and led Nora to a light-filled office just off the hall. A moment later, a well-fed man sporting a heavy mustache that flowed into lacy gray muttonchops entered the room. His eyes wrinkled in the corners, and a relaxed smile pushed up his round cheeks. Nora felt certain he would help her. He had an air of joviality and kindness.

“Please, have a seat.” He waved Nora into a spindly upholstered chair opposite an imposing desk covered in all manner of paper.

Nora settled herself.

He undid the bottom button of his vest and sat behind the desk, with cracking joints and a satisfied sigh. “I am Mr. Jacob Welling, director of missions for southern India. What can I do for you?”

Nora relaxed her face into what she hoped was a pleasant expression and introduced herself. “I’m looking for help for a young friend. Her father has dedicated her to worship at the temple of Yellamma and all that that entails.”

Mr. Welling had lived in India for years. Hopefully he wouldn’t expect Nora to expand on Sita’s fate.

A knowing light entered his watery eyes, and his jowls settled into an expression that reminded Nora of a bloodhound, all drooping skin and sad expression. “Terrible business,” he said. “But there isn’t a lot we can do.”

Nora blinked. “But you’re head of the mission here.”

“And this is a local matter. It isn’t illegal in India to give children into such practice.”

She swallowed against the sourness filling her mouth. It slid down her throat and burned a trail to her stomach. “But you’re here on a calling from God. It’s your duty to help the disenfranchised.”

Mr. Welling sat back in his chair and rested his folded hands over his belly. “You are a softhearted woman, Miss Shipley. It’s a credit to your sex and—”

She held up her hand, palm toward him. “Please don’t patronize me. I’m neither softhearted nor like most women. I merely see a need and want this child helped.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not in any position to help. I am here to support the needs of the local missionaries.”

“I thought you were here to reach the Indians with the news of Christ. To reduce yourself so that He might shine through you.”

Mr. Welling smiled, small, even teeth peeking from behind his mustache. “Have you ever considered entering ministry, my dear?” When she sighed and rubbed at her temple, he coughed. “No, of course not. But, you see, if we interfere in this, then the Hindus will grow angry, and we wouldn’t be welcome any longer. Kodaikanal is a place of respite for our ill and weary workers. In order to continue meeting the needs of our Christian brothers and sisters in India, we must not start a revolt among the locals.”

“This girl is a Christian, converted at one of your mission schools. Do you set the captive free only to leave them in the very cages they thought they’d escaped?” Nora’s heart pounded against her rib cage. She didn’t know what she’d do if Mr. Welling was unwilling to help.

He sighed. “That is unfortunate.”

“Quite the understatement, Mr. Welling.”

A soft cough sounded from the doorway, and Mr. Welling’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling as though he were praising God for the interruption. “Mr. Davies! I’m so glad you’ve come.” He stood and offered Nora a placid smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Shipley, that I can’t be of more service. I’ll keep your little friend in my prayers and hope God preserves her.”

Nora stood. “I’m certain God will find your sacrifice pleasing.” She ignored the wounded expression in his eyes and turned away.

Swathi Davies and her husband stood in the doorway, Swathi’s pinched face cradling a soft smile. Charan frowned at Nora and gave a slight shake of his head.

“I will see Miss Shipley out.” Swathi patted Charan’s hand and reached for Nora’s.

Approaching her, Nora nodded to Charan, and behind his brittle façade, she saw fear. For his wife or position, she didn’t know, but she sent him a smile. He had lost his child, and although his wife still stood beside him in body, her soul and mind were broken and not altogether present.

Swathi curled her fine-boned hand around Nora’s arm and led her from the house. They stopped on the marble step outside the door, and Swathi’s grip turned desperate. Hard.

“Please don’t think ill of me for eavesdropping, but I overheard your conversation with Mr. Welling, and I might be able to help.” Her eyes darkened, and she glanced behind them. She released Nora’s arm and slid the door closed. “Come.”

Nora followed Swathi down the step and up the pebbled lane to the gate. Hope, in the guise of a swarm of butterflies, fluttered in her belly. She reached for the iron balustrade to steady herself. “Please, tell me.”

Swathi’s tongue darted out and wet her lips. “If anyone finds out I told you this, it could ruin my husband’s career. Mr. Welling, as kind as he is, doesn’t brook noncompliance among his missionaries. My husband is in a precarious position, as he’s not fully British. The Eurasians are looked down on by both father and mother.” When Nora shook her head in confusion, Swathi continued, “The British don’t fully embrace their children, but neither do the Indians. They are both but neither. My parents—” Tears welled, and she sniffed, pulling them back. “My parents weren’t happy I married Charan, even though my family has been Christian for a hundred years. Even though they sent me to the English school. And Charan’s father went back to England after he secured him this position. We have no one and nothing. So please, you must not tell anyone I spoke with you about this.” Her chin trembled, and she blinked.

“I give you my word.”

Swathi leaned in, and her whispered words brushed Nora’s ear. “There is a woman outside Madurai. She runs a home for children who have been rescued from your friend’s fate. Some worked for a few years, but many escape before they’re given over.”

Nora pulled back and pressed her hand against her heart. God had made a way.

The front door creaked open, and Nora squeezed Swathi’s arm. “I’ll come to you when the information is needed. Thank you.”

Swathi bit her trembling lower lip. “Will you . . . will you come for lunch tomorrow? I know I don’t know you well, but I’ve no one here, and my husband is so busy.”

Nora looked at the house and saw Mr. Welling standing on the step, shading his eyes with a hand and staring after her. She smiled brightly and waved at him, then looked at Swathi. “I’d love to come.”

Then she slid through the gate and turned toward camp, the gentle stirrings of restored faith spurring her forward.

Lunch with Swathi proved interesting. Educated and articulate, she had Bitsy’s quick wit and Rose’s sweet spirit. Mr. Davies came home to dine with them, and their conversation continued with his thoughtful responses.

Their cook—a man who had worked for them in Madurai—prepared the best meal Nora had eaten in India thus far, though she wouldn’t tell Pallavi. Dosai stuffed with mutton, fish cooked in a well-spiced broth, sambar, the ever-present rice, plus an array of dishes Nora had no name for and knew she’d never be able to describe.

When they finished eating, Mr. Davies took Nora’s hand. “Thank you for visiting with us.” She saw more in his eyes than his words expressed. The look he gave his wife was tender. “We’ve been lonely since leaving our home.”

Swathi had been lonely, he meant. He’d been kept busy. She stayed in a house, empty save for her cook and a man who cleaned and worked in the garden. No child to fill her days. Her movements exhibited a sluggishness that spoke of deep grief, her eyes wandered when their talk slowed, her skin wore a gray cast, and she only picked at her food.

When Mr. Davies left, Nora glanced at Swathi, who clasped and unclasped the fork sitting beside her plate. Nora had rejoiced when she first saw the utensil, knowing she’d be able to eat her fill, but now the item seemed to have absorbed all of Swathi’s sadness, and Nora wanted nothing more than to ease it.

Over the course of a single lunch, she’d developed a deep regard for Swathi. Maybe because she missed her friends and the easy conversation that sparked between them, or maybe because the tension she’d carried in her back since meeting Mr. Alford and failing, repeatedly, to impress him had dissolved the moment she stepped into Swathi’s cozy bungalow. Either way, they’d fallen into an instant and deep friendship.

“I lost my father,” Nora said.

Swathi’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry. It’s a terrible pain.”

“It never really goes away. But it does become bearable. Eventually.”

“My family has been lucky. Until Lukose, none of the children died young. We are a robust people, and I became complacent, trusting that he would be safe. Because of that, and because God loves us. Isn’t that silly? It’s terrible theology, Charan would say. I haven’t told him how angry I am that God didn’t protect my son. Does that shock you?”

“No. I understand it.”

She looked at Nora for a moment, then nodded. “It’s hard to talk about such things with others. They don’t understand. Even my family . . . my mother believes marrying Charan caused a weakness in our child. The British often don’t fare well in India. They contract every disease, die so quickly. Most of them send their children away to England before they turn six, knowing they’ll be more likely to survive. Do you think my son’s British blood made him susceptible to typhoid? Did it make him too weak to survive it?”

Nora shook her head. “Fully British people survive typhoid. And fully Indian people die of it. I think it was just a terrible thing that happened, and none of it had anything to do with your husband’s heritage.”

Swathi shuddered and sank against her seat. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Sometimes my faith becomes so twisted up in fear and emotions, I forget we live in a natural world.”

A small laugh escaped Nora’s throat. “Sometimes my thoughts become so consumed by the natural world, I forget about faith. I should remember it more often.”

She thought of Sita and her situation, realizing she might have to rely more on God than her own understanding. An uncomfortable position for someone who had spent years cultivating a sharp mind and explanations backed by science.

Three days later, Nora stood at the table in the rickety cabin and peered at the stack of books brought from England. Her fingers ran down the spines.

“Illustrations of New Species of Exotic Butterflies, Lepidoptera: Indigenous and Exotic, The Cabinet of Oriental Entomology . . . there. That’ll work.”

She pulled the book from the middle of the stack and flipped open to the spread illustrating Meloidae.

The day before, after Nora had finished her work, she and Sita had taken their jars and set out to find something interesting. And they had. A large blister beetle Nora warned Sita not to touch. They’d studied its ponderous movements for a quarter of an hour, then carefully slid it into a kill jar. Sita loved its bright orange stripes and ability to burn the skin with a poisonous secretion, and she wanted to mount it—the beginning of her own insect collection. She was less interested in butterflies than the many insects that could sting, bite, or spray.

“Mylabris pustulata. Orange blister beetle.” She bent to smile at the jar that contained Sita’s discovery. “Well, now you have a name, and we must get you pinned.”

She replaced the book and took the jar with her into the glaring sunlight.

“What have you got there?” Mr. Alford asked, his question showing interest but the sneer on his face saying something else entirely.

She wondered if he couldn’t help his sour expressions. “Just a beetle Sita found yesterday while we were on a walk.”

His eyes narrowed a little, but then he shook his head and said, “You’re coming with us today.”

“With you where?”

“We’re traveling more afield than normal and will be spending the night in the shola.” He rubbed hard against his face and glowered. “Despite being here over a year, I’ve yet to gather enough illustrations and information to fill my book because of the constant illness my team has suffered. I can’t give any more excuses and plan to leave when you and Owen return home in a few months.”

“Have you forgiven me for dropping a hundred ants on your head?”

He rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged the corners of his lips. “No, but your gift of the gynandromorphic butterfly was generous and a boon for my project.” He cleared his throat, and his next words came out sounding harsh. “Pallavi will come with us to chaperone, and I told her to bring her monstrous niece, since she seems adept at finding things the rest of this team misses.”

Nora grinned. “Mr. Alford, I think you might be warming to us. Sita will be so happy to be included.”

His mouth fell into its usual frown. “See that she doesn’t get in the way. And call me Frederic.”

She smiled at his retreating back.

An hour later, with Sita tripping at their heels and Pallavi carrying a large copper kettle on her head, they plunged into the forest. Two porters followed close behind, their shoulders weighted with skins of water and boxes of supplies.

Nora patted her bag, which bounced against her hip as she trotted along the leaf-strewn path. Her heart danced along with her steps, and she couldn’t help but admire the vibrancy of the land around them. The green leaves and showy blooms and brambly floor. The earth welcomed her freedom and sang with joy along with her. She trod lightly over the soft ground, her chest clenching with anticipation, and wondered at the interesting things they’d see.

A small hand slid into Nora’s palm, and she looked down into Sita’s serious face. “I am happy to come with you.” She flashed a grin and tugged until Nora lowered her head. “I know where the special butterflies go. Frederic hasn’t found them yet, and I heard him talking with Owen about it. They are uncommon in this part of India. Maybe we will see them.” Then she bounced toward Pallavi and tried to talk the cook into relinquishing one of the jalebi tucked into the sack hanging from her arm. Nora’s mouth watered. She’d been thrilled to see Pallavi had brought a box of them back to camp along with the requisite mangos, rice, and lentils.

Owen glanced back at her, then paused until she came alongside him.

“I’m glad you’ve come with us,” he said, as though she’d been the one resisting joining them. “You have a knack for discovery, and you’re sure to help us.”

Nora dropped her eyes to the trail. She’d thought he might want her along for her own sake, because he enjoyed her company. She’d never considered herself a silly woman, but her disappointment in his answer contradicted that.

“And,” Owen continued, “I like being with you. I like you.”

She jerked her head up. His lips curled in a boyish grin, but she couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or meant his words. He did have a reputation on campus for being a flirt . . . but he had been so attentive.

She swallowed the pleasure tickling her throat and chose pragmatism. “Flattery doesn’t work on me.”

“What do you think I want from you?”

She shrugged, then heard her mother’s rebuke—“don’t shrug, darling, it isn’t feminine”—and lowered her shoulder. “I don’t know, but you must want something, or you wouldn’t say such things.”

Owen bit his lower lip. “You can’t believe I have a sincere interest in you?”

“I don’t see why you would. You are the smart, charming son of a successful New York City businessman.”

“And who are you?”

Absolutely no one. Nora shifted her bag, easing its pressure on her hip. She winced when a sharp pain shot across her lower back. They’d been walking for hours, and she wasn’t used to trekking such distances.

Owen slipped the strap from her shoulder and lifted it over her head. He tucked her rucksack into the larger bag he carried. “I’ll tell you who you are. You are Nora Shipley, daughter of the most interesting man I’ve ever met.”

She slid a glance toward him.

“It’s true, and it amazes me that you think I’m charming when you were raised by such a man. He made a favorable impression on everyone who met him.”

Her estimation of Owen, already having risen so high since they’d arrived in India, grew. She chanced a light touch on his arm, which drew a smile from him. And his smile warmed her.

The path before them dipped, and Owen held his arm out for her. “Here, don’t slip. I’d hate to have to carry you all the way to camp.” His gaze swept her face, and his lids grew heavy. “Actually, I might rather like carrying you all the way to camp.” He wrapped his arm around her back, his hand resting just below her rib cage.

Her heart hammered against her chest. And when the rest of the team disappeared around a bend in the footpath, it pounded a fierce tempo. But still Owen didn’t release her.

He drew her closer.

And tucked a curl behind her ear.

And bit his lip, which drew her attention to his well-formed face. To the beard prickling his chin and cheeks and the slight tug of his lips as he held back another smile.

His fingers trailed her jaw. “I’ll tell you who else you are. You are a woman of uncommon intelligence and beauty. A woman above all other women. A woman I could happily spend the rest of my life learning about.”

Nora’s eyes widened, only to slip closed as Owen tilted her head and lowered his mouth.

She’d never been kissed. Never wanted to be kissed. But now . . . here, with him . . .

A slapping of steps came from somewhere down the path, and Sita’s voice yanked Nora’s eyes open and Owen’s hand away.

“Akka, they’re setting up camp. Come, I will show you the spot I mentioned.”

Sita ignored Owen’s muttered argument, grabbed Nora’s hand, and pulled her off the trail and through a copse of densely packed trees.

By the time Sita led Nora to a muddy stream twisting and curving between and around evergreen trees, Nora’s stomach growled from hunger. She stopped when mud slurped at her boots, and shook a collection of twigs and burrs from her skirt.

“I hope this butterfly you want to show me is worth the hike.”

Sita flashed a smile and pointed at a spongy slick not eight feet from them. Nora squinted at the flock of dusty blue and black butterflies flitting about. She crept nearer, careful not to disturb them, and sifted through her mental catalogue of Lepidoptera.

“I believe it’s a Chliaria othona. They are rare this far south.” Nora knew Frederic was looking for species uncommon to southern India. He’d been in a dither a few days previous because he’d heard William had spotted an orchid tit, but when they returned to the spot, the elusive butterfly hadn’t been there.

And here . . . here Nora had a dozen at least.

“We need to go back to camp and tell Frederic about this. He’ll want to watch and record their behavior.”

Sita crossed her arms and stuck out her lip. “You should watch and draw them. Don’t tell Frederic. Then he will have the honor of finding them.”

“I’m part of a team, and Frederic leads it. He’s going to get credit anyway.”

“I showed you. I want you to study it and show me how to draw it. Why don’t you print your own book?”

Nora cupped the back of Sita’s head. “It’s not as easy as wanting to. I committed myself to Frederic’s team. Anyway, even though it’s a lovely butterfly, it will benefit Frederic more than me.”

Sita jerked away and pushed Nora. “I won’t let him see them. I’ll send them away!”

She whirled, and Nora grabbed her arm before she could rush at the butterflies and scatter them. She pulled Sita into her arms and wrapped her in an embrace.

“Sita, whatever is wrong? Do you hate him so much?”

Sita burrowed her head against Nora’s waist, trembling. “It is nothing. I don’t want him to have my butterflies. I want you to have them.”

The stirring of something ugly and outrageous flirted with Nora’s thoughts. Something she’d never have considered before learning Sita’s fate. But no. She couldn’t think . . .

“Okay. I won’t show him your spot, but may I take one back to camp?”

Sita frowned. Then she nodded and stepped back.

Nora reached for her rucksack but realized Owen still carried it. “How far is camp from here?”

Sita sniffed. “Half a kilometer. Not far.”

“Run and get Owen. Tell him to bring my bag and net.” She bent, pressed a kiss to Sita’s temple, and whispered, “But don’t tell Frederic. It’ll be our secret. We’ll just show him proof of our discovery, not where to find the entire treasure.”

A grin split Sita’s face, large enough to force Nora’s suspicions back into the oblivion where they belonged, and she darted away on nearly silent feet. Nora settled nearby, willing to throw herself over the entire lot of orchid tits if they made an escape.

A Delias eucharis, its brilliant stained-glass wings flittering, landed three feet away at the very end of the mud flat. Nora didn’t think she’d seen one in Frederic’s collection when she was working on the illustrations. The Common Jezebel was common, for sure. Swarms of them flew over India. Maybe it didn’t suit Frederic to have such an ordinary butterfly in his book, but it was certainly lovely, and she imagined most British people would enjoy seeing one illustrated. If it was still around when Sita returned, she’d collect it along with the rarer orchid tit.

Nora leaned against a tree and filled her eyes, mind, and soul with the beauty around her, wanting to escape the vile scum that muddied her thoughts.

That night they slept on scratchy blankets with only the ground for pillows. Nora, sandwiched between Pallavi and Sita, lay beneath their tent. Pallavi, the drape of her sari wrapped around her like a blanket, took up as little space in sleep as she did awake. Which was good, because Sita tossed and turned with nightmares.

Despite spending the better part of the afternoon and evening walking through the forest, the team had discovered nothing. Except for the secret orchid tit, which Nora had put in a jar with a wet cloth and drop of antiseptic and stuffed into the bottom of her sack—and the Common Jezebel she’d snagged along with it—the trip had been a complete waste of time.

Of course, there had been that moment with Owen. . . .

And the orchid tit, which held more significance.

Nora turned onto her stomach and tucked her hands beneath her head. Sita snuggled against her, triggering warm affection and a desire to protect. And on the heels of that maternal emotion came the hiss of bees, an ever-growing buzz in her throat. Anger, raw and hot and stinging, clawed at her lips until she felt helpless to resist it. She squeezed her eyes closed and wished for the oblivion of sleep. She didn’t want to think about it.

But she knew Sita’s response earlier might signify something heartbreaking.

Something wrong.

Something that could unleash all the anger Nora had ever suppressed.

She reached through the darkness and laid her hand on Sita’s soft head. Lord, please . . . What she prayed for, she didn’t know. Please save her. Please help me help her. Please stop this—whatever this is. Please let me be wrong. Please. Please. Please.

“Nora.”

Nora rolled onto her back and strained to see through the crack where the canvas flaps didn’t quite meet. “Yes?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Owen.

Did he want to talk about their almost-kiss? She didn’t think she could do that right now, with her emotions so ragged and raw.

She got to her feet, careful not to disturb the other two, and reached for her shawl, which she’d been using as a makeshift pillow. Draping it over her shoulders, she made sure her bodice and skirts were straight, then crept from the tent.

Owen stood a few feet away and motioned her toward a cluster fig tree across the clearing. As soon as they ducked beneath its overhanging branches, he said, “I’ve been thinking about that orchid tit. I don’t feel right keeping it from Frederic. We’re part of his team, and you discovered it while working for him. Maybe if you had found it on your own time . . .”

Nora nodded. “I’ll show him the one I captured, but I can’t let him see their gathering place. I promised Sita, and she feels strongly about it.”

“She’s an odd one, isn’t she?”

The high moon spilled light through the tree branches and dappled Owen’s face. The kindness in his expression softened his insult, and Nora thought she’d never seen anyone as handsome. Or as thoughtful and trustworthy and smart.

“You remind me of my father.” The words slipped from her mouth before she’d even formulated them in her thoughts.

Owen’s lips tilted, just a little at the corners. “Thank you.”

She had known only two men she trusted—her father and Professor Comstock. But Owen had somehow managed to join them. She didn’t know when it had happened. Maybe as they traveled thousands of miles across the ocean. Or maybe it was because he’d worked so hard to convince Frederic of her worth. But whatever the reason, Nora allowed herself to be enveloped by the comforting knowledge that she could rely on him.

And she knew she couldn’t keep her suspicions to herself. “Can I tell you something . . . unpleasant?”

Owen stiffened and ran his hand through his hair before nodding. He leaned against the tree trunk, and his eyes shuttered as his lips grew thin. He looked for all the world as though she was about to break his heart. Her breath caught, and she wondered at the heat rushing through her. Not that she wanted to break his heart, but the knowledge that the possibility would affect him that way made her feel, for the first time in her life, as though she held a certain amount of power.

How proud you are.

She stepped toward him so only a few inches of tropical air, heavy with the promise of monsoon, separated them. “It’s about Sita. And Frederic.”

He tugged at his ear. She’d never noticed how well-formed his ears were. She shook her head. Focus, Nora.

“I believe something might have happened between them. Something . . . improper.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

He grabbed her hands. “What are you saying, Nora? Please be clear so I don’t speculate.”

“I believe Frederic may have behaved unseemly toward her. In a physical manner.” She saw Owen’s face redden and knew her own matched his. Whether from anger or embarrassment, she didn’t know.

He tugged her hands toward him and whispered, “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. I just needed to tell someone. I’m going to get her out of Kodaikanal anyway.”

“You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”

Nora shook her hands free and crossed her arms. “No one else is willing to, though. Owen, she needs me. If I don’t do something, I’ll always wonder if I could have saved her from a terrible fate, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

He gave a quick nod. “All right. We can’t very well accuse him of something so heinous without proof, but between the two of us, I’m sure we can make sure he isn’t left alone with her. Let’s keep an eye on things.”

All of the tension that had tightened her muscles and joints since Sita’s outburst loosened. She was no longer alone with her terrible suspicions. Owen would support her in this.

He sought her eyes, and she wondered if, amid her determination and love for Sita, he also recognized her growing regard for him. But then a deep cough caught his attention, and he looked toward the campsite. Nora turned and saw one of the porters stumbling away from the knot of tents and into the brush. He reappeared a moment later, tying his dhoti. He dropped back through his tent opening without even a glance in their direction.

“You should get back before anyone notices us out here.” Owen straightened and reached toward her but dropped his hands before his fingers touched her skin.

She turned back to him and stepped forward. Maybe if she could capture his gaze again, he would see how she felt. She wouldn’t have to speak the words, because everything would be laid bare in her eyes. She blinked up at him and clasped his upper arms. Sliding her hands down, she stopped at his wrists, and his pulse thrummed against her fingertips. She could almost hear his heartbeat, a percussion against the melody of India’s night sounds.

“Owen.”

His breathing deepened, and when she dropped his wrists, he pulled her close, his hands spanning her back. “Nora, I—”

His brows mashed together over the bridge of his nose, and he released her so quickly, she stumbled back. He slapped at his head, and two cockroaches, their ends joined together, hurtled from his hair toward her. With a screech she ducked, but they landed on her, scuttling apart and skittering around her neck and scalp. Their setae grasped at the strands of her unbound hair, and her voice rose, edged in panic and heavy with her worst memory.

“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.