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, shrugged, 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.”