Chapter
Twenty-Three

The mile-long walk back down the hill took them an hour. They limped along the trail, yelping and groaning and holding back coughs.

But they talked. And they held hands. They listened to the muffled thump of their feet against the leaf-scattered road and pressed their shoulders together when pain sliced through their ribs.

When they reached the jatka, the vandi karar stared at them and said something in Tamil that sounded concerned. Owen convinced him to help Nora climb in and take them back to camp.

The driver set a plodding pace, and Nora laid her head against Owen’s shoulder and allowed her eyes to close, the cool night air kissing the abrasions on her face.

After they passed through the shola, Owen stiffened, and Nora sat up straight. In the bright moonlight, she saw him leaning out the window. “What’s wrong?”

“Something isn’t right. Do you smell that?”

She sniffed, catching the tickle of something familiar. Shouts, angry and persistent, drew their attention. Nora leaned out the other window, hitching a breath against the sharp pain searing her side. They were nearly to camp. So close she could see the fire leaping.

She blinked, trying to make sense of the sight. The fire was large. Much too grand for their camp. It leapt and grew, ravenous. And against the backdrop of that orange blaze, three men darted away from camp and dashed toward the trees.

A sudden flash of flames and insect wings and a man gone mad spiraled through Nora’s mind and sent a snake of dread into her belly. “My work.”

The vandi karar shouted something, and the cart drew to a halt. “Fire!” he said and yanked open Nora’s door.

She ignored his hand and tore away on nearly numb legs, crashing through the brush and thigh-high grass, Owen at her heels. Pain, sharp and demanding, crushed her torso, but she forced her breaths to continue and pushed forward. Thorned branches snagged her gown, pulling her back and hindering her progress, and the uneven ground seemed to roil beneath her feet, as though India sought to punish her for stealing one of Yellamma’s daughters.

The smoke affected her before the fire did, and she covered her mouth and nose with her arm. But as soon as she reached the camp’s perimeter, the heat from the scattered fires smashed against her. She made for her tent, the biggest inferno by far.

“Nora, don’t,” Owen called, not far behind her. “It’s not safe.”

Frederic and the other men rushed around the cabin and their tents in nightshirts, tugging crates, jars, and papers into the open. Their shouts were nearly drowned out by the crackling of flames and popping of wood. Leonard whipped past her, his arms around two clacking water jugs.

Nora hunched over and clenched her knees as she coughed the smoke from her lungs.

Owen grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Get out of here. I’ll try to save your work.”

But she jerked herself free and dove toward her tent. She cried out at the pain that slashed her side and heard Owen curse behind her.

“Help us in the cabin, Owen,” Frederic called. “Nora, get out of camp before you’re hurt.”

She didn’t wait to see what Owen did. Burning sheets of canvas flapped around the tent entrance. She waited a few counts, until a blast of air pushed the material away, puffing steaming smoke into her face, and she ducked beneath the cross beam.

Stinging tears seared her eyes, and she captured her breath. A roar pummeled her ears. She couldn’t see or hear or feel.

Get to the trunk. Get your butterfly and notebook.

Blistering pain seared the back of her neck, and she strangled on a scream as she fell to her knees. And then it wasn’t about insects or validation or the scholarship, but about life. Trapped in a furnace intent on devouring her, Nora inhaled the final gasps of clean air near the ground. Please . . .

Strong arms grabbed and lifted, and then she was lying on her back, the decomposing leaves beneath her tearing at burned skin. She blinked away the curtain fogging her vision and stared at the spangled sky as the men fought to save their year of work and research.

Leonard knelt beside her. “Nora? Nora, are you all right?”

She managed a nod and a shuddering sigh.

“Just lie here. I don’t want to have to worry about you, so stay put.” His words were harsh. Desperate. But the hand that touched her forehead was as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss.

Everything was lost. All her work. Her only chance at redemption.

But life . . .

She forced herself to her feet, rubbed away the smoke itching her eyes, and stepped toward the men. Which way? What was most important? They had doused the flames licking at the cabin and had moved on to their tents. Only hers had been consumed.

“What can I do?” she shouted.

Leonard whirled, his face streaked with soot and deep lines of worry. “Stay put!”

The force of his command shoved her back to her spot of safety. She would only get in the way. Cause worry. Mangle everything.

She lay back on the ground and curled onto her side to ease the pressure against her burns. Wrapping her arms around her head, she blocked out the sound and sight of destruction and drifted into a hazy place of charred dreams and fractured possibilities.

When an early morning shower cleared away the drifting smoke, Nora came fully to and clenched fistfuls of earth. The drizzle did nothing to ease the waves of pain crawling across her neck in cyclical attacks. It did nothing to clear the poison from her chest or ash from her hair. It did nothing to ease the despair choking her.

But it did bring her Owen, exhausted from his battle, limping and clutching his ribs. He curled on the ground around her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pressed a kiss above her burn.

“My love.”

His whisper did for her what the rain couldn’t. It soothed all the parched, scorched places and showered her in healing.

Only Nora’s tent was fully destroyed. Leaping flames had done their work on the cabin, leaving the structure unusable, but the men had managed to pull its contents to safety before they were damaged. The attack had been purposeful and targeted.

Soft petals of pink light unfurled above the hills, promising an end to night and fire and devastation. But Nora stared blankly at the men picking through the crates, assessing the loss and damage, and submitted to Pallavi’s archaic ministrations. She sucked a breath through her teeth when Pallavi squeezed a tea bag over her burn.

“It is good and will steal the heat from you.” Pallavi tsked. “Muttaa ponnu. What made you go into your tent?”

“Everything important was in there. What did you just say to me?”

Owen walked by, a dazed expression slackening his features. He still wore his suit from the party, though it was now torn in places and crusted in blood and soot. He paused, swiveled, and strode toward where he’d set up his butterfly collection. She didn’t know how they’d fared. Had all of his work been destroyed? Had all the waiting and watching been for nothing? She sighed and tore her gaze from him, not wanting to see dejection slump his shoulders.

“Stupid girl, everything important is out here,” Pallavi said, squeezing Nora’s chin between her gnarled fingers and forcing her head in Owen’s direction.

Nora watched as he lifted one of the jars and clutched it to his chest. Her throat closed and she nodded, but her heart still weighed heavy in her chest. Yes, Owen was more important than her research, and he was more important than any discovery, but she couldn’t help the devastation that squeezed the energy and fight from her.

Pallavi pushed Nora’s hair over her shoulder and swiped a thick layer of honey over the burn. When Pallavi finished, Nora trudged across the scarred earth and stood over the men clustered around a basket of jarred and mounted specimens.

“Have you lost much?” she asked.

Leonard shook his head. “No, thank heavens. Most of the devastation was your tent. We managed to hear the flames before they destroyed the work cabin.”

“Were my illustrations spared?”

“Yes.” He patted the stack beside him.

That was a blessing, at least. She couldn’t imagine doing all that work again.

Frederic stood, his face as pale as the few white spots peeking through the smears of ash on his nightshirt. His chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, and he dragged a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “I knew something like this would happen when you refused to give up the girl’s whereabouts. I told you to stay out of cultural issues. You have no understanding of them.”

The other three men exchanged nervous glances.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Frederic blinked—whether at her apology or because she didn’t give an argument, she didn’t know. She’d rarely offered the one, and too quickly offered the other. But weariness had consumed her, and she had no strength left to debate. She shrugged, even that slight movement sending waves of pain and exhaustion through her.

“We are only allowed to be here by the goodwill of the people. You’ve ruined that for us.” Frederic rubbed his upper arms. “Will you please return Sita to her father?”

Nora dropped her head and toed the dirt. He couldn’t ask that of her. Especially after Muruga’s brutal attack. “He assaulted us—Owen and me.” She looked at Frederic. “How can I send her back to him? What would he do to her?”

Frederic’s eyes roved her face, and he stilled. Nora knew that beneath the grime, she wore bruises and abrasions. His shoulders fell, and his hands dangled at his sides. He closed his eyes.

Owen drew up beside her, his hand a reassuring pressure on the small of her back. He leaned down and whispered, “One of them hatched. It’s a Castalius rosimon.”

A smile split Nora’s cracked lips, pushing painfully against a small burn above her mouth. She took the jar Owen held toward her and lifted it. A small white butterfly, black spots scattered across its wings, dangled from a twig, shriveled and shaking as it dried its wings after its transformation. Despite the attack, the fire, and the devastation, it had survived.

When Frederic cleared his throat, Nora handed the jar back to Owen.

“I promised Muruga,” Frederic said on the tendrils of a deep breath, “that I would stay away from his family after the . . . compromising position I put his eldest daughter in.”

“Madhavi.” Nora swallowed the acidic bile spilling into her mouth.

“Muruga insisted I marry her when her pregnancy became obvious. Either that or he’d abandon the baby to the elements.”

“Why didn’t you?” Owen asked. Anger simmered beneath the surface of his innocuous question, and he tucked the jar beneath his arm.

“My wife wouldn’t have cared for competition. Besides, if I returned to England with an Indian wife and child, my family would disown me. It would cause a scandal. I’m trying to restore my family’s honor, not destroy it even further.”

“Then you should have acted honorably. How could you let him kill your child?” Disbelief so shadowed Owen’s voice that it dipped into a whisper.

Frederic grabbed fistfuls of his hair and groaned. “I had no choice. But you . . .” He looked at Nora. “Why didn’t you listen to me? You’ve put all of our work—our lives—at risk.”

She pressed her hand against her bruised rib. “I didn’t have a choice either. I love Sita.”

Frederic shook his head. “This is why women have no place in science. Ruled by emotion instead of logic.” He shook himself and stood tall. “You’ll have to leave if you won’t comply. We won’t be allowed to stay if you don’t. As it is, I’m not sure we can stay anyway.”

Nora nodded. There was no longer any reason to stay. All of her work was destroyed. Every bit of tenacity drained out of her. She felt herself shrinking, caving in on herself beneath the weight of her failure. But then Owen pressed his hand against the middle of her back, supporting her. Shielding her from her own accusations.

He lifted the jar and stared hard at the common Pierrot inside, before snapping away the rubber band and pulling the cloth from the top. Slipping his fingers inside, he scooped up the butterfly and held it up to the sky. With a small smile, he watched it fly away.

“Owen.” Frederic’s voice was hard. “You have a decision to make. Your future or Nora.”

“The way I see it,” Owen said, handing Frederic the empty jar, “they’re the same thing.”