Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Nora peered past the fringed drapery and out onto the street. Leaves scattered the front yard, tripping and flipping in liberty, and the glass was cool beneath her hand. She might go to Cascadilla Falls. She could use some fresh air. Lucius had kept a fire burning in the parlor, saying her mother wasn’t well and had woken in the night with chills and shivers.

Nora slipped her finger beneath her collar, swiping at the sweat slicking her clavicle. She turned from the window in time to see Lucius enter the room carrying a box straining beneath the weight of a hundred stamps.

“You’ve got a package.” He dropped it on the small table beside the settee.

Nora hurried toward it. “It’s from India,” she said after studying the markings. She carefully untied the string and removed the brown paper wrapping. Lifting the lid, she saw a thick envelope and a cardboard box.

“What is it?” Lucius asked.

“I have no idea.” She flipped open the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers. As she shuffled through them, her heart stuttered. Page after page of wobbly script, transcribed from her notes on her butterfly—the habits she managed to observe the two times she studied it alive, the mimicry it managed so well, the differences between it and the Delias eucharis. And, on the final page, a perfectly illustrated image of the butterfly, so lifelike that Nora thought that if she touched the paper, the wings would flutter and the insect lift off the page.

“It’s my butterfly,” she whispered, her nose beginning to burn. She lifted the small cardboard box and read the note attached to the top.

Akka,

Before you left for Madras, Owen told me all of your work had been destroyed. I’m sending you the copies I made. I hope it helps you. I must confess, I stole the first butterfly you found. I thought it might remind me of you, but I think you need it more. My aunt sent me my things, care of Swathi, and I’ve only now received them. I hope it’s not too late.

I love you.
Sita

“Oh, Sita.” With shaking hands, Nora removed the box’s lid, and on a bed of cotton sat her beautiful stained-glass butterfly. A tear dripped from her nose and splashed against the box.

She looked up at Lucius, who still stood over her. “A butterfly from India?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What is it?”

Nora dropped her eyes to the insect again, but all she saw was Sita. Her wide smile and flashing eyes and dimples that winked so often. Sita, who had placed on Nora the burden of sacrificial love.

“It’s a Prioneris sita.” The name felt right. Greek for “sawtooth,” which described the markings on the wings, and Sita for the friend who had shown her that some things were more important than success.

Nora raced up the stairs of White Hall, clutching Sita’s box to her chest. When she reached the second floor, she paused and sucked in a deep breath to calm her racing pulse. Then she burst through the open door of Professor Comstock’s office.

His snores filled the room—a small feat, given how little space was left from the books stacked in precarious piles on the floor and boxes of various sizes covering every available surface.

Nora picked her way across the room and sat in the chair beside his. She watched his dear, familiar face for a moment and smiled. His wheezy exhales fluttered his mustache, and the gold, wire-rimmed spectacles sat askew on his nose. This man had impacted her nearly as much as her own father, and she wanted to make him proud. Maybe she still could.

“Professor Comstock.”

He sputtered and blinked. Sitting up straight, he immediately grasped the pen that had spilled ink over the paper on his desk and began writing. “When the Corydalus hatches—”

Nora laughed. “Professor Comstock.”

He jerked his head toward her. “Nora! How long have you been there?”

“Not long. I have something I need to show you.”

He sat back, and she gently laid the box in front of him. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifted the lid. When he pulled Sita’s illustration from the stack, he looked at her with round eyes and released a short puff of air. “Is this what I think it is?”

She nodded. “I named it Prioneris sita.”

“An appropriate name, I think.” He looked at her, and his face glowed with approval. Of the find, the name, or her, Nora didn’t know. She hoped it was the latter.

As he looked through Sita’s transcribed notes, grunting his interest, Nora sat with bated breath. His thoughts meant everything.

He set the notes and illustrations aside and opened the sample box. “You have made quite a discovery. No wonder no one has noticed it before now. It’s an excellent mimic of the Delias eucharis. A lesser scientist wouldn’t have seen the differences.”

“I realized after Frederic told me that the eucharis doesn’t mud-puddle that I needed to study it further.” She pointed to the hind wings. “And see how the orange spots on the underside of the wings are blunted? The eucharis has pointed spots. When I observed them mating, the sita flew rapidly and with great passion, quite unlike the Jezebel.”

Professor Comstock laughed. “The best males of all species are passionate, are they not?”

Nora’s only experience with the males of her species had proved her inadequacy in judging whether or not passion proved superior. She’d rejected Owen’s passion and felt certain he’d never demonstrate it again. At least not toward her.

She ignored the knot tying up her insides and focused on the hope that had flown back into her heart with the arrival of the package. “Uncle John?”

He looked at her with a soft smile. “You haven’t called me that since your freshman year.”

“I felt it more respectful to address you as Professor when you became my teacher, but I’m done with school now, and I’ve missed you as my uncle. I’m asking you now, as my uncle, do you think I still have a chance to make a career in entomology?”

Uncle John shook his head, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You’ve always had a chance, Nora.”

“I know I’ve lost any opportunity for the scholarship. And I won’t get my master’s. The journal is gone.” Her words grew thick. “But maybe I can publish my findings in a different journal and still pursue what I love.”

She knew not everyone had the opportunity to do what they loved. She doubted Pallavi wanted to cook and clean for scientists, and Swathi wasn’t happy working with British missionaries—though hopefully the baby would bring her joy—but Nora hoped she might still have a chance to be a woman who forged a path in science.

“I’m certain you’ve made a discovery that any publication would be thrilled to accept. Just because you offended a few men on the school board doesn’t mean your career is over. You might still be able to get your master’s, so don’t give that up just yet.”

“I can’t afford it. And Lucius is moving us to Long Island.”

He patted her hand. “There are other ways, Nora. I worked on campus in exchange for tuition and board, though I don’t think that option is open to women yet.”

“I’m not sure it would be a good idea. As much as I don’t want to move, there is someone here who might not want to see me for another two years even more.” She dropped her head and whispered, “I hurt Owen.”

Uncle John leaned toward her and tipped up her chin. His eyes, full of warmth and love, reminded her of her father’s, and Nora had never missed him so much as in this moment. “Don’t forget your male butterfly, my dear. Passion is a beautiful thing to behold, and it isn’t discouraged, or dismissed, so easily.”

Nora pulled him into an impulsive hug, then began gathering her things together in an effort to hide her blush. As she passed through the doorway, a familiar scent caused her eyes to slide shut. She tightened her hold on her box, its splintered edges biting into her forearms. She felt Owen’s presence before he spoke, and when he touched her cheek, she exhaled a shuddering breath.

She didn’t open her eyes. Didn’t speak. She held her regret as tightly as she held her future, tucked into a box shipped halfway around the world.

His breath caressed her face. “Professor Comstock is right.”

After his lips brushed her cheek, the door clicked shut, and Nora stood alone in the hallway, nursing the hope his touch and words had sparked.