I do not know whether I was then a girl dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a girl.

~ZHUANG ZHOU~

Fast as she can, Riley retreats, arms flailing, eyes bugging out. She collides into a table holding a stack of petri dishes and they all crash together, seconds away from dashing into pieces on the floor. The sound of cracking glass hurts my ears and I close my eyes, waiting to be drenched in thousands of glass shards. But the petri dishes right themselves again and the worst is averted. I peek open one eye and breathe a sigh of relief.

“Why are those things coming in here?” Riley yells, sticking her hands in front of her face.

I hide a smile. Never seen my sister react so scared. I thought she only had irrational aversions to cockroaches, centipedes, and snakes.

Instantly, I shoot out my arm and slam the laboratory door closed so the butterflies can’t escape. This room is obviously their home. This is where the butterflies came from. I know it down deep in my gut.

All three butterflies flutter around me, circling wildly as if they’re excited to see a real, live human. The purple-and-yellow butterfly as well as the translucent one alight on my arms. The Giant Pink latches on to a button of my shirt.

“Oh my gosh!” I whisper to Riley, holding as still as I can. The velvety wings brush my skin, soft as a kiss, gentle as a quiet sigh. “Look!”

“Believe me, I’m looking,” she croaks. “Just keep them away from me! Bugs flying around my face is the worst!”

I think about the times Riley screams when there are spiders scurrying along the bathroom tile. Cockroaches darting around the kitchen late at night.

A new thought comes to me, stronger than ever. This is why Grammy Claire chose me.

The butterflies open and close their wings, their little eyes staring at me, their feet so tiny it’s like a breath of air stirring the hairs of my arms. “Don’t you wish you knew what they were thinking, Riley?”

“Butterflies don’t have a brain.”

“I think they know who I am!” I whisper.

She snorts, moving away from the door to explore the room. “You just happen to be in the way of their flight pattern.”

“They came through the skylight like they knew where they were going.”

Now that I look more carefully, I realize that the room isn’t much of a true laboratory at all. The space does contain tables with lab paraphernalia, trays and test tubes and built-in sinks and faucets, but most of the room is a tangle of trees and vines. Shrubbery and flowers. Like a garden. As if my grandmother had landscaped this upper floor so she wouldn’t have to go outside to enjoy nature. Which is very odd. Grammy Claire loved the outdoors. That’s why she was a botanist. Why not enjoy the butterflies in a private flower garden outside?

Just then the three butterflies shoot off my arms, fluttering toward the sunshine flooding the windows, even though the glass is rain-spattered. “Must be hard to clean,” Riley mutters.

A path of blue tiles meanders through an arch of vines, disappearing into the center of a messy, overgrown garden. No pruning’s been done for at least a year. The place is wild. Trees reach skyward, but it’s like I’ve been transported inside a dark jungle island.

Then I notice splashes of color between the shades of green. As I step deeper into the foliage, I realize that the colors are actually butterflies. More butterflies!

Riley has left the blue-tile path completely. She checks out the tables and pokes around on Grammy Claire’s shelves. I hear glass moving and papers shuffling.

No more butterflies come to me, and the room goes still. Then I halt.

The butterflies aren’t hovering or darting among the flowers at all. Actually, there aren’t many flowers, period. Empty bushes and plants surround me where flowers should be blooming. The plants are dry, withering away. This whole place has been left alone for too long.

With a feeling of dread, I walk up to a spray of dry leaves. A small blue butterfly is perched on the leaf, horribly motionless. Because it’s dead. And then I see another one, and another, a whole pile of delicate blue butterflies.

My hands begin to sweat. I reach out to touch the tiny wings and they turn to dust between my fingers. Small blue butterflies, exactly like the one that danced around Mamma’s chair on the upstairs balcony. The butterfly that made her smile just a little bit.

Feeling sick, I weave through the garden like I’m dizzy. There are splashes of color everywhere, and every time I reach out to touch the yellow or orange or red or purple wings, they fall to powder in my fingers.

Every single butterfly is dead. This is a room full of corpses.

I stand on the blue tiles in the center of that dead garden, unable to believe my own eyes. Then I burst into tears.

“Tara!” Riley calls out. “Are you okay?”

I can hear her bumping into things, trying to find me from the other side of the thick shrubbery. When her arm grabs mine, I whirl around. “They’re dead!” I sob. “How can they all be dead? Every single one! Who killed them?”

I know my sister can’t stand doing what she does next, but she does it anyway. After hating her so frequently over the last five years, I start to love her again. She actually holds my hand tightly in hers and walks with me around the path, pulling me away from the terrible sight.

“You’re right, Tara, but I’m not sure some person killed them. They’ve been here a long time. Probably ran out of food or water,” she goes on. “This place feels like a tomb. No one’s been in here for ages.”

“But why didn’t they just fly through the windows like the other three did?”

She gives me a sympathetic look. “I have no idea.”

My eyes swim with tears until I can hardly see straight. Finally, I take a bunch of deep breaths, purposely not looking at so many butterflies sitting frozen on the shrubbery as we push through the tangle of branches and leaves until we reach the back wall.

“Let’s get out of here, Tara,” Riley finally says. “You’re just getting more upset.”

“But — it’s just so awful.”

“Hey, butterflies don’t last that long anyway. They all die after a season, right? Or a few weeks? Days at the most.”

She has a point, but these butterflies are different; I know it deep in my gut. The way they move, the way they look at me and aren’t afraid. Butterflies don’t just zoom up and land on your heart as a conversation-starter!

A gust of wind comes through the skylight and rustles the room. Grammy Claire must have some wind chimes because I can hear them tinkling like fairy bells. That’s when I see a small table sitting underneath a line of rosebushes without any blooms. On the table is an envelope with my name on it: Tara.

My hands start to shake. There’s the same puddle of purple sealing wax covering the flap.

I glance up, noticing that Riley has disappeared. “Hey, where’d you go?”

“Over here, going through a filing cabinet,” she calls back. “It’s pretty obvious this whole fourth floor used to be Grammy Claire’s laboratory, but the last dates on anything are from about five years ago. I wonder what she was researching about butterflies.”

“Five years ago? That’s when she started living on the islands of Chuuk.”

“Guess she moved all of her current research over there and left all this junk.”

“She was too busy doing amazing things to clean,” I say softly, clutching the new envelope. Shivers of suspense tingle up my spine. “Grammy Claire said she’d dust when she retired.”

Keeping an eye on Riley through the branches, I carefully split the wax seal. Quiet as I can, I unfold the letter with its second, smaller note, my heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings.

Dearest Tara,

How do you like my Secret Butterfly Garden? Isn’t it spectacular? I can only picture in my mind how much you will love it, and I wish I was there to share its beauty and wonder and secrets. Unfortunately, I’m sure the place is dying, but if you can imagine a thousand butterflies in that small space, you can also begin to imagine the excitement of my life’s work. More on that later, but I’m so grateful you’re a smart girl, a girl with a steady head on her shoulders — and a girl who can keep secrets.

Now comes a warning: There are those who would destroy my butterflies, suck the life out of them, and use their power to make themselves wealthy beyond imagination. Yes, I’m talking in riddles — but I can’t reveal any more within a letter that may or may not reach your hands. I can only hope and pray … and once I’m gone, I can only look down from heaven and wring my hands. I’m afraid I’m already in my hand-wringing phase just writing these letters … and it hurts beyond belief to keep writing these words. Because I want to be with you. To share the beauty and joy and love and magic.

There … I’ve already said too much…. If the Butterfly Garden is dead, probably so much the better. The butterflies can escape through the windows and will hopefully die peacefully within their appointed life span. Unless … there! I just threw my pen across the room! I must smack myself for revealing more than I should.

I feel as though someone is reading over my shoulder….

Stay on course, darling girl. All will be well. I must have faith myself.

Follow the next instructions and don’t let anyone become aware of your actions.

All my love,
Your Grammy Claire

When I finish reading, I’m shaking so bad I slump against the table. My chin jerks up. Riley isn’t paying any attention. She’s reading some old files or ledgers in the far corner. The humming of the pipe organ swirls around the room as I slip the letter back into the envelope.

Quickly, I open the second note. Will someone try to steal it before I have a chance to find matches? The danger level has suddenly raised another notch.

The Secret Butterfly Garden did have answers. At least a few. Nipwisipwis is not a code word — there really are butterflies! And Grammy Claire was keeping them a secret! But why? She said I would have more questions, and she sure as heck got that right.

We’re moving onward! Key Number Six is up and you’ll be undertaking a secret journey, which this key will reveal. Just use your head, Tara.

IMPORTANT: Destroy this note ASAP!