When the Butterflies Came

by Kimberley Griffiths Little

  I look behind the curtains, run my hands along the ledges, check the closet shelves, and pry behind all the scientific books sitting in a case along the wall.

  Next, I perch on the edge of a stuffed chair with flowered print and think. Then I go back and open every single one of the books. Nope. No hidden interiors with the pages cut out.

  Finally, I check the bathroom, which is also empty, except for some cleanser and sponges and a toilet brush under the sink. Nothing in the shower except a few more dead bugs, which I for sure am not going to pick up and throw out!

  “You got me,” I say, throwing myself across the bed. I spot sheets under Grammy Claire’s bedspread, patterned in the same flowers as the stuffed reading chair.

  I pull back the covers and run my hand along the linen. They don’t feel dusty, just musty like they’ve been on the mattress a long time, but the faint scent of Grammy Claire’s perfume rises. The smell is woodsy and homey and screams Grammy Claire. Feels almost like she’s hugging me as I press my face into the pillow and try not to let fresh tears get everything wet.

  I crawl under the comforter and close my eyes. I think I could sleep for a week.

  I really gotta get back to my own room and get to bed…. I gotta figure out the puzzle of all those keys in the box….

  * * *

  When I wake up, it’s the middle of the morning. Bright sunshine streams onto my face. I slept here all night!

  I’d left the window open and the bayou has woken up, too. Birds are chattering, cicadas are buzzing in the trees, and there’s the soft shush of water down at the dock.

  I look for a clock and find one actually plugged in sitting on the nightstand. And ticking. It’s almost ten o’clock, but the house beyond the door feels so quiet. No screaming sister. No calls for breakfast. No pounding from Butler Reginald looking for me. Where is everybody?

  Lying on my back, I close my eyes, wishing I could sleep for another two hours. But the quiet is bugging me. When I roll over to get up, a butterfly flits through the window. Another butterfly!

  I suck in my breath, trying not to move. How’d a butterfly find me here? Heck, how did they find me back home in Bayou Bridge? Double heck, how do they even know who I am to keep finding me in the first place?

  The butterfly dances around the furniture, and then peeks into the empty closet before hovering over my head. Staring down at me, its wings softly open and close.

  This butterfly is enormous. Twice the size of a regular butterfly, like a giant species. It’s got the softest, prettiest shade of pink, ribbons of green along the edges, and brown spots right in the middle of each wing.

  “Nipwisipwis,” I whisper, and as soon as I speak the word, I swear the butterfly stops to listen, like it recognizes its name. Its antennae waggle back and forth like it’s excited. “Nipwisipwis!” I say again, louder this time.

  The butterfly begins to circle my head. I hear the soft shush of its wings as it flies past my ears. Slowly, it circles and lands on the ribbon edging of my tank top, close to my heart. The giant wings are like brushed velvet, the pink and green colors like the most delicate weaving ever created. “Oh, I wish you were here, Grammy Claire, so you could see this!”

  Three breaths later, the pink butterfly lifts off again.

  Untangling my bare legs from the sheets, I leap out of bed. I know what I’m supposed to be looking for! Well, I know where I should look now. Did the butterfly tell me — or did a good night’s sleep make my brain coherent again?

  Dropping to the floor, I look under the bed. Then I get the lamp, turn on the switch, and set it on the floor so I can see better. Scooting under the bed, I try not to let the squirmy feeling of dust clumps and more dead spiders freak me out. Then I see it. Something is clinging to the box springs right in the middle of the bed!

  I reach out and discover that the lump is a thick bubble envelope taped to the frame — taped a lot so it won’t fall. There’s a ripping sound as I yank it off.

  Sliding back out, I sit up and stare at the envelope. My name is written on the front — underneath all the packing tape — in Grammy Claire’s handwriting. I’m shaking I’m so excited, and it’s painstaking to get all the tape peeled off. Finally, I rip my finger under the flap of the envelope and slide out a small photo album. With a sturdy lock.

  Whoever heard of a locked photo album?

  Finding the bedroom key lying on the nightstand where I’d left it, I stick it into the lock. It won’t fit. The key has the wrong-shaped teeth. I need Key Number Four!

  I gallop to the door and peek into the hallway. The coast is clear, and I can’t hear anybody moving around. Not even Riley’s music. Still, I feel funny. Like I’m being watched.

  I go back inside, close and lock the windows, and realize that the giant pink butterfly disappeared while I was under the bed. I can’t see it anywhere outside, either. Those butterflies sure know how to disappear.

  After relocking the bedroom door, I run back to my own room. I’d hidden the pile of keys between the two mattresses on my bed, all the way in the center. After I find Key Number Four, I shove the rest back in and hurry down the hall.

  Once I’ve locked myself inside again, I stick the key into the photo album and it clicks open perfectly. Breathing hard, I see page after page of photographs. Me and Grammy Claire over the years. Birthdays when I was smashing cake into my face, holidays at the beach, picnics in the backyard, me rowing a pirogue in the water, a photo of me and Grammy Claire laughing hard over something, I can’t even remember what. I wonder who took that picture, Mamma or Riley? Or maybe even Daddy? In the center of the album, there’s another envelope sealed with that familiar purple wax and the initials G.C.

  Dearest Tara,

  Good girl! You found it and figured out the keys. The pictures in the album are some of my favorites of you and me over the years, of our life together. I treasure you and I hope you will always treasure these beautiful memories, too. I hope I’ll be a part of future memories, but if you’re reading this letter, I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all. But we’re on our way now, my dear! There is so much more ahead of you — possibly dangerous for us both, but I have confidence that all will be well. I have faith in you and in the nipwisipwis.

  Did Angelina visit you this morning, my Giant Pink? I hope so! Isn’t she beautiful? She is the reason I gave you Key Number Three to my personal bedroom. You needed to see her. And she needed to meet you. Try to keep her safe. Try to keep them all safe. That is your mission. Guard all that I give you. Tell no one!

  All my love forever,

  Grammy Claire

  Inside the letter is a smaller slip of paper folded into thirds. I open it with a tiny feeling of dread, wondering what’s coming next.

  Key Number Five is next, Tara. You’ll find that this key will work in the most important room of my house. The room with answers. And more questions. And much, much more danger.

  IMPORTANT: Destroy this note ASAP!

  They say, “Only in dreams men are truly free,

  What does a butterfly dream about? — It’s already free!”

  ~SCHOLASTICUS K~

  I chew on the ends of my hair furiously. Danger? Answers? Questions? Why is Grammy Claire talking in riddles!

  My stomach starts to hurt, but maybe I’m just hungry. The smell of bacon spirals up to the second landing. Madame See must be finally cooking, or maybe I finally noticed that I need food.

  I hold the photograph album tight to my chest, lock up Grammy Claire’s bedroom as fast as possible, and race back to my own room.

  Sweat dribbles down my forehead as I scan the room, wondering where I can hide the album. Not that I really need to; the album’s purpose was just to hide the new letter. Still, I stuff it into the lining of my suitcase and zip it up and stash it in the closet.

  Danger. What kind of danger? Like getting hurt danger? My stomach clenches up even more.

  I hear a door slam next to mine and Riley comes out of the bathroom, her feet stompi
ng. I’d recognize her footsteps anywhere. I guess everybody slept in this morning. Sleeping in Grammy Claire’s bed was the best night’s sleep I’ve had since she died.

  I think about Butler Reginald and Madame See, who just traveled about ten thousand miles to help us while Mamma’s locked away in the South Wing. They’re probably jet-lagged bad. It’s tempting to crawl back into bed myself, but I’m so hungry, I could eat my arm.

  Rubbing the toes of my right foot against my left leg, I feel stuck. Too many things to do, too many things to think about.

  Shower first. Get rid of the sticky sweat. Clothes. Breakfast.

  Then Key Number Five.

  Fast as I can, I dig out the keys from under the mattress, stick them in the box, then hide the box inside the clean clothes I take with me to the shower. I feel better having them with me. Someone is lurking out there, watching and waiting.

  Somebody tried to force Grammy Claire’s bedroom door open. For all I know, they succeeded and locked the door again behind them. Maybe there’s stuff missing that I don’t even know about! The room is pretty empty. But whoever it was did not find the package hidden under the bed. The space underneath is pretty narrow and low. I’ll bet I’m the only one who could slide under. Even Riley’s probably too big.

  ’Course, that tells me absolutely nothing. Just more puzzles.

  While I wait for the water to get warm, I light another match and burn the second folded-up note. Then I run water in the sink to cool off the ashes and flush them down the toilet again. After putting the box of keys inside a towel, I place it on the ledge of the tub so I can see it.

  As I shampoo my hair, I frown at the lumpy towel. There is no way I can carry the box with me all the time. I’ll have to memorize the shape and color of each key as well as their numbers, and keep them in my pockets when I go out. After I’m dressed I leave the empty box underneath my stack of underwear while I run down for breakfast.

  Butler Reginald has already eaten and is outside washing the car. A lawn mower stands ready, oil and gas cans on the ground.

  I catch a glimpse of Madame See through the swinging doors, squirting soap into the sink. The smell of fried food hangs on the air and the radio is squawking some talk show. I wonder if she understands much English. As if in answer to my unspoken question, she turns the station to classical music just as a pan clatters to the floor.

  “Think we’re supposed to do dishes and chores?” I ask Riley as I enter the dining room.

  My sister is eating bacon with her fingers and pouring Tabasco sauce on a pile of scrambled eggs.

  “Don’t know,” Riley tells me with her mouth full. My sister is not one of those girls who eats lettuce three times a day and reads diet magazines. She burns food off fast. High metabolism. “No one’s said anything about a chore list, but isn’t that why we have a cook and a butler?”

  “It’s strange to be here without Grammy Claire,” I say, feeling guilty that I’m stuffing my mouth so fast, too. Madame See also made pain perdu, my favorite. Thick pieces of French bread fried in oil. And a big pitcher of warm cane syrup. I pour a big puddle and start dipping squares with my fork. I can’t believe Grammy Claire left Madame See a menu and shopping list like she’s leaving me those letters. But I’m not surprised.

  My grammy was very organized. Maybe I take after her. I wish I could ask her how she suppressed the urge to comb carpet fringe. Thank goodness most of this house has hardwood floors. And thick bath carpet without any fringe at all.

  “I’m bored already,” Riley says, yawning. “Bayou Bridge has absolutely nothing to do, but out here, there’s really nothing to do. Maybe I’ll steal Reginald’s Town Car and cruise into the nearest village. ’Course, Lafayette’s only a couple hours. I could go to the mall.”

  “Butler Reginald ain’t gonna let you go shopping all day with his car.”

  “But if Grammy Claire’s estate is paying for that car, I have privileges,” Riley says, lifting her eyebrows meaningfully.

  “How you gonna buy anything?”

  “Mamma gave me her credit card for emergencies.”

  I stop chewing. “So you were gonna go to California with that credit card and leave me with nothing?”

  “You’re only twelve; you don’t need anything. And besides, you got household staff.”

  “You’re so selfish.”

  “And you got letters from Grammy Claire in that antique box.”

  I drop my fork. My sister sounds jealous. “You mean the box in my — ?”

  “The one and only.” Riley stands up and scrapes back her chair.

  “You went snooping in my room?”

  “Just looking for my earphones.”

  “I don’t have your earphones — and stay out of my room!”

  “Fine,” she says airily, like she couldn’t care less.

  I grab a clump of my freshly washed hair and suck the last of the water. I taste apple blossoms and the tang of conditioner. Thinking about Riley barging into my bedroom and going through my things makes me want to start throwing furniture — which would practically be against my religion. Even the bit of dust on the sideboard is driving me a teensy bit crazy.

  Riley sees me eyeing the furniture. “Clear the table instead, Tara.”

  “It’s your mess on the table! And stay out of my room!”

  She smiles, completely composed. “You already said that.”

  Riley starts to leave the dining room and I touch Key Number Five in my pocket, rubbing my finger along its sharp teeth. “So Grammy Claire’s box might be worth something?”

  “I always thought —” She stops. “Always thought she’d give it to me.”

  With that, Riley spins on her heel and walks out.

  My throat closes up. I think my sister is hiding tears. I think she’s hurt. I wonder if she wishes she was getting the notes and the keys. I haven’t even shown them to her. The letters and the keys make me feel special. I want to keep them to myself, but I know it’s selfish. Reluctantly, I remember Grammy Claire’s words: “If you need Riley’s help, know that you can trust her.”

  I don’t know why she didn’t send Riley all those keys. I’m barely out of elementary school, but maybe I am supposed to trust her — maybe even confide in her. Besides, Riley has a driver’s license, and if the bad guys — whoever they are — show up, she can help us escape.

  Bad guys. I can’t deny it any longer. Grammy Claire said there was danger, and she wanted me to guard the nipwisipwis with my life. But how do I guard a bunch of butterflies that come and go whenever they want? I can’t catch them or pin them down. If Grammy Claire is talking about the butterflies I’ve seen so far. But how could she know about them? Aren’t the butterflies just some random thing, a sign of summer? Or because I left the windows open!

  Still … those words in Grammy Claire’s letter wondering if I’d see Angelina, her Giant Pink…. My grandmother personally knew the butterfly I saw an hour ago.

  “Hey, Riley,” I call out, jumping up from the table.

  “What? I got stuff to do.”

  “Will you come with me?”

  Her bangs hide her brown eyes this morning. She’d forgotten to gel them into black and blue spikes. “What do you want now?”

  I glance at the kitchen door where Madame See sits at the table eating her own breakfast. She catches me looking at her and quickly covers her face with her palms, mortified. As though we’re living two hundred years ago in a castle and servants are supposed to stay out of sight by using secret passageways. When she ducks her head, her black hair falls like a sheet across her eyes. “No see, no see,” she babbles. “I do dishes. Clean up.”

  We both jump as someone knocks on the back door. “Delivery!” she calls out. “Food store make house calls,” she says in her stilted accent. A cross between a Pacific Islander and somewhere else in Asia. “You go. Do fun.”

  The door closes on us and the house returns to its former quiet.

  “Where’s Butler Reginald?” I
ask.

  “He hasn’t come in yet. Later, gator.” Riley heads upstairs, probably to a day of computer games, phone calls to Brad, and earphones planted permanently in her head.

  I hear the start of the lawn mower through the screens of the dining room that face the front of the house, but the rooms and hallways in the back still lie in shadows. No point in opening up three stories of blinds and curtains. Besides, it’s gonna be another scorcher.

  “Riley,” I call again, pounding up the stairs after her. “Will you come with me?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Go align some rug fringe.”

  It’s beyond comprehension that one minute my sister is potentially vulnerable and hiding tears, and the next she can be just plain mean.

  I start to reach for a lock of hair to chew, and then drop my hand, using every bit of willpower I have. “I’m going to open up the lock for Key Number Five.”

  I’m graced by the famous Riley eye roll. “What are you talking about?”

  I bring the key from my pocket and dangle it in front of her. “Upstairs. At the very top of the house. I’ll explain on the way.”

  “I’m not in the mood for stupid games. I have a phone appointment with Brad.”

  I experiment with my new Tara eye roll and end up feeling ridiculous. “Bo-ring.”

  “Maybe to you, but not to me. I guess you gotta be older to understand.”

  Jett Dupuis’s face flashes across my mind. The cutest boy in sixth grade. I think I understand better than she thinks, but Jett and I don’t make appointments or dates, we just meet up and do stuff.

  “Follow me,” I tell my sister, giving her an order like I never have before.

  Astonishingly enough, she obeys.

  At the first landing, I run to get Grammy Claire’s letters from my bedroom.

  The house is quiet, quiet, quiet, and since nobody’s around I tell Riley to read the letters quick while we walk upstairs. “But be careful, don’t drop them! And don’t lose them!”