by E. L. Carter
She hooked her old hands over the arms of the chair and pushed herself up, walked to the mantel in front of us—the one with the pictures on it—and picked up a little box that had sat there so innocuously I had hardly noticed it before. She opened the lid and pulled out a tiny gold butterfly. Walked back and placed it in my outstretched hand.
“A gift for you. From your grandmother. For years, she wanted to give it to you and Kris, but, well, after everything, she gave it to me instead. I don’t know how old it is, how many hands have held it. I do know that it’s yours.”
“Yes.” I smile. “It is.”
I pull the gold butterfly out of my pocket now, in the Cape May sunrise, and hold it tightly in my palm while I use my fingers to open Kris’s note, fold by fold, until it’s thin and fragile again. I read it one last time, the words that finally make sense. Do you dare? She is real. A patrin to us both.
“Good-bye, Kris,” I say. “May you be free.”
I touch the corner of the note to the fire and it catches immediately in a burst of orange light. When the sun comes over the cloud bank, light streams all over me—and it happens—the butterflies, invisible in the trees, begin to appear one by one, shivering their wings, until soon the sun-filled air is full of flying monarchs headed out over the Delaware River. They head into an unknown future, following the path of their great-great-grandparents with a precision science cannot comprehend.
As the butterflies rise into the air, the light gathers in their wings and each one begins to glow as if from inside—each one a drop of light that will travel on into the day and carry the radiance as it flies.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to extend my gratitude to all the people who have bravely told their stories about the Iraq conflict—the soldiers who served there, and the Iraqi citizens who have experienced so much trauma. Thank you, veteran Rita, for your ideas and guidance as I developed this story. I also want to thank Toby Couture, music teacher extraordinaire, for talking story about music with me, and Patricia Combrisson for sharing your experience studying harp in France. I am grateful for the work of Ian Hancock, which helps clarify the history and culture of the Romani people. Any errors about the war, music, or Romani culture are mine. A big thank you to my family for all your support, and especially to Warren for reading this book more times than anyone should have to. Thank you, Madelaine Fahrenwald, for your editorial guidance and support. And thank you to my wonderful publishing team at The Permanent Press, especially Judith and Martin Shepard and Barbara Anderson, for helping bring this book into the world.