1955
Marianne bent over the ragged remains of the poor butterfly’s broken wing. The insect held still, as if it knew she was only trying to help.
The wing was damaged beyond repair, and she gripped the tweezers in her left hand and, with great care, lifted the replacement silken waxed wing she had made, stopping to consider it in mid-air. It was a perfect match to the quaking peacock butterfly’s remaining wing, even down to the glittering dust that coated its surface.
She painted a fine dab of clear glue onto its edge and brought it fluidly in to the broken wing, holding it in place with motionless hands. Four shimmering blue eyes aligned on the wings and gazed up at her, and she allowed herself a small smile.
Carefully, she opened the tweezers, and the butterfly lay pulsing on the desk, unaware it was free.
‘Go,’ she said, wishing it upwards.
Slowly, delicately, it lifted its wings, both the real and the manufactured, until they closed above it. Marianne frowned as the silk wing lagged slightly, but then, with sudden weightlessness, the butterfly took off.
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