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Iris breathed in.
She first noticed the butterflies when she and Dahlia were split. Just one, a fragile little thing. It flitted about her head lazily. Iris smiled at it as the train rumbled beneath her feet. She was still in her acolyte robes - far too big for her, but Mother promised she’d grow into them. She trusted Mother. Even if she did give her and Dahlia away. And told Dahlia she was worthless. And told her she was too weak. She trusted Mother.
The second butterfly appeared when Dahlia came to her and asked for help in a rescue. She didn’t phrase it like that, of course. Dahlia didn’t like to think of herself as weak. No matter why. She stood on the bank of the river, shivering as the water soaked the bottom of her robes. Mother had been right - She grew into them. It was important to trust. Iris did not flinch as Dahlia shrieked as she hurtled towards the water. Even she was not stone. Dahlia’s water-slick hand nearly slipped out of Iris’s grip, but she held on and hoisted Dahlia out of the water. Dahlia did not cry, didn’t even blink as she held tightly onto Iris and shook, breath ragged and taught. Iris did not mention it. It would have been unbecoming of her.
The butterflies started swarming quickly enough. She read the news. Fawles, dead. Then a Diego Armando was gone. Then her sister asked her for help. She didn’t phrase it like that, of course. She trusted her sister. Then she met Phoenix. Then a court case. Then her sister was in jail.
The butterflies’ wing beats were drowning out her words at this point. She stared Dahlia in the eyes, trusting. Dahlia couldn’t lie. She told a truth. Iris couldn’t be misled. She knew the truth. She visited frequently. Or, an approximation of frequently. Or, sometimes.
She watched as they stuck the needle in, a horrible long and thin thing. Call it morbid curiosity. She imagined their roles swapped. The plunger slowly fell into the body of the needle. She imagined her having taken the fall for Dahlia, whether Dahlia would have accepted it or not didn’t matter. Dahlia was still smiling, sweet and saccharine. She did not cry until they had taken her still body away. She muffled her sobs with her hand. It was unbecoming of her.
She couldn’t hear above the cacophony of silence. Her sister was dead. She forced her limbs to work, to place the bundle of flowers on the grave. She had fought, truly, she had, to get her sister a tombstone rather than the impersonal plaque that told nothing about Dahlia. Dahlia would have laughed had she seen the bundle of flowers placed on her grave. Lilies, white dahlias, irises, and orchids all wrapped up in cotton candy pink wrapping. She trusted them to carry her sister on. The beating of paper thin wings was impossibly loud.
The wing beats were more familiar than her voice. She laid down on the dirt and stared up at the sky next to Dahlia’s grave, flowers in hand, and talked to her. She didn’t have any spiritual powers, but she believed. And she believed that Dahlia could hear.
She asked Dahlia if she knew she could have been good, too. Dahlia didn’t reply, of course. The sound of wind in the leaves blended into the silence of the wings. She believed Dahlia would have known. She sighed, long and slow, watching the disturbance of the kaleidoscope surrounding her. A butterfly landed on her extended finger, gentle as a raindrop landing in a puddle.
More butterflies appeared. Mother wasn’t as trustworthy as she had believed. She accepted her fate, tying the noose. Dahlia deserved to be put to rest. Mother was selfish, more than even Dahlia had believed. None of them deserved this. Maybe she was more like her sister than she believed.
She couldn’t see through the kaleidoscope. Light filtered in through delicate wings and caught on pigment, never letting her see beyond the iridescent haze. Her breath frosted in front of her. She did her task well. The kaleidoscope bled red for the briefest of moments.
There was a break in the swarm. A glimpse of a blue she hadn’t seen in years, something dull and bleak and perfectly imperfect. And the grass was browning. She gasped for air. Dahlia had been put to rest, she knew it instinctively, like she knew her own heartbeat. The butterflies were melting away. They were ever so beautiful from afar. A sound of something new, a voice. And the wood was creaking.
Iris breathed out.