Rose's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

The feather's glow began to dim in Rose's hand. She turned it over, and the pale green light shrank to a thin flicker. Luna hovered close, her wings still. "It's dying," the fairy said. "When the light goes out, the spirit stops listening. You lose your wish." Rose's throat went dry. The spirit wanted something back, and she had no idea what. The pool lay flat and silent, offering nothing. "Think," Luna hissed. "What does it want? Guess wrong and we lose everything." Rose stared at the fading feather. It was warm, pale green, plucked from a wing. A wing. She looked up at the black pines around the pool, listening. No birds. No wind. Then a slow flutter crossed the water. A butterfly the size of Rose's hand drifted down and landed on a stone. Her wings were orange and black, patterned like stained glass. This was the deep-woods creature the gnome had once called the oldest thing past the pines. She knew every root and pool here. She folded her wings and watched Rose with dark, steady eyes. "You," Rose said. "You know this place. The spirit gave me a feather and it's dying. Please. What does it want?" The butterfly opened her wings once, slow. "It gave you a piece of a wing," she said. Her voice was small but clear. "It asks for a wing in return. Not to take. To match." Rose looked at the dimming feather, then at the butterfly's bright wings. Cold fear rose in her. "You mean I have to give it a wing? I don't have wings." "No." The butterfly stepped closer to the water. "The spirit is alone. A pale wing, no color left. It wants proof that color still lives in the world. Show it beauty it cannot reach." The glow was almost gone now, a faint green thread. Rose had no time to search the woods. She looked at the butterfly. "Would you show it? Just once. So it sees." The butterfly was quiet. Luna held her breath. Then the butterfly lifted from the stone and hovered above the black water, wings spread wide, orange and blue burning in the dim light. Rose pressed the fading feather to the pool's surface. "Here," she said. "A wing, whole and bright. Match it if you can." The feather flared. Green light poured back into it, brighter than before. The water rippled outward in slow rings. From below came a sound like a long breath. The chill lifted. The feather turned warm and solid in Rose's hand, glowing steady now, no longer dying. The butterfly settled back on her stone. "It accepted," she said. "The token lives. But the spirit has seen color now. It will want more before it grants your wish." Rose closed her hand around the steady feather. She had saved her chance. She had also woken a hunger she did not yet understand.