Will bush's Arc

Chapter 6 of 26

Will followed Lily deeper into the Fen. She held the butterfly cupped against her chest. Its wings opened slow, then slower. Each time they stilled, Will thought it was done, and each time it twitched again. Lily did not look at him. She looked at her hands. "It's the path," she said. "If it stops, I can't see it." Will saw nothing on the ground, no trail, no bent grass. But Lily walked like someone reading a line only she could read. He understood then. The butterfly was her memory of the way back to her body, and the Fen was eating it. When the wings stopped, the path stopped. And without the path, he could not bring her home, and he could not turn around and find Kate again either. Two roads closed at once. Ollie caught up through the trees, breath he did not need coming fast. "It's going," he said. He looked at the butterfly. "I've seen this. It won't last past the next clearing." "Then we need something to hold it," Will said. He crouched. He thought of what he knew about the Fen. Objects tied to memory could anchor a fading thing. Scent could feed a dying butterfly. He looked around. Black water. Reeds. Nothing that had ever belonged to Lily. Then, past a stand of alders, he saw color that did not fit. Red. Pink. Orange. A cluster of rose bushes grew in the muck as if planted, thorns thick, blooms heavy and out of season. Lily stopped. Her mouth opened a little. "My mother had those," she said. "By the door." She said it flat, like she was reporting weather, but she took a step toward them without being told. "Crush them," Will said to Ollie. "All you can carry. Hurry." Ollie ran. He tore blooms off in fistfuls, thorns catching his sleeves, and brought them back cupped in his shirt. Will told Lily to lower her hands. Ollie mashed the petals against his palms and held them under the butterfly. The scent came up thick and sweet. The wings twitched. Then opened. Then beat once, hard. Lily drew a small breath. "I see it," she said. "The path. It goes that way." She pointed between two dead trees where Will had seen only more Fen. The butterfly lifted an inch off her palm and hung there, alive again, feeding on the smell of her mother's flowers. Will stood. He had bought them time, maybe hours, not more. The butterfly was flying, but its wings looked thinner than before, like paper held to a lamp. Lily was already walking. Ollie followed, hands stained red, petals falling from his shirt. Will went after them. He had chosen this road over Kate's, and now the road was open, and he had to walk it before the scent ran out.