ONE
Sol was lost. She had missed, somehow, the road back to Manila, and now was not sure she’d even remember the way back to the fruit farm. Her basket of oranges sat heavy as a brick on her head. She longed to take one from its twist of paper, to sink her thumbnail into the thick peel and pierce the flesh, suck it dry. Her mouth watered and she took a deep breath. She must resist. Cook, the maid, and all of the orphans, herself included, had put their allowance aside for weeks to pay for these as a special treat for the mistress’ birthday. They would never forgive her if she ate one.
Annoyance swelled briefly inside her. Why could Cook not have decided upon local oranges that filled the trees in the garden, and were so plentiful and cheap at market you could buy them by the barrel? Why did she insist that Mistress must have these oranges? They did not seem any different from market oranges, but from the way the farmer picked them from the tree and wrapped them individually in thin sheets of paper, you’d think they were made of glass. And why – and this was what made her fists clench and jaw tighten – was it her, only just thirteen and with a notoriously bad sense of direction, who had to make the two-hour-long journey on foot, along a route no bus took, and get so lost on the way back that soon the moon would be out?
She took another steadying breath. She knew Cook had meant no harm. It was a nice idea, and one that would make Mistress very happy. Sol softened. Things had been so much better since Mistress and her brother had taken over the orphanage five years ago. If anyone was deserving of a treat for their birthday, it was her. And now Sol thought about it, she had volunteered in order to avoid helping out on laundry day. But still . . . she shuddered.
These were not friendly forests. They were wild and untamed, a world away from the cultivated paddy fields that skirted Manila, miles from here. The day was shedding its light faster now, in that careless, urgent way that meant the sun was dropping towards the horizon.
She stopped for a moment, panting. It was not just the heat and the weight of the basket, but the beginnings of panic. She should go back, try to find the paths back to the farm. She closed her eyes, trying to remember which route she had taken. Right, left, left, middle. No, that wasn’t it. Right, left, middle, left. Oh, come on! Remember!
She opened her eyes again. It was no use. Her best hope was to keep following the faint path ahead. She stumbled on and suddenly reached the treeline. Ahead, the path mounted over a narrow ridge, pressed up like pastry edging a pie. It looked as crumbly too, and she was careful not to get too close to the edge as she peered over.
Her heart sank. Below was a valley dark with more trees. A thick patch of red and blue flowers twisted across the centre, and a thin river glinted like a silver blade through the forest, but there was no sign of a town, nor of a farm.
She placed the basket on the ground and slumped down beside it, kicking off her shoes and rubbing her aching feet. She looked at the paper-wrapped oranges. No harm now. She’d be in trouble for missing her shift in the kitchen when she got back anyway. If she got back.
She took a twist and unwrapped it, bringing the orange up to her nose and inhaling the scent. Her mouth watered as she stuck her thumb deep into the peel and pulled until the fruit sat round and perfect in her palm. She meant to eat it slowly, in segments, but her thirst took over and soon she had eaten it like an apple, the juice sticking her fingers together.
It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, far sweeter than the local market oranges. She lay back and stretched her arms over her head.
Soon the sun would set, leaving only a film of purple on the horizon. Above her, the half-moon hung pale as a ghost behind the last light of the day. A sense of calm came over her as she watched the moon growing brighter and the light smattering of stars scrape the edges of the still-light sky.
Something began to swoop and dive across her vision, coming so low she giggled with nerves, remembering Cook’s story about the girl who had to cut off all her hair after a bat got tangled in it.
But it was not a bat.
Sol blinked. There were just one or two to begin with, but as she sat up she realized the air was full of them. She rubbed her eyes.
Butterflies swirled like air currents up and over the ridge before her, as if magnetized. They were as plentiful as the fruit flies that rose at the hottest part of the day, and all seemed to be heading in the same direction. She crawled forward on her hands and knees, peering over the edge.
Smoke was rising in a steady column from the centre of the patch of flowers in the forest below. It was no forest fire. It was a chimney. And the butterflies were swarming towards it.
Sol was up and over the crumbling ridge before she could think twice. The butterflies flitted overhead as she let gravity pull her down, skidding on her heels and gripping roots wherever she could. Her bare feet stung as the blisters opened.
Once she came level with the treeline, the smoke was obscured from her view, but it did not matter. The butterflies were still snaking through the trees around her. Catching her breath at the base of the slope, she stretched out her arms and they flooded around her fingers, so close she fancied she could feel the kiss of the air pushed by their wings brushing her hands. One alighted on her upturned thumb, an iridescent blue in the dusk, with veins of black shot through the shimmer. She watched it open and close its wings once, twice, then rejoin the swarm.
Sol felt giddy. She stumbled, crouching to wait for the faintness to pass, and when she looked up again the stream of butterflies had petered out.
In panic she ran forwards, catching sight of the last of them as they whipped around a corner like a tail. She followed them into a sudden clearing, the trees felled and the grass tramped down. At the centre of the clearing was a huge tumble of red flowers, on a bush as big as a house. Sol looked closer.
It was a house. The walls were wreathed in flowers, and there was the smoke she had seen, rising from the centre of the roof. Except now she was nearby, it did not smell like ordinary smoke. It was scented like honey, mixing with the sweetness of the flowers. The butterflies danced around the column, and she noticed they were flying clumsily now, butting up against each other, dipping down, then lurching up again.
Her heart began to beat even faster. This was not right. Something in the smoke – something was hurting them.
Sol stepped forward. She wanted to swat them away from the smoke, but the roof was too high.
Then, they began falling, like ash. Most landed on the flowered roof and walls, but some came down before her, landing at her feet like jewelled leaves.
‘No!’ She knelt carefully and tried to lift one, but its wings turned to powder between her shaking fingers. She tried again with another as a bright light lit up one of the flowered walls. A door, opening.
‘Stop!’