The Butterfly Garden

“Meaning you can’t read his reaction to us.”

He laughed and nodded, sliding down next to me in the chair. One arm came around my shoulders, arranging my head against his chest, and for a moment we could have been any two people cuddling together for a movie.

Except, if we had been any two people, my skin probably wouldn’t have been crawling.

It certainly never crawled with Topher, or when we all piled onto Jason or Keg’s couches, or any of the other boys from work. Intimacy with the Gardener was as much an illusion as the wings he carved into our backs; it didn’t make anything real.

“He doesn’t like talking about it with me.”

“Given that we are a sort of harem, I don’t imagine most young men would be comfortable discussing this with their fathers. You might ask your parents for tips on how to approach someone, or what to do for a first date, but the sex thing is usually verboten even when there isn’t the question of willingness.”

And it was another reminder that we weren’t just any two people, because all he did was laugh and turn my head to kiss me. It occurred to me that I could go to his private kitchen en suite and pick up a knife to drive through his heart. I could have killed him then and there, but what stopped me was the thought that Avery would inherit the Garden.

“Avery was all excitement when I first introduced him to the Garden. He talked about it whenever we were alone. Perhaps a father doesn’t need to know that many details about his son. But I can’t see that Desmond has done anything more than look around.”

“Does that disappoint you?” I asked neutrally.

“It puzzles me.” His hand traveled up my arm to the back of my neck, where he tugged at the tie of my dress. The black silk pieces came loose in his fingers and he watched them slither down my collarbones to my waist, leaving my breasts bare. He lightly traced one nipple as he spoke. “He’s a healthy young man surrounded by beautiful women, and I know he isn’t a virgin, yet he doesn’t avail himself of the opportunities.”

“Perhaps he’s still adjusting.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps variety isn’t what appeals to him.” He lifted me slightly in the chair so he could shift under me, giving himself better access to my breasts and pushing my dress over my hips to my thighs. “He looks for you when he comes, even if he doesn’t find you.”

“Apparently I’m a very direct sort of person,” I said dryly, and he chuckled.

“Yes, I can see why he would put his questions to you. What would you do, if he came to you as I do?”

“I assumed that, as with you and Avery, we were to do whatever was asked of us. Was that incorrect?”

“So you would let him touch you?” He bent his head to my breast, lips moving against sensitive skin. “You would let him take his pleasure with you?”

Desmond wasn’t his father.

But he was his father’s son.

“Unless you tell me otherwise, I do what’s asked of me.”

He groaned and tugged the dress completely off, dropping it to pool in a black puddle by the chair, and as his mouth and hands turned my body traitor, not a word was said except for my name, over and over, harsh cries against the silence.

There are some qualities—some incorporate things, that have a double life . . . There is a two-fold Silence—sea and shore—body and soul. One dwells in lonely places.

He took me again and again that night, in the chair, on the carpet, in the king-sized bed, and I recited everything I could remember, even drink recipes, but long before the morning came, I’d run out of words and felt the poison seep through the cracks into my soul. I’d gotten used to the sick feeling that came with letting the Gardener fuck me, but I’d never get used to the nauseating pain that came of letting him believe he loved me.

When he finally escorted me back to my room, he sat on the edge of my narrow bed and settled the blanket around me, stroking the hair back from my face and giving me a lingering kiss. “I hope Desmond comes to realize what an extraordinary young woman you are,” he whispered against my lips. “You could be so good for him.”

After he left, I got out of bed and stood in my shower, scrubbing at my skin until it was raw because I just wanted to pretend that I could slough away the feeling of his touch. Bliss found me there, and with unexpected tact, she didn’t say a word. She helped me rinse off the last of the soap and conditioner and turned off the water, toweling my hair as I dried off the rest of me, and when my hair was brushed free of tangles and bound back in a neat braid, we curled together under the blankets.

For the first time, I understood why she’d think about jumping.

For the first time, those extra years didn’t seem worth the negligible possibility of escape.

For the first time in a year and a half, I felt every drag of the needle across my skin as my prison was inked into my body. If I’d never been much for hope, neither had I been much for despair, but I could feel it choking me with every memory. I took a deep breath, listening to the echo of Desmond’s voice in the cave, and let that remind me to keep breathing so that even Bliss, who saw me through things the others never even imagined I felt, wouldn’t see just how fucking scared I was.

In terror she spoke, letting sink her wings till they trailed in the dust—in agony sobbed, letting sink her plumes till they trailed in the dust—till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

But my wings couldn’t move and I couldn’t fly, and I couldn’t even cry.

All that was left to me was the terror and the agony and the sorrow.

Victor leaves the room without a word.

A moment later, Yvonne steps into the hall from the observation room, handing him two bottles of water. “Ramirez called with an update,” she reports. “The girls in more delicate condition are stabilizing. They still want to talk to Maya before answering too many questions. Senator Kingsley is starting to lean on Ramirez to get to Maya.”

“Shit.” He scrubs at his cheek. “Can Ramirez keep her leashed in the hospital?”

“For a little while. She’s negotiating between the senator and her daughter. She figures she can get a few hours out of that with everything else going on.”

“All right, thanks. Let Eddison know when he gets back?”

“Will do.”

Politicians are like child services, he thinks. Ultimately useful, but a pain in the ass all the way there.

He returns to the interrogation room and hands Inara one of the bottles.

She accepts it with a nod, unscrewing the cap with her teeth rather than her tender hands. Half the bottle disappears before she puts it down, her eyes closed. One finger traces patterns on the metal surface of the table as she gathers herself for the next question.

He watches the motion, his gut clenching when he realizes that what he thought were nonsense symbols prove to be butterfly wings, traced again and again into the metal like a reminder of what brought her here. “I’m running out of time to protect you,” he says finally.

She just looks at him.

“Powerful people want to know what happened. They’re not going to have my patience with you, Inara, and I have been very patient.”

“I know.”

“You need to stop dancing around this. Tell me what I need to know.”

For a while, the Gardener just had to continue being baffled by his younger son. Desmond came to the Garden regularly, but he didn’t touch anyone past a hand to help them up.

And he brought his textbooks.