Outside, bare branches moved against the pale sky.
“A butterfly?” I asked.
Another shake of her head.
Her frustration rose visibly. She tapped the cover of the book, then pointed toward the hallway.
Lorenzo took a step forward. “What is she asking?”
I opened the book.
Several pages had been folded at the corners. On the monarch page, someone had drawn a tiny blue circle in the margin.
Not printed.
Drawn.
My breath caught.
“Sophia,” I said carefully, “did your mother mark this?”
Her eyes filled.
Lorenzo came closer.
I showed him the page.
The blue circle was no larger than a fingernail. Inside it, faint lines formed what looked like a window.
He took the book from my hands.
“I have read this to her dozens of times,” he said.
“Maybe you weren’t looking for it.”
The words slipped out before I could soften them.
He did not react.
He turned the page.
Another small blue mark appeared beside an illustration of a swallowtail.
Then another beside a moon moth.
Three circles.
Three windows.
Lorenzo’s fingers tightened around the book.
“Where did this come from?”
“It was in her nursery,” Vincent said from the doorway.
No one had heard him enter.
Lorenzo looked up. “You told me the nursery was cleared after the funeral.”
“It was.”
“Then why was this kept?”
“Mrs. Pellegrini requested that certain books remain with Sophia.”
“When?”
Vincent paused.
“Before the accident.”
The silence that followed was heavier than anything said aloud.
Lorenzo closed the book.
“We are going to the nursery.”
Dr. Patel stepped between him and the bed.
“Sophia is not.”
“I did not say she was.”
Her gaze moved to me. “Miss Foster stays with her.”
Lorenzo looked ready to object.
Then Sophia reached for my hand.
He gave one sharp nod.
After they left, Sophia remained tense.
I sat beside her, holding the butterfly book.
“You knew we would find the marks,” I said.
Her eyes lowered.
“Did your mother show them to you?”
A small nod.
My throat tightened.
“Did she tell you what they meant?”
Sophia looked toward the door.
Then she whispered, so faintly I nearly missed it.
“Blue.”
The word was breath and sound together.
But it was there.
I bent closer. “The blue room?”
Her eyes widened.
Immediately, she pulled away from me and curled beneath the blanket.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t ask again.”
Her breathing quickened.
I set the book down and began counting softly.
“One window. Two clouds. Three birds on the wall. Four corners on your blanket.”