Why Butterflies Wear Knots — In the lunar cloister, where the stones smelled of rain and old ink, Nerys carried a plain bone shuttle in her sleeve and pretended it was only a tool. Read the full story →
In the lunar cloister, where the stones smelled of rain and old ink, Nerys carried a plain bone shuttle in her sleeve and pretended it was only a tool. You would have laughed, perhaps, until you saw how she touched it before every question. She wanted to know where the moon’s loose threads went after midnight, and the cloister moths would not say. “Trade me a secret,” whispered the smallest one, its wings rasping like paper over silk.
Nerys offered the shuttle, though it held her mother’s thumb-worn hollow, and the moth pulled a silver filament from the crescent arch. Curiosity ran ahead of caution. Nerys looped it once, twice, over and under, until the first butterfly drifted through the work and could not leave unchanged. The knots settled into its wings like memory into bone. Ever since, butterflies have carried paths no wind can untangle, and in the lunar cloister the stones still smell of rain and old ink.
