The Joy Behind the Arch — Behind the rose arch, Esmé kept a tin of colored glass no one else had seen, and she meant to finish one private blue petal before the bells crossed noon. Read the full story →
Behind the rose arch, Esmé kept a tin of colored glass no one else had seen, and she meant to finish one private blue petal before the bells crossed noon. She stepped from her cool workroom into the garden’s wet green smell, past the bench, past the potted iris, following a scrap of sky-blue glass that winked between the stones. A butterfly settled on it first, wings clicking softly like tiny spoons.
“Not for keeping,” it seemed to say, though no sensible person admits butterflies talk. Esmé gave up the scrap, and the butterfly led her to a fallen pane under the roses, cracked into a dozen brighter blues. Her skirt snagged on thorns; one bead of blood shone dark as garnet. She carried the pieces home, but not to hide them. That evening, every neighbor found blue light scattered across their ceilings, and Esmé stood laughing in the doorway, unable to keep the secret of the rose arch.
