"Black moths were dancing, because it was cold, because it was dark. Because they were hungry, for the butterfly."
Fem OC X Penny Adiyodi, Queliot
(To read the original, unedited version of this story, The Deceiver, see my profile)
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Twenty Years Later
It has long been said that the beat of a butterfly's wings sends ripples out into the universe. There are billions of theories on the passing of time, none of which are entirely accurate. How can anyone understand a problem when half the equation is missing?
To understand time, one must first understand the extent of the universe. Time is a force that surrounds us from the moment we open our eyes. It begins with our first breath, the first of billions we will take in our lifetime. Each heartbeat and flutter of our lashes counts down to when it will all cease.
Time is not simply a set of numbers. It is a force like light and sound. It can be harnessed and warped, flipped upside down, and folded. Each moment can stretch like a rubber band and snap back just the same. It is a rhythmic thrum like that of a butterfly's wings. Yet, now and again, it will skip, pause, or pick up to double time.
The day that forever altered the path of Lilly Cole's life did not begin as anything extraordinary. It was chilly in New York City, though nothing remarkable for late November. A blustery breeze swept through the streets, dragging along stray pieces of trash and hissing through bare branches.
As Lilly stared at the impeccable towering brownstone, she found it more daunting than expected. It was always a bit intimidating when she visited a client's home. She'd been in the business of paper conservation for almost four years, and in that time, she'd had the pleasure and misfortune of dealing with the wealthiest of New York City. Lilly had been privy to the most elaborate private collections of the one percent and had done her job to authenticate their potential purchases.
But collectors were a prideful sort, and when the newest piece in their collection sometimes turned out to be false, they would often take out their anger on her. She'd lost track of how many clients had tried to tell her how to do her job, feeling that they knew better than she about how their piece should be handled.
It wasn't every client, but it was enough that every house call felt like being shipped off to war. It was this part of the job she would much rather do without. If Lilly had her way, she'd spend her time in the lab, working directly with the paper she was authenticating or observing. Certain relationships needed to be maintained for the sake of their funding. If it weren't for their client's generous contributions, she would be out of a job.
