The Contrary Tale of the Butterfly Girl: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Loveheart, Esq., Volume 2 by Ishbelle Bee Page B
Authors: Ishbelle Bee
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looking glass and a box full of toy knights on horses. My favourite was the black knight, who was the biggest. I liked the colour black because it is not a colour, it is like a hole in space. I made him kill all the other knights, hack them down. Mr Angelcakes played with me; he was very pleased with me.
The Professor took a photograph of me sitting on a chair. He told me to be very still, as though I was dead. He said I was unusual. He is an expert in unusual creatures.
A puff of smoke! And the photograph was done. I was caught like a fairy in a jam jar.
I explored my new home. Found all the magic rooms. I found the room with the photographs of his princesses. There are six and I am number seven. I looked at all their faces. Not one of them was pretty and yet in fairytales isn ’ t the princess supposed to be beautiful? Aren ’ t they supposed to be delicate, beautiful things? We are his butterfly girls. Seven of us stuck on the wall, trapped beneath glass.
Caught
Last night Detective White tried to rescue me. Maybe Detective White is a prince? He stuffed me through a window and told me to run. Mr Loveheart blew up part of the Professor ’ s house. Mr Angelcakes thought that was really funny. Mr Angelcakes says he really likes Mr Loveheart, he says he is a Wild Card. I ask what a Wild Card is and Mr Angelcakes says, “ Unpre dictable , anything could happen . ” Mr Loveheart has black eyes like an insect but he isn ’ t one.
He ’ s glittery, sparkling, candles on a birthday cake. He ’ s only for special occasions.
Detective White, Mr Loveheart and Constable Walnut have all disappeared. Mr Angelcakes says they are on the wall in a frame. They have become butterflies. I am sorry for it.
It is a week later and Mr Angelcakes has given me some chalk and tells me to draw butterflies in the courtyard, as many as possible because the Professor will like it very much. And so I do, I begin my wonky butterfly drawings, some with enormous leaf-like wings; some squint and limp looking; some soaring like dragons, heavy and hell-raisers. I hear a clippety-clop and a pony and trap arrive and out steps a man called Detective Waxford. He looks very angry and he shouts at the Professor and takes us both to London. I sit in his office and draw butterflies on his desk with the chalk. He asks me questions and I tell him what I know. He thinks I am mad.
The Professor ’ s lawyer, Mr Evening-Star, says that we are both free to go and that Detective Waxford has no evidence. Mr Evening-Star has a face like an eel: greyish skin stretched over his skull.
We return home and I am so tired I fell asleep on the train and the Professor has to carry me to bed.
For the next ten years I grow up in the home of the Professor, the moated castle in the forest. Am I in a fairytale? All the dresses I have are black. It is the only colour he wants me to wear and yet it is not a colour. I am not allowed to see anyone. I must remain in the castle but I am allowed to wander into the woods, as long as I don ’ t stray too far. Sometimes I think I can hear Guardian howling, but I know he is well loved and very well fed and so I am not sad. Pedrock will cuddle him all the time. I imagine I am a strange queen under a terrible curse. I imagine I am a butterfly trapped under glass. I imagine I am the Professor ’ s wife.
During the days I wander into the woods and play games in my head, pick flowers, chase ghosts and fight with a wooden sword the Professor gave me. I hack away at the trees. I cleave great chunks out of them. I am trying to disguise how strong I am becoming.
At night Mr Angelcakes blindfolds me. He says I must learn to be able to fight without seeing. I must pretend I am blind. I can ’ t do it at first. I stumble around, smack my head on the wall, stub my toe. And then he tells me to focus, to think about the Professor ’ s favourite butterfly. I see it inside my head, all the black and red, the huge wings and then
The Professor took a photograph of me sitting on a chair. He told me to be very still, as though I was dead. He said I was unusual. He is an expert in unusual creatures.
A puff of smoke! And the photograph was done. I was caught like a fairy in a jam jar.
I explored my new home. Found all the magic rooms. I found the room with the photographs of his princesses. There are six and I am number seven. I looked at all their faces. Not one of them was pretty and yet in fairytales isn ’ t the princess supposed to be beautiful? Aren ’ t they supposed to be delicate, beautiful things? We are his butterfly girls. Seven of us stuck on the wall, trapped beneath glass.
Caught
Last night Detective White tried to rescue me. Maybe Detective White is a prince? He stuffed me through a window and told me to run. Mr Loveheart blew up part of the Professor ’ s house. Mr Angelcakes thought that was really funny. Mr Angelcakes says he really likes Mr Loveheart, he says he is a Wild Card. I ask what a Wild Card is and Mr Angelcakes says, “ Unpre dictable , anything could happen . ” Mr Loveheart has black eyes like an insect but he isn ’ t one.
He ’ s glittery, sparkling, candles on a birthday cake. He ’ s only for special occasions.
Detective White, Mr Loveheart and Constable Walnut have all disappeared. Mr Angelcakes says they are on the wall in a frame. They have become butterflies. I am sorry for it.
It is a week later and Mr Angelcakes has given me some chalk and tells me to draw butterflies in the courtyard, as many as possible because the Professor will like it very much. And so I do, I begin my wonky butterfly drawings, some with enormous leaf-like wings; some squint and limp looking; some soaring like dragons, heavy and hell-raisers. I hear a clippety-clop and a pony and trap arrive and out steps a man called Detective Waxford. He looks very angry and he shouts at the Professor and takes us both to London. I sit in his office and draw butterflies on his desk with the chalk. He asks me questions and I tell him what I know. He thinks I am mad.
The Professor ’ s lawyer, Mr Evening-Star, says that we are both free to go and that Detective Waxford has no evidence. Mr Evening-Star has a face like an eel: greyish skin stretched over his skull.
We return home and I am so tired I fell asleep on the train and the Professor has to carry me to bed.
For the next ten years I grow up in the home of the Professor, the moated castle in the forest. Am I in a fairytale? All the dresses I have are black. It is the only colour he wants me to wear and yet it is not a colour. I am not allowed to see anyone. I must remain in the castle but I am allowed to wander into the woods, as long as I don ’ t stray too far. Sometimes I think I can hear Guardian howling, but I know he is well loved and very well fed and so I am not sad. Pedrock will cuddle him all the time. I imagine I am a strange queen under a terrible curse. I imagine I am a butterfly trapped under glass. I imagine I am the Professor ’ s wife.
During the days I wander into the woods and play games in my head, pick flowers, chase ghosts and fight with a wooden sword the Professor gave me. I hack away at the trees. I cleave great chunks out of them. I am trying to disguise how strong I am becoming.
At night Mr Angelcakes blindfolds me. He says I must learn to be able to fight without seeing. I must pretend I am blind. I can ’ t do it at first. I stumble around, smack my head on the wall, stub my toe. And then he tells me to focus, to think about the Professor ’ s favourite butterfly. I see it inside my head, all the black and red, the huge wings and then
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