And among them, perched on every stem and branch and leaf and petal, were moths. Moths of all colors, all patterns, and all sizes, from some that were small enough to fit on the pad of her finger to others that could sit upon her shoulder like Hartwig’s companionable raven. Sunlight filtered through their membranous wings, showing the spreadof veins beneath. The greater moths had thoraxes as large as honeycombs, and legs that flexed and bent like copper wire.
One large moth swiveled its head and pinned Agnes with bulbous black eyes. She could see her own bewildered reflection in those shiny eyes, but more, she saw a keenness beyond that of an ordinary animal. This was no base creature, operating only on instinct. It took to the air, flicking off pollen, and fluttered toward Agnes. It hovered before her, wings pulsing. There was a true intellect within, she realized, couched inside its deceitfully common insect body.
The moth seemed to perceive this realization from her and be pleased by it. Slowly, it lowered itself onto her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek fondly.
Alarmed, Agnes looked over at Liuprand.
“Gray is for grief,” he said. There was a slight, enigmatic smile on his face.
She merely stared back, mouth ajar.
“Gray is for grief,” he repeated. “False eyes for a false surrender. Sapphire for fires; gold for relief. A clear wing calls for a defender. This is the language of moths, conceived by my ancestor Berengar. He sought to pass furtive messages to his generals stationed on other parts of the island and across the sea in Seraph. But he feared a letter could be intercepted. He needed a secret code known only to himself and to his allies, so he devised this system, one built upon the qualities of Drepane’s great variety of moths.”
Agnes warily regarded the moth perched on her shoulder. There was no insect of such an astounding size anywhere near Castle Peake. The only moths that fluttered around the ancestral home of the House of Teeth were tiny, dull, wax-colored creatures, which could be swatted dead with the errant swipe of a hand. Agnes imagined slaying an animal like the one nuzzling her cheek would require an arrow or a spear meant for a beast.
“At first this code was quite rudimentary,” Liuprand went on. “Red for retreat, violet for victory, cobalt for a sound defeat. The like. But as his conquest wore on he realized he needed to pass more complexmessages. So he began the task of breeding these moths for particular traits—size and pattern, in addition to basic color. If white was the shade of displeasure, and silver the shade of regret, and a larger moth meant a stronger sentiment, then what could Berengar’s general be given to know when a great white moth with stripes of silver landed upon his arm?”
He looked to Agnes expectantly, as though he thought she might answer. She wondered if he would ever give up this task of drawing out her speech.
When she did not reply, Liuprand deflated very subtly, his golden aura growing paler.
“Well,” he said, “since Drepane has been at peace, the moths have not been formally bred for many years. But they propagate among themselves, as you can see, so nearly every sentiment known to the human heart can be expressed, if you can find a moth with all the particular qualities. They are intelligent creatures, too, at least as clever as ravens and crows, and their breeding has engendered in them a desire to make bonds with humans.”
The moth perched on Agnes’s shoulder was gray all over, a wholly patternless gray, dense and matte, such that the sun could scarcely manage to leak through its parchment-thin wings. The membranes did not show clearly; they were disguised by this solid color. There was a steadiness to its dark gaze—if an insect could be said to have a gaze at all—and its weight upon her was warm and solid.
“Fuchsia for a forward march.” Liuprand was watching her as intently as ever, and his voice grew low. The breeze pulled down petals from the pear tree, scattering them through his golden hair. “Emerald for a true surrender. One dark wing and one white means resolve. This type of speckling, here, which is like the bark on a birch—that is for an apology. This iridescence—it is subtle; you must wait for the wing to catch the light—means love. And this precise shade of green is for sacrifice.”
The moth Liuprand indicated was the color of a ripe lime, and its wings were banded with gold—or was it yellow? There seemed toAgnes an awful lot of room for error in this system; what if someone mistook sapphire for cerulean? And she could not imagine there was any need to transmit a message of love during wartime.
The lime-green moth fluttered off its perch on the neck of a rose and landed on Liuprand’s outstretched hand. It was a tiny insect, small enough to fit within his palm. Little, lime green—a minor sacrifice? Agnes frowned as her own moth shifted somewhat discontentedly on her shoulder.
“You see,” Liuprand said, drawing himself up to his full height and now exuding the full force of that potent golden aura she had come to know him by, “this is why we with tongues and mouths and human minds use our words to communicate. Without speech, things so easily become muddled.”
A flush rose to Agnes’s face. She turned on her heel and marched past the hedge lattice, through the willow fronds. Her sudden movement dislodged the gray moth on her shoulder, and it fluttered away to ornament the stem of a hydrangea.
Agnes’s gaze searched among the flowers and plants. She carefully inspected the arrangements of petals, the pattern of bark on the trunks, and of course the moths fixed to them or fluttering through the air. She glimpsed one through the hedge lattice and slowly worked her way toward it. She was surprised by how easy it was to coax the moth onto her finger.
Then she returned to Liuprand, marching back through the softly undulating willow branches. The moth on her finger tittered. It was the size of a sparrow and had one black wing, one white.
Gently, Agnes raised her arm and urged the moth into the air. It flitted across the space between them and landed on Liuprand’s outstretched hand.
A wry, pleased smile turned up Liuprand’s mouth. He allowed the moth to crawl along his fingers and settle in his cupped palm.
“Black and white for resolve,” he said. “Very well.”
He retreated then, vanishing among a tall cluster of foxgloves. When he returned, he had another moth held aloft on his arm. Larger,sturdier, like an adolescent falcon. He urged it into the air, and Agnes raised her own arm to receive it.
It landed nimbly upon the inside of her wrist. She turned her hand over to examine it, yet the color could not be mistaken. It was a deep and vivid fuchsia, and when the sun shot through its papery wings, Agnes swore she saw a glimmer of iridescence. But then the light changed, and she could not find that shimmery effect again.
Fuchsia, for a forward march. She looked up at Liuprand, who was still smiling in that clever way.
“You will not drive me back so easily, Lady Agnes,” he said.
Liuprand the Dauntless. Liuprand the Resolute. There were many epithets for brave kings, for gallant, unfaltering kings. As if the annals of history would be writ with his success in coaxing one inconsequential lady to speak. He should be seeking other ways to dress his legacy in gilt and armor. Of course—his legacy would not be guaranteed until he gave the realm an heir.
He was such an inscrutable character, this prince. So preeminent when he faced his subjects, so gracious with his nobles, courting them with civility, never seeking to instill fear. Forceful but not malicious in his dealings, even when it was past the point of propriety. Remote in affect, cold and unyielding, but never cruel. And yet—
He hid away in libraries, sought his pleasure among the pages of arcane books. He forsook his lawful wife in their bedchamber only to waste his hours endearing himself to her cousin, the lesser lady in all respects, hardly worth noticing, much less befriending.
