The Patron Saint of Butterflies Read Online Free PDF Page B

that when I was born, my mother laughed and laughed to see her hair on me. Saffron red, with the same tiny curls just around the ears. Of course at Mount Blessing, red hair, like everything else red, represents Satan and hell and all that good stuff. So while my mother may have thought my hair was cute, my flame-colored tresses have only added to my already damaged reputation here. I guess I can’t win either.
    I’ve had exactly one conversation about my mother with Christine, who told me that aside from the red hair, Naomi was just eighteen years old when she arrived, and that she played the violin. Really well. In fact, she was so good that Emmanuel himself took notice and invited her on more than one occasion into his room to play for him. Which is no little thing. Emmanuel used to be a classical pianist, and while I’d personally rather stick needles under my fingernails than have to sit in his room listening to him play, I have to admit, the guy knows his stuff. For real. I mean, he doesn’t even have to look down at his fingers or anything when he plays. So Naomi must have impressed him quite a bit with her own musical abilities.
    “Actually, she was taken into his spiritual inner circle almost immediately,” Christine had said, getting a faraway look in her eyes as she remembered. (Even after twenty-five years, Christine has never been made a part of Emmanuel’s inner circle. I don’t know why she hasn’t, but sometimes I wonder if that made her jealous of my mother.) “Like a month after she got here, which is practically unheard of. ButEmmanuel was so taken with the way she played the violin that no one was really surprised when it happened.”
    “But then what?” I asked. “What happened that made her run away, especially if Emmanuel was so amazed with her?” I paused and bit my lip. “Was it me?”
    “Honestly, Honey,” Christine said. “I just don’t know. One day she was here, visiting you in the nursery, and the next morning she was gone. No one ever saw her again.”
    I didn’t press things after that. For one reason, I believed Christine, who, when I really thought about it, didn’t have any reason not to tell me the truth. But there was another smaller part of me that didn’t really want to know. What reason could ever be good enough for abandoning your own child?
    Now, braiding my hair again quickly, I blow my nose, run my tongue over my lips, and slide my arms back inside my robe. Fastening the silk cord loosely around my waist, I glance down. Where the heck are my shoes ? When did they come off and how did I forget to put them back on? Well, I’ll have to look for them later. Thank God my robe just barely covers my feet. I stroll nonchalantly back into the room, taking small steps so my feet don’t stick out, and look around. Peter spots me instantly and breaks away from the little group at the window.
    “Hey,” he says, trying to act all casual. “Where have you been?”
    I shrug and bend my knees so the robe covers my feet again. “Around.”
    “Yeah,” Peter says slowly. “Well.” He clears his throat. “You know … I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry that I—”
    “I’m sick of prayers!” Iris shouts suddenly, interrupting Peter midsentence. She is wriggling away from Christine. “Iwant to go back to school!” The room erupts with laughter as Iris bursts into tears. She has wild, curly blond hair and a stubby nose. “And no one’s listening to me! My legs hurt! They’ve been hurting all day!” Poor Iris. She says whatever’s on her mind, no matter what the consequence. It won’t get her into too much trouble here with Christine, but she’s always getting it from her parents, who, after Peter’s parents, are two of the most devoted Believers at Mount Blessing. They have no qualms about telling Emmanuel every single thing she does wrong. Like me, Iris is no stranger to the Regulation Room.
    “Go upstairs and lie down, Iris,” Christine says. Her