Suddenly she was frightened. She flicked off her lantern and stood in the dark for a few moments. She didn’t like the thought of being seen—didn’t like the way people’s eyes settled on her, on the black mark on her cheek. She felt Hunter slide past her legs, hurrying ahead impatiently, as she stood listening in the quiet. The voice carried on—distant and musical. A sad song, perhaps … or a poem. But Lena couldn’t make out the words. She wondered if they were in another language.

She continued down the familiar passages in darkness, trailing her fingers along the wall, her feet silent in the padded canvas slippers they had to wear in the crypts. The voice grew closer, louder, as she neared the passages she knew were directly beneath the castle itself, where the noble Ancestors and their households were interred. But she saw nothing—and after a time, the voice stopped.

Her heart beat faster. Somehow the silence and darkness were more unnerving now that she knew someone, somewhere, was sharing them with her. And that’s when she saw it: the flicker of light. She clutched tightly the iron handle of her lantern and her dust sack, half convincing herself to run. Cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck.

At first, she wondered if it was a trick of her eyes in the dark—she’d known it to happen before, green-purple shapes blooming like strange flowers, disappearing, and re-forming at a blink. But this was real, she saw, as it grew closer—a clumsy, winding speck of light, fluttering on and off, bright, then dim. A … butterfly?

She watched, her heart hammering. She’d never felt so terribly alert, every sense sharp, nearly painful.

The creature was made of metal—filigree wings, a smooth brass body. It landed on the edge of a sarcophagus nearby, its wings gently rising and falling, rising and falling, like the breath of a tiny animal.

It was beautiful.

Lena set down her things and stepped closer. The light emanating from the creature’s body was flickering, like a sputtering candle. She reached out to touch it … but hesitated, fingers outstretched.

All the rules Vigo had ever told her ran through her mind at once, like a flock of startled birds. Don’t reveal your face aboveground. Don’t touch anybody, especially anybody who’s not a cryptling. Don’t touch the Ancestors, except as your duties demand. Don’t touch the grave goods. Don’t touch anything. To other people, Lena, you are dirty. Everything you touch is sullied.

And yet … she’d never seen anything so beautiful. Lena stopped thinking. She reached out and cupped the butterfly in her hands. She felt its delicate legs like feathers on her palms. It was incredibly light and made a faint whirring sound like a watch as its wings fluttered weakly.