Butterfly and swirling vine design

The vine on the east wall has got past the second window now, and the gardener says it will reach the bell tower by midsummer if nobody cuts it back. I have not cut it. You would laugh at me. Every evening since the thaw the same pale butterfly comes to the bloom above the sundial, the one with wings like a foxglove's throat, and it sits there until the first star is out. Then it lifts, circles the sundial three times and goes over the wall toward the river.

Last night I counted the stars with it. Three came out in the corner of the sky where the old queen's comet used to be, small and sharp as needle pricks, and the butterfly rose to meet them. I did not believe Mother when she said the queen's maids were turned to moths and kept the palace in order. I believe it a little now.

Writing this, I have decided something foolish. Tomorrow I am going to climb the vine. It is strong enough, I have tested the lower branches with my own weight, and at the top there is a curl like the one on your ribbon, the one you left behind when you married the miller's boy and went north. I want to see whether the butterfly lands on it, or whether it has been waiting for someone to take it down.

If the stars are still there when you read this, look for the pale wing over the river. That will be me, or the thing that stayed behind to watch the wall.

Your loving sister, Ilse