The Patron Saint of Butterflies(4)

I. In all things, strive for perfection.

II. Clothe the body, adorn the soul. (This is the reason for our robes. We need to spend our time worrying about perfecting our souls, not our wardrobes.)

III. Waste nothing.

IV. Tempt not, lest you be tempted. (Temptations include things like television, magazines, radios, or anything at all that has to do with bringing the outside world into our community.)

Emmanuel created these rules, and there is nothing more important to a Believer than following them. It’s not always easy, especially the striving for perfection one (as you can see), but like Emmanuel says: The only thing worse than not being perfect is not trying to be perfect. So I keep trying.

It really bugs me that Honey doesn’t. Try, I mean. And not only does she not try, but in the past year or so it feels like she has just turned her back completely on everything having to do with Mount Blessing. Honey’s always been kind of a rebel—once, when we were about six years old and Emmanuel invited all the kids into his room to listen to him play the piano, she stood up in the middle of a very slow, beautiful piece, and said, “I’m bored!” Can you imagine? Just to be invited into Emmanuel’s room is in itself a huge deal. But being in there and getting to listen to him play the piano is doubly special—like getting to celebrate your birthday twice. Dad says that listening to Emmanuel play is like hearing the voice of God whisper in your ear, and I couldn’t agree more. Lately, though, Honey’s contemptuousness toward Emmanuel has been getting worse and worse. I don’t know what started it or if it’s going to end, but I get horribly upset whenever I think about it.

She also does nothing to hide her scorn for what she calls my “saint-wannabe” campaign. She thinks that trying to become a saint is a first-class joke or something. “Human beings aren’t supposed to be perfect,” she says whenever I remind her of the first of the Big Four rules. “You’re just beating your head against a wall, Agnes. The whole point of being human is to make mistakes. That’s just the way it is.” But that’s not just the way it is. Emmanuel says that most of us are using only an eighth of our capacity as human beings, and that if we really tried, we could do so much more—even attain perfection. Honey guffaws whenever I try to argue about it with her, and she usually ends up storming off. It’s maddening; it really is.

But my resentment vanishes now as I spot her in the tall grass. She is lying on her side, facing away from me, behind the red barn. Her blue robe is a few feet away, flung in a heap beside a cluster of dandelions. The back of her white T-shirt is streaked with grass stains, and her jeans are smudged with mud. For some reason she is missing her shoes. I look around, but they are nowhere to be found. Her breathing is slow and steady and when she inhales, a small whistling sound comes out of her nose. I lie down silently in the space behind her, being careful not to touch anything. I am not sure where it hurts the most. It amazes me that even after all these years my body still fits along the curve of her back. The front of my knees still align perfectly with the backs of hers and there, right along the slope of her neck, is the little freckle I used to stare at just before I drifted off to sleep next to her in the nursery every night. I lean in a little closer until the tip of my nose touches one of her long red braids. Her hair smells like wet grass. Around us, the air pulses with the steady thrum of singing crickets and the sun, warm as bath water, caresses our skin.

“Did Christine send you out looking for me?” Honey’s voice, drifting out from beneath her arm, is clotted with sleepy tears.

“No.” I pause. “She didn’t say anything. I think she knows you needed some extra time today.” This is most likely true. It is no secret that as Mount Blessing’s only orphan, Honey is Christine’s favorite. After Honey’s mother ran away one night—leaving three-week-old Honey behind in the nursery—it was Christine who took care of her. Even when Honey got too old to stay in the nursery and was sent to live in the Milk House with Winky Martin, Christine came down every night to tuck her into bed. And while it’s been years since Christine has gone down to check on her, it is obvious that she still holds a special place inside for Honey.

Now Honey snorts. “How big of her.”

I stay quiet. It was Honey who had gotten us in trouble this morning, Honey who was caught kissing—with her tongue!—Peter behind the pool. She made me stand watch, but then Amanda Woodward—who is always sticking her nose into everyone else’s business—had popped out of nowhere and started yelling about how she was going to tell on us and so we all paid the price. But it was Honey who had gotten the worst of it.

“Well, if Christine didn’t send you, how’d you get out of afternoon prayers?” Honey asks, finally removing her arm and turning over to face me. Her forehead is dirty, her cheeks streaked with dried, salty tear tracks. The white, crescent-shaped scar above her lip is the only unsoiled spot on her face.

“I said I had a stomachache. Christine told me to go lie down. She thinks I’m upstairs in the East House.”

Honey’s eyes narrow. “You lied?”

I sigh heavily. The waist string is cutting so tightly into my skin that the area around it feels numb, and my pockets, bulging with stones, are pulled tight against my thighs. “Don’t remind me, okay? I was worried. You’d been gone for so long. I didn’t know what happened.”