The Butterfly Plague

Something beautiful came through the mist. Something was wrong with it.

The garden had always belonged to gentle things. Moonflowers opened along the old iron gate, fireflies drifted above the roses, and butterflies slept beneath leaves until the first pale edge of dawn.

Then the green lights appeared.

At first the servants mistook them for fireflies. But fireflies did not beat ragged wings against the windows. They did not gather in hungry spirals above the fountains. And they did not leave flowers blackened wherever they landed.

By sunrise, the garden was alive with dead things.