The Twin Cages
In the salon of Comte Henri de Montclair, on the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honore in Paris, a silver butterfly landed on the marble table beside a glass of absinthe that had been green and dangerous and beautiful before the nineteenth century had fully learned to fear itself. The butterfly was not an insect. It was, in every sense that Henri could comprehend, more insect than insect—its wings were...
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