It was spring, the Torys guessed, because the butterflies were planning their biggest event of the year: the Butterfly Social. You could always tell when it was nearing, because the little creatures would celebrate the warming weather by being especially expressive, floating to and from each other in dizzying and unpredictable patterns. It was a kind of teasing, you see. “Flitting and flirting,” Mr. Tory had called it, and Mrs. Tory had agreed.

For many years now the Torys had made their garden a special haven for the local butterflies. It started as an aesthetic choice: Mrs. Tory planting flowers that would attract them just to make the garden look prettier. But quickly it grew into something more: the pair adding flora constantly, Mr. Tory installing a number of miniature pools the butterflies could use to admire themselves. Before anyone knew it, the Torys thought of their colorful houseguests as friends. Small wonder, then, that the Torys got an exclusive invitation to the Butterfly Social.

The miniature note written on its traditional chrysanthemum petal appeared on their back doorstep on a Monday morning. The dance was to be the following Friday, which was honestly much more preparation time than the Torys were accustomed to. Butterflies being the creatures of fancy and whimsy that they are, they seldom plan things more than a few hours ahead. “Well, this means I have time to sew a new dress,” said Mrs. Tory. “And a tie for you to match.” Mr. Tory went to town to pick up a floral fabric that she ordered, and a new hat for himself, as well. Come Friday evening, the two were a lovely pair indeed.

They directions given guided them into the wood behind their house. Nearing the prescribed glen, they could hear the tinny, intricate music, and watched as butterflies flooded to the gala from every direction. Owing to their size, the Torys could never enter the dance space, but they watched through the branches at the complicated choreography and mesmerizing array of colors. Mr. Tory asked, “May I have this dance?” and Mrs. Tory agreed, and they swayed in each other’s arms to butterfly songs until the moonlight trickled away.