Mark is entrusted to break the Union

Mark Tempe stood in the center of the huge hall, dazzlingly illuminated by the soft light of the chandeliers hanging several meters high. The intricate stucco patterns on the ceiling, the gilded cornices and the stained glass windows with bright colors created a feeling of serene luxury, as if the hall itself were not a museum, but a palace. In his black frock coat, with a snow-white shirt and perfectly polished patent leather shoes, he looked like a true dandy. On his nose, a pince-nez constantly sparkled - an element that had become part of his image, not only to add elegance, but also to allow him to take a closer look at the smallest details in the world that was so close to him.

The collection of butterflies displayed in glass cases on both sides of the room was breathtaking. These were not just rare specimens - they were true works of art. Each butterfly, each pair of wings, each stripe of color on their delicate bodies was an embodiment of the subtle beauty of nature that Mark had studied all his life. And although he was a professor of the piano department, loved the art of music and taught it, it was in the world of butterflies that he felt truly free. There was no need for strict theories, there were no obligations. Catching butterflies, collecting them - all this was a real pleasure for him.

How many times, being in Boston, he stole a free minute and, leaving his student lectures for a while, walked through the parks and forests, catching winged creatures with extraordinary grace. He was self-taught in this business, but with each passing year he became an increasingly sophisticated entomologist. Each butterfly for him was not just an insect, but the embodiment of an entire story, a riddle that he wanted to solve.

In this room, where display cases filled with bright wings hung, Mark felt like a fish in water. He stood, lost in thought, looking at the exhibition, as if peering into the mysterious world that was hidden behind every pin and glass wall. His gaze was focused, and even the silent visitors could not distract him from this peaceful state.

At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned slightly, keeping his eyes on the butterflies, expecting to see someone familiar, or perhaps just intuitively sensing the presence of another nature lover who might appreciate his passion. It was a man with a thin moustache and a bald spot, dressed in a gray jacket, black waistcoat, and immaculately ironed shirt. Stopping next to Mark, he spoke to him in a strange, somewhat unctuous tone:

"Interested?" he asked, his gaze gliding over the display cases as if he wasn't sure what exactly had caught the man's attention.

Mark turned his head slightly and, without taking his eyes off the collection, answered with interest:

"Yes, I am interested. The collection is certainly impressive, but in my opinion, it is still not complete. It is missing one important element - Delia Eucharis."

The man froze, and then, with a note of pleasant surprise in his voice, said:

"Ah, you are a great connoisseur! Yes, of course, Delia Eucharis is a real miracle of nature. It appears only once a century! And whoever sees it can consider himself truly the happiest person in the world."

Mark smiled faintly, realizing that this man had just uttered the same words that he himself often used in conversations with colleagues and friends. There was something in the way he spoke that left the impression that the man himself did not quite believe what he was saying, but nevertheless did it with such grace that it was difficult not to admire.

Mark and the man simultaneously returned to contemplating the collection. The man's attention was clearly absorbed by the display cases, where among the various butterflies were rare and exotic species, each of which left an impression of special sophistication. The man, slightly tilting his head toward one of the display cases, spoke with some excitement in his voice:

"I have seen a lot in my time. I see rare specimens, such as Rhapsody Stratosphere, or that very Iridescent Iceberg, and even Noisy Esperanza. But alas, I have never had the chance to meet Delia Eucharis. And what is even sadder, it seems I will never see her again."

He paused, as if his words were heavy and weighty in themselves, and stood still for a moment, concentrating on a display case with particularly bright specimens. Then, slowly, he looked up at Mark, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and a slight slyness.

"But... maybe you'll be lucky," he said, with a slight smile, adding an ironic note to his voice. "Who knows, maybe you'll be the lucky one who one day meets this shy lady and impales her on his sharp pin?"

Mark chuckled slightly, his lips curling into a wide, almost playful smile, as if he had just heard a dirty joke (which he had), but then, almost instantly, his expression changed. His eyebrows rose sharply, and his gaze grew more intense, as if some sudden realization had struck him. He nodded briefly, as if answering himself, and without waiting for the conversation to continue, he said:

"Sorry," he said with the same calm as before, but now there was a shadow of something serious in his voice, as if he suddenly felt uncomfortable in this company.

He stepped away from the display cases and walked away quietly, taking one step at a time until he was at a distance from the man. Without turning around, he continued his way through the room, leaving him alone, among the butterflies, display cases, and luxurious decorations. He walked through the huge doors of the room and found himself in a corridor that was full of people. The atmosphere here was a sharp contrast to the quiet solitude of the room with the butterfly collection.

The corridor was a real aristocratic ball - a multitude of guests had gathered here, each of whom was dressed in magnificent outfits, as if they had all come to a reception with the royal family. Men in elegant tailcoats and tuxedos, women in exquisite dresses, with expensive jewelry, with carefully styled hair and facial expressions full of refined grace. Every glance was directed towards the interlocutor or at the dishes that were scurrying in the hands of the servants, but no one could hide their attention to Mark, who, despite his undoubted elegance, looked among them like someone who had ended up there by some accident.