Deep, rich orange and speckled with black, every now and again a flick of their wings flashed an underside of green and mother-of-pearl – the silver wash that gives the fritillaries their name. The female flies straight and level, the slow semaphore of her wing-beats and the scent from the tip of her abdomen exuding allure. The male swoops in tight loops under and up and in front of her, stalling so she can pass beneath him through a shower of intoxicating scent-scales shed from his forewings.
-Isabella Tree
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