Chapter 1, page 17

“They’re beautiful,” she said softly, staring at them, totally ignoring the being the wings were attached to.

He leaned up against the pillows on the bed, hands behind his head, and stared back at her, relaxed.

“Thank you! I quite like them too.”

She sat in the dark green wingback chair set next to a second window, curtained in a cheerful green and white check with ruffled edges. A small table and lamp were next to it, with an arrangement of candles and dried flowers, and room for a book or a picture frame. Two small paintings decorated the wall opposite her, and depicted quiet river scenes that might have been taken from the woods surrounding the cabin.

The four poster bed Kellan lounged on was covered in a scrap quilt, dominated by the color green and flowered fabrics. The pillows he rested on, solid green shams with ruffles, were laid against a pine headboard. His bare feet didn’t touch the matching footboard, and the carved posts were short, reaching only a couple of feet above the bed. The dust ruffle matched the pillows, and draped to just above the floor, hiding anything that might be under the bed.

Chapter 1, page 16

Phoebe gaped at him. She scrutinized the winged creature, noting small details, his trimmed, clean fingernails, adorning scratched, sturdy hands. Mis-matched buttons on his shirt and a neatly sewn patch on one sleeve. Well-worn blue jeans, cuffed at his ankles, clung to his thighs.

“Well, speak, woman!” he demanded, “don’t just stare at me. You’re not a gibbering idiot!” he barked.

She continued to stare, stupefied by the creature in front of her. The only part of Phoebe that moved was her eyes, roaming over his wings again and again.

“Who are you? What are you? Can I touch them?” she finally squeaked out. She nervously pulled a stone she’d picked up earlier out of her pocket and let it slide around in her hand, rubbing her thumb over its smooth surface, waiting for him to reply.

He stared at her, weighing her, weighing what he should say. Finally, “I don’t know. Can you?” he snickered, his twinkling blue eyes belying the sneering tone of his voice.

She blushed, and then tightened her mouth. “Jerk!” she thought to herself, but didn’t speak out loud. She stepped towards the bed, reaching one hand out, and softly touched one wing. It was warm, slightly fuzzy, soft, and when it twitched, she jumped. Immediately she put her hand back on the wing, feeling it more firmly this time, realizing that she had tickled him.

Words should take you on journeys

Beauman, Sally. 2001. Rebecca’s Tale. pg. 271.

“Other nights I’d crouch in the prompt corner, listening to those winged words, learning those winged words. I knew tracts of them by heart, yet; they still light up my mind. I hear the meanings behind the meanings under the meanings – what an echo chamber! Max always wants words to be shackled, so “love” means this and “hate” means that. Lock them up in a poor prison of sense and slam the door on them. I don’t agree. Words should take you on journeys – and the journey that taught me that began and ended in the same place: Plymouth, in a street called Marine Parade, in a house called St. Agnes.”