She says she's sick. It's true more or less. Her mother's gone, the warmth is gone, and the house is all chill and icicles and she thinks there must be a way to melt them away. She says she's sick, and they go to pray to a god who has nothing to do with her. She's a Dark Creature. She's not in His book.

She lays down, reaches down, fingers down, curling fingers in curls, curling fingers in soft damp girl skin, Sunday dress bunched around her hips. She opens slowly, petals opening, icicles melting water running.

And she flies.