They're lovely, painted rose and gold and morning blue, more butterfly-like than bird, but even as she feels they are a part of her, Psyche still finds them strange.

"Mine look so fragile compared with yours," she tells him as he lets her gently straighten his errant feathers, each pleasantly quivering from her touch.

"They are delicate but stronger they look, for they are a reflection of yourself," he assures her, and as he tenderly strokes her wings, something in her flutters, and she can feel that they will not fail her, their strength is true.