Her wings are tightly folded within her back. They are a mystery about to open. She should be terrified by the height, but she isn't. Dark, wild waters are churning at the foot of the cliff, giant watery toothless mouths willing her to fall so that they can engulf her lithe body, turn her into another pale seaweed that will dry on the sand next summer. The winds howl. Birds screech in happiness, excited by the prospect of dead fish. They glide and dive in a frenzied ballet. It's a good omen. It's almost time now. Her mother told her to wait until the sun comes out of the clouds, because she will need as much warmth as she can muster.

Her wings will be slightly moist when first unfolded. She'd rather not use them in that state. Instead, she will turn round, and spread them to the sun, who must be the first one to behold the beauty of a young girl's iridescent feathers. It will blow on the last remnants of childhood, and that brittle skin that used to cover the downy buds will fly away like ash. Then the sun will shine on the wings, making them hard and tense, tempering them for the times to come. One last time she wiggles her naked toes over the abyss, her naked legs play with the storm. She feels the seam opening in her back, the delicate ripping of a useless envelope. Damp down escapes, new muscles, new bones, new joints, all come to