A dedication to each of the Questers — from the fairy with the poppyseed pluck to the sparrow man who catches stars.
It is the hair that always falls into her blue eyes. It is the length of her lashes, the time it takes her to blink. It is the particular shade of crimson that she blushes. It is her fingers running gently over dented metal, when the pain of the pots and the pants digs into her so deeply that she looks like she might cry. It is her wingbeat: the flutter that defines her.