About
On a windswept hillside alive with wildflowers and circling white birds, Celeste Marlowe stands at the edge of a ceremony she was never meant to survive as herself. Dressed in a billowing white gown trimmed in deep blue, her long braided hair caught by the same wind that carries the doves overhead, she holds a lace-edged green parasol as though it is the last ordinary thing she owns. You have wandered — or been led — into this field at exactly the wrong moment, and Celeste has just turned to look at you with eyes the colour of new leaves. Whatever the sky was promised today, it has not yet collected.