The corridor to the hospital lobby seems to stretch on and on into infinite space; Max staggers on, Christian’s hand under his elbow, until suddenly the white walls and low ceiling peel away and he is under the cloudy winter sky.

It is the most beautiful sky Max has ever seen.

Lewis sits up, breathing hard, and looks down at the stunning Monaco harbour. A swathe of glittering buildings descend towards the sea below, studded like flame amongst the dawn-lit trees. The clouds on the horizon are painted pink and ochre, more vibrant than any painting, more real than any photograph.

His flight muscles burn, but the sea wind has caught him; he scoops air under his golden-brown primaries, each lighter and sturdier than carbon fibre, and spears into the sky. Thermal after thermal, as light as skipping stone on water, climbing until the harbour drops away below and the air is fresh and unbreathed.

The sun is warm on his feathers;... See more

Now, the sun is rising.

The sun is rising, and so is he.

Daniel had thought his wings would go back to how they were. He’d never thought they would be remade.

He had fallen from sun’s glare into the waves with his wings aflame, and the sea has given him new wings of storm-tossed blue.

Max is right.

Daniel’s wings are beautiful, because they are Daniel’s.

The feather that unfurls looks like an early evening sky. It rests across the linen bedsheet, a brushstroke of deep, unbroken azure across cream canvas.