Next

He opens the scarlet, quilted box , and runs his gnarled fingers over the shimmering wings.
I study his age-weathered face, but, apart from a slight twitch of his thin lips, he gives no sign that he knows they are fake.
My real wings are tucked away at home in our carved, oak wardrobe.
These ones are made from chicken wire and gauze with a glimmer spell cast over them.