The last of the candles flickers and dies out, a puddle of wax useless without a wick. Flames dance behind the blackened glass of the woodstove door, etching ever-changing pictures in the soot - a hooded warrior, staff in hand, huddles on a precipice perched over the pits of hellfire, sylphs frolick around the Beltane pyre in a sacred grove of rowan trees. She saw Jesus there once, illuminated from behind, smiling benignly at her, "You are loved, safe, well-protected."
She tries to recreate the pictures onto paper but lacks sketching skills, gets frustrated and gives up. She wants to be an artist but a dodo bird can never be a swan. 
Forlorn, her stare settles vague back onto the pane, the image depicts a dragon chasing a butterfly. She delights as the butterfly becomes a phoenix while the dragon dissolves into a string of black pearls.
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