And, too ignorant to be scared, too young to be awed, Tristan Thorn traveled beyond the fields we know.

A world in which there are monsters, and ghosts, and things that want to steal your heart is a world in which there are angels, and dreams and a world in which there is hope.

The moonlight was enough. It would do.

Let her tell stories and dance in the rain, somersault, tumble and run, her joys must be high as her sorrows are deep, let her grow like a weed in the sun.

It goes without saying that all of the people, living, dead, and otherwise, in this story are fictional or used in a fictional context. Only the gods are real.

Nobody will ever hurt her. She’ll just smile her faint vague wonderful smile and walk away.

Even if your goose habitually lays golden eggs, it will still be cooked.