When a creature begins to emerge from it's chrysails there is a point at which it is neither one thing nor the other, not quite grown into a new identity nor rid of the old one.
It's wings are folded and sticky, it's colours hidden. Whether it will emerge in shades of emerald and lapis lazuli or the colour of mud is yet to be revealed.
It is that long, still, moment of waiting that fascinates me utterly. The suspence of waiting for beauty to unfurl.

Author: Meg Rosoff