Hope and love, yes--they're enough, they must be, they grow in the heart of man as frail and indomitable as the soft tiny wildflowers pushing up through the heavy forest soil.

A dark-winged butterfly alights on the pocket of Jehan's waistcoat, and he smiles down at it. (Are there butterfly daemons, in that other world? He knows some people who seem like butterflies, whether through delicacy or through frivolity, but he can't truly know, not in this world.)