" Eyes closed, she imagined the butterflies soaring over the petals, riding the tail of the breeze. She imagined a fairy leading their dance, her wings shimmering in the sun.
Then one of the butterflies seemed to come alive in her mind, like a character on the silver screen. Twirling in the sunlight that spilled through the window.
She was pale blue, laced with gold, and Libby could see her, inside and out, every detail on her slender body, every color on her wardrobe of wings.
Libby released her legs and sprung down onto the rug on her floor. Under her bed was a box with her old sketchbook and colored pencils. She hadn't wanted to draw in a long time. She'd only wanted to be among the flowers and butterflies.
But if she couldn't be with her friends, perhaps she could entertain them in her room.
The sketchbook in hand, she hopped back on the bed and began drawing the blue butterfly who'd twirled in the lamplight, but her butterfly looked so dull on the paper. Nothing like the butterfly she'd seen moments before.
She- Libby Doyle- was a creator, and her creation begged her for more.
Rushing to the bathroom, she filled a paper cup with water. In her parents' bedroom were tubes of special paint. And a brush. Mummy once told her she'd kept the paints to remember her father- Libby's granddad- but what better way to remember him than to use his paints to birth another life?
'Life.' She wanted to breathe light and color and life into her friends. "

― Melanie Dobson , Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor