Aster Alloway's Arc

Chapter 13 of 26

By the second hour, Aster's feet had turned against her. The trail past the stream ran hard and rocky. Cleo's cart rolled ahead through the trees, and Milo set the pace at the front, her three wings buzzing without rest. Aster limped behind, all four hands white on the moss cart. Each step drove a fresh sting up from her soles. The fridge chimed, the pollen glowed, but she was falling back. Milo dropped from the air and landed on the cart's edge. She glanced at Aster's feet, then at her clipboard. "You're twelve minutes behind schedule. That's growing." Her voice stayed flat. "Two days means two days. The singers hold pitch until the second dusk. After that the meadow closes. Your pollen dies with it." Aster tried to speak lightly, the way she greeted her shop customers. "I'll catch up. I just need a minute." She lifted one foot. The sole was raw and split. Milo looked at it for a long moment. She had lost people before, Aster remembered. The badge on her sash, the summit where the grid broke and vendors never came. Milo did not soften. She solved. "You can't walk on those," Milo said. "You'll stop by nightfall. Then we all stop." She unclipped a flat pack from beneath her clipboard and dropped it on the cart. "Cushioned soles. I carry spares for singers who stand all day. Put them in." She pulled a second thing free, a pair of shoes shaped like flies, crystal wings folded at their sides. "And these. Fly runners. They pull weight off the foot. My fastest singer uses them at festivals. You'll keep my pace in them." Aster stared. "You'd give me both?" "I'd rather give them than dig another grave." Milo tapped the clipboard once. "Sit. Two minutes. That's the schedule now." Aster sat on the cart step. She peeled off her worn shoes. Cosmo knelt and helped her fit the soft pads inside the fly runners, his hands steady. The pads met her raw skin like cool cloud. She laced the shoes with three hands. Their wings shivered open, catching the light in soft rainbow. When she stood, her weight lifted off her heels. She took a step. No sting came. Cleo turned from the front, humming, and nodded at the shoes. Above her cart a vine hung down through the branches, glowing with pastel petals and a faint rainbow shine. "Good. Now move, both of you. That vine means we're near the cold stretch. We camp past it or not at all." Aster walked. Then she matched Milo's pace, and held it. The fridge chimed steady at her side. By dusk she stood level with the cart, feet quiet, the meadow one day closer. But Milo checked her clipboard and frowned. "Wind's turning ahead," she said. "The cold stretch runs harder than I planned."