Aster Alloway's Arc

Chapter 16 of 26

Aster pushed the fridge cart back into the cold. The mushroom café was full. Every bench held a traveler, every corner a pack. Night came down fast in the cold stretch. Her breath turned white. She needed warmth before the last day to the meadow, and the café would not give it. She walked the frost with the cart. The pollen chimed behind her. Ahead a soft glow spread across the snow. A tea house stood off the trail, its windows warm, night blooms climbing the wood. Lanterns hung from the eaves and threw pink light on the ground. Aster steered the cart toward it. Inside, the air was warm and sweet. Lamps glowed on every table. At the back sat the elder seamstress who had sewn her pouch a day before. Sable Fern. Her four arms worked a needle over folded blue cloth. A green sewing machine hummed at her elbow, its case flecked with a faint glow like spore-dust. She did not look up. "You came in from the cold," Sable said. "The café is full. You have nowhere to sleep." "I don't," Aster said. She set the cart by the wall where the chime would carry. Sable held up the blue cloth. Ruffles ran down it in rows. Small stitched eyes and shells dotted the fabric. "A sleeping dress. It warms to the body. It slows the breath so you rest deep." She turned it once. "I have been sewing it three days. It is done tonight." A server set a cup before Aster. Petals floated in it, glowing faint gold. Steam curled up. Aster drank. Heat spread through her chest. Her hands stopped shaking. "You are one day from the singers," Sable said. "You cannot walk it cold and tired." She folded the dress and pushed it across the table. "Take it. Sleep here tonight. Walk warm tomorrow." Aster ran a hand over the ruffles. The cloth held warmth already. "You made it for yourself." "I can sew another." Sable threaded her machine again. The glow pulsed under her fingers. "You cannot grow another bloom this century." Aster changed by the fire. The dress warmed her skin at once. Her breath came slow and even. She lay on a bench near the cart and the chime rang steady in her ears. For the first time in days, no cold crept into her bones. She woke at first light, rested. The blue cloth still held its heat. Outside, the frost had thinned. She loaded her pack and checked the fridge. The pollen glowed. The pouch sat dry behind the glass. Sable stood at the door, needle in hand. "The trail bends past the last rise," she said. "You will hear the singers before you see them." Aster pulled the cart into the pale morning. One day now. The pollen chimed at her back, and she walked warm toward the meadow.