Aster Alloway's Arc

Chapter 23 of 26

Aster stood inside the lavender shed and studied her one lamp. The borrowed light hung on a nail, small and pale. She held the pollen canister up to it. The spores drifted, dull and quiet. No spark. No swell. She had carried this glow across the whole wild grove, and now it slept in her hands. A weak lamp could not wake it. To grow a real bloom, she needed a light that never dimmed. She had no such thing. She left the shed and walked to the star-shaped shop inside the inn. Stella Nightshine stood at her doorway, holding a blue gown up to the day. The disco panels caught the sun and threw sparks across the floor. Stella did not glance over. "You're back," she said. "Fast. Something's still wrong." "My light won't hold," Aster said. "The pollen needs steady brightness to bloom. My lamp fades. I need one that never quits." Stella lowered the gown. She set it aside without folding it. Then she opened a drawer under her counter and lifted out a tiny thing. It fit in her palm. A small silver shell held a white glow at its center. The glow burned clean and even. No flame. No wire. No dimming. "This one never goes out," Stella said. She turned it over. The light held from every angle. "I tested it a year. Left it in a dark box. Same shine when I opened it." She placed it in Aster's four hands. "You feel the heat? Steady. A candle jumps. This one doesn't." Aster held it close. The white light warmed her palm. It did not flicker once. "How much?" she asked. "Nothing," Stella said. "You carried a voice across a grove. I sell dresses. This little coal does me no good." She waved a hand at the door. "Go grow your flower." Aster ran back to the shed. She hung the tiny light above the pollen and shut the door. The white glow filled the small room. She lifted the canister and cracked its seal a hair. The spores rose toward the light. They caught it. One spore brightened. Then a cluster. The dull glow woke and turned gold. A thin green shoot pushed up from the packed soil in her tray, curling toward the steady shine. Aster pressed her four hands to her mouth. The shoot grew as she watched, slow but sure. A single bud formed at its tip, tight and pale. Not open. Not yet. But alive. The spores were no longer dormant. The light held them awake. She sat on the shed floor and stared at the bud. Six years, and it finally reached for the light. But one shoot was not the century bloom. She had a sprout, not a flower. Now she had to keep it warm, safe, and singing until the bud dared to open.