Lyra Threadwing's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Lyra worked the scraps for two days before she carried her half-finished square to the festival grounds to register. The daisy stems had softened in her hands. The moth-silk remnants held when she coaxed them slow. She had wrapped the piece in a scrap of her own robe and tied it with a stem. She thought registration would be a line and a name in a book. The official at the gate did not open the book. He looked at her robe, then at the bundle, then past her at the fairies behind her in line. His eyes stopped on the slack row at her hem. "Apprentices need a sponsor's word," he said. "For the booth." "I've entered before." "You've watched before. This is the grand festival. You bring a master's word, or an elder's, or you step out of the line." Her master was three groves away buying dye and would not return in time. Lyra knew it before she opened her mouth. She stepped out of the line so the fairy behind her could pass, and she stood on the trampled grass with the square pressed against her ribs. She went to Celestia Threadwhisper's shed because she had gone there once and been told the truth. Celestia sat on the step with her hands still wrapped in linen. The giant moth folded its wings behind her, antennae twitching at Lyra's approach. Lysander Brightwind stood at the shed wall, sorting empty stem baskets. He looked up when Lyra spoke. "They want a sponsor," Lyra said. "Or I don't get a booth." Celestia lifted her bandaged hands and set them back in her lap. "I can't hold a pen for six days." "I know." "I'd sign it if I could." Lysander set the basket down. "I'm not an elder. My word won't count at the gate." He paused. "My mother would have signed for you." Lyra nodded. She had expected both answers. She unwrapped the square on the step so Celestia could see it. The composite held. The rows were even. The color came from the daisy centers, pink and yellow shot through the pale silk. Celestia looked at it a long moment. "Take it to the official. Not for a booth. For a table." "A table?" "They keep side tables for pieces without booths. No judging. No prize. But the piece sits under the tent." Lyra's throat tightened. "That's not the festival." "It's the tent," Celestia said. "That's where the judges walk." Lyra rewrapped the square. She walked back to the gate. The official wrote her name on the side-table list and pointed her to a low bench at the tent's edge, past the booths, past the ribbons. She set the square down on the bare wood. No sign. No stand. Only the piece, and the judges' path six steps away.