Lyra Threadwing's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

By the second morning, Lyra heard her own name at the tea urns. Two apprentices stood with their backs to her, cups in hand. One said the side table was pity work. The other said the official had only written her down to be kind, that the piece was scraps because no one would give her real thread. Lyra held her cup until the heat stopped registering. She set it down and walked to the side table. Her square sat where she had left it. A fairy passed, glanced, and kept walking without slowing. She knew how rumors set. They set like bad thread. If the judges heard it before they walked the tent, they would look at the square and see leftovers, not weaving. She had one day before judging. She needed a voice at the tent that fairies would trust. She went to Celestia's shed. Celestia sat on the step with her bandaged hands in her lap. The moth shifted behind her. Lyra told her what the apprentices had said. "They're calling it charity," Lyra said. "If that's what the judges hear, they won't look." Celestia was quiet a moment. "I can't sign. I can talk." "Talk won't reach the judges in time." "Not mine alone." Celestia looked past her. "Aldric brought you the scraps. He knows what they were. He's an elder. Ask him to stand by the table for one hour before judging." "He refused to sponsor a child. He'll refuse me." "Sponsoring is a signature. Standing is a choice. Ask." Lyra found Aldric at the edge of the festival grounds, watching the tent from under a tree. His grey hair moved in the low wind. He held nothing in his hands. "They're saying my piece is pity," Lyra said. "Will you stand by it before judging? An hour. That's all." He studied her. "Standing is not endorsement." "I know." "Fairies will read it as endorsement anyway." "I know." He weighed it. She watched him weigh it. "The thread I brought you was all that remained," he said. "That is a fact. I will say the fact if I am asked. I will not say more." "That's enough." He came at the hour before judging. He stood at the side table with his hands folded. He did not touch the square. He did not speak unprompted. Two weavers stopped to greet him and looked down at the piece. One asked where the thread had come from. Aldric answered in four words. The weaver nodded and moved on. By the time the judges entered the tent, the tea urns were quiet on the subject of Lyra's square. The judges walked past the booths first. When they reached the side table, they stopped. One bent close. Another lifted a corner between two fingers and set it down. They wrote nothing. They moved on to the next row. Lyra stood at the tent post and watched them go.