Thistle Moonwhisper stood at the pink doors of the shelter and read the notice pinned there for the third time. Unsponsored children turned away. He was eight, near enough, and the rite was in two days. If he did not fly at the rite, he would not fly at all. He pulled at the hem of his silver shirt. Every other fairy child he had seen wore a color that meant something to the elders. No one had told him what silver meant, and the man who had found him, Lysander, was not a fairy elder and could not sponsor a child at the rite. He went looking for the old scholar instead. Aldric Silverweave kept a room on the second floor of the shelter, above the nursery. Thistle knocked once and pushed the door open. The old man sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting dried stems into piles. His robe of gossamer and silver caught the lamp. "I need a sponsor," Thistle said. "For the rite." Aldric did not look up. "I don't sponsor children." "Lysander said you knew everyone." "Knowing is not vouching." He set a stem down. "Ask a clan elder. Silver is not my color to speak for." "No one will tell me what it is." Aldric's hands stopped. He looked at Thistle then, and the look held a long time. "That is the answer," he said. "Not the one you want." Thistle sat down on the floor because his legs would not hold him. He heard footsteps on the stair. Celestia Threadwhisper came in with her hands wrapped in fresh linen. She had helped Lysander pull a child from the chasm and her palms had not healed. She saw Thistle on the floor and the notice crumpled in his fist. "He needs a name at the gate," Aldric said to her. "I cannot give mine." Celestia sat down across from Thistle. "Why not you?" she asked Aldric. "Because if I stand for him, they will ask where he came from. I will have to answer." He folded his hands. "I am not ready to answer." The room went quiet. Celestia looked at her bandaged palms, then at Thistle's silver sleeves. "I'll stand for him," she said. Aldric shook his head. "You belong to no clan fully. They may refuse you." "They may." She met Thistle's eyes. "But I can walk him to the gate and speak. That is more than he has now." Thistle nodded. He did not trust his voice. Celestia stood and winced when her hands took her weight. "Two days," she said. "Be at my shed at first light. We will practice what to say." He went down the stairs with a sponsor and a new problem: the woman speaking for him was half-clan and hurt, and the scholar who knew what silver meant had refused to say it out loud.

Thistle came to Celestia's shed at first light, but she was not alone. Lysander stood by the doorway with his arms crossed. Aldric sat on an overturned crate, his silver-threaded robe pooled around his sandals. A woman in a golden robe and pointed hat knelt beside Celestia, unwrapping the linen from her hands. Thistle had not seen the healer before. She worked without looking up. "Aurelia Goldenwing," Celestia said. "She was passing through. She agreed to look at the burns." "The palms will not carry weight for six days," Aurelia said. She set the linen aside. "No lifting. No climbing." Thistle's stomach dropped. "The rite is tomorrow." "I can walk you to the gate," Celestia said. "I can speak. That is all." Lysander uncrossed his arms. "Show me your wings." Thistle turned. His wings were there, thin and pale, folded flat against his shirt. He had never lifted off. He did not know how. Every fairy child he had watched seemed to know from the first try. He had tried in the grotto, alone, and nothing happened. "Try now," Lysander said. Thistle stood in the center of the shed floor. He thought about up. He shook his shoulders. The wings twitched and hung still. He tried again. Nothing. Aldric watched from the crate. "He does not know the shape of it." "Then teach him," Lysander said. "I cannot teach a color I will not name." Aldric's voice was flat. "Silver is not lifted by clan rite. It is lifted by other means. That is what I can say." Thistle turned on him. "What means?" Aldric looked at the floor. "I will not say more today." Lysander stepped between them. He knelt in front of Thistle. "Try one thing. Walk until your feet feel warm." Thistle knew that trick. He had found water under the grotto that way. He did not see how it helped him fly. But he walked. He crossed the shed floor, out the door, along the packed dirt behind the shed. Ten paces. Twenty. His soles began to prickle. Then to warm. He stopped. "Water," he said. "Right here." Aurelia looked up. Aldric stood. Celestia rose slowly. "Cliff daisies grow over an underground seam," Aldric said. "You know that." "I know it now," Lysander said. Thistle looked at his own feet on the warm ground. He tried the wings again. They twitched and stopped. He could find water. He could not fly. "I will fail tomorrow," he said. Aldric shook his head. "You will not be judged by lifting. Not silver. But you will be judged." He walked out past Thistle without meeting his eyes. Celestia sat down on the step. "Then we go anyway," she said. "And we find out what silver is judged by when we get there." Thistle nodded. His feet were still warm. His wings were still folded flat.

Thistle slept badly and woke before dawn. The rite was today. Finding water was the only thing his body knew how to do, and he did not know how to do it on purpose. In the shed yesterday he had stumbled onto the warm spot by walking. At the rite he would have to show a talent, not stumble into one. He got up and went outside while the grove was still grey. Lysander was already at the woodpile, splitting kindling with short, clean strokes. He set the axe down when he saw Thistle. "I need to practice," Thistle said. "Before we go." "Practice what." "Finding water on command. Not by accident." Lysander nodded once. "Show me how you do it now." "I walk. My feet get warm. I stop." "Then walk somewhere you know is dry." Thistle crossed to the flat stone slab behind the shed. He stood on it. Nothing. He stepped off and walked in a slow circle. Nothing. He walked wider. His soles stayed cool. Celestia came out with her hands wrapped in fresh linen. She sat on the step and watched without speaking. Aldric came down the path a few minutes later, robe dragging in the dew. He stopped at the edge of the yard. "He is trying to control it," Lysander said. "Good," Aldric said. "Then stop letting him walk." Thistle turned. "How else do I find it?" "Stand still. Close your eyes. The warmth is in the ground, not in your walking." Thistle stood on the packed dirt. He closed his eyes. He waited. His feet stayed cool. He shifted his weight. Still cool. He opened his eyes. "Nothing." "Move one pace. Try again." He moved. Closed his eyes. Cool. Moved again. Cool. On the fifth try the soles of his feet began to prickle. He held still. The prickle spread to warmth. He kept his eyes shut and pointed down. "Here." Aldric walked to him and pressed a thumb into the dirt where Thistle pointed. "Seam runs under this. Yes." Thistle opened his eyes. "I did not walk to it. I stood." "You found it by choosing to look," Aldric said. "That is the difference." He made Thistle do it four more times, in four spots around the yard. Two were dry. Two were wet. Thistle called them right each time. His feet knew the difference now between cool and cool-turning-warm. Celestia stood up slowly. "That is a talent." "It is a small one," Aldric said. "But it is his. He can show it." Lysander picked up the axe again. "Then we go." Thistle looked down at his silver breeches, then at his bare warm feet. He could show something now. He still did not know what the judges would want it to mean.