Summer deepened. The sun grew heavier, the days longer, and Edward's sketches multiplied like weeds. Every margin was filled with wings, braces, angles—variations and redesigns, some ridiculous, some promising.
He had begun working out of the forge when it got too hot in the house. Leonard let him use the side bench as long as he didn't burn himself or mess with the hammers. Edward's father dropped by more often, usually just to nod at a design or ask what a certain diagram meant. Sometimes he offered advice—not often, but when he did, Edward listened.
Edward's hands were almost always smudged now. Grease, charcoal, glue. Mira called him a soot-owl once, under her breath. She still didn't speak much, but she watched him more openly now. When he brought in diagrams, she spread them across the table and quietly fixed his math.
One afternoon, Edward asked, "Why do you help me?"
She didn't answer for a while. Then said, "Because you listen."
That was all. But it stayed with him.
---
The next test was planned. Not a full flight—just a new variation on wing angle. A small model, towed behind Elsie's goat cart. It wasn't glamorous, but it let them test control at speed.
They attached the model to a pole behind the cart, and Elsie ran the goat in circles through the meadow while Edward scribbled notes and Leonard shouted wind speed numbers.
"Faster!" Edward yelled.
"The goat is doing its best!" Elsie shouted back.
The little model wobbled, stabilized, then dipped. Too front-heavy.
They tried again. And again. Adjusting after every loop.
By the end of the afternoon, the model glided longer, steadier. Edward collapsed in the grass, exhausted and delighted.
"It's ridiculous," he said, staring at the sky. "But it's working."
Leonard handed him water. "Ridiculous is just early genius."
Elsie flopped down beside him. "Let me know when you need goat speed again."
Edward smiled. "You'll be the first I call."
They lay there for a while in companionable silence, the meadow buzzing with summer insects and the occasional bleat of a very tired goat. The late afternoon sun painted the hills gold. Edward reached for his sketchbook, propping it against his knee.
"I want to try pivoting the tail," he murmured aloud. "Control might be possible with a movable surface."
Leonard raised a brow. "You're talking about steering?"
Edward nodded. "Eventually. Right now it just rides the wind. But what if I could shape the path a little?"
"You'd be closer to flying than gliding."
"Exactly."
---
That night, he showed Mira the notes. She looked them over slowly.
"The lift curve is still off," she said. "But you're getting closer."
He leaned over the table, pointing. "If I extend the rear stabilizer, it should balance better, right?"
"Yes. But make sure it's light."
"I was thinking reed."
She nodded.
Then, almost absently, she said, "You're not just chasing something impossible anymore."
Edward looked at her.
"You're building something real," she added.
It was the first time she'd said it aloud. The first time she'd confirmed what he was starting to believe.
They weren't playing with scraps and sketches anymore.
They were flying. Almost.
---
Later that night, Edward stayed up drawing. He sat by the open window, lamp glowing low beside him, listening to the crickets outside. On the table were three designs, all slightly different in shape but each an evolution of the last.
He wasn't just guessing anymore. He was beginning to understand the language of flight—the push and pull of pressure, the balance of weight and curve.
And as the stars glimmered above, he whispered to no one, "Soon."