The news spread faster than Edward could have imagined. By the time the frame of the new Ashwing was finished and patched with strong canvas, half the village knew he planned another attempt. He hadn't meant for it to become a spectacle, but once Elsie opened her mouth in the square—"You'll all see, he'll fly farther this time"—there was no stopping it.
And so, on a warm afternoon, the meadow near the river filled with more people than Edward had ever seen gathered outside of a festival. Children ran about chasing one another, old women leaned on canes with their eyes sharp, and men stood with arms folded, waiting.
Edward felt the weight of all those stares pressing down on him.
Beside the glider, he ran his hands along the smooth curve of the canvas, as if checking for flaws he already knew weren't there. His stomach twisted. It was one thing to throw himself into the air in secret, another entirely with a crowd watching.
Leonard clapped him on the back. "If you crash, at least it'll be entertaining. Whole village out here for the show."
"Not helping," Edward muttered, but the edge of a smile tugged at his mouth anyway.
Elsie tugged at the ropes one more time, testing the knots. "She'll hold," she declared. "Better stitching than last time. If it tears now, it'll be because you're heavier than a sheep."
"I'll take that as encouragement," Edward said dryly.
Mira was the last to arrive. She stood quietly by the edge of the meadow, her book clutched under her arm as usual. She didn't say anything at first, just studied the glider, then Edward. Finally she asked, soft enough that only he could hear, "Are you certain?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "Not certain, but ready."
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, thoughtful and unreadable. Then she said, "Then you should try. A question unanswered only grows heavier."
Edward swallowed. "Right."
---
The hill at the meadow's edge wasn't as steep as the ridge he'd used before, but it was long and smooth—perfect for a running start. Leonard and Elsie helped him drag the glider up while villagers gathered below like an audience at a play.
The higher he climbed, the tighter his chest became. He told himself not to look down at the people—at his father, standing with arms crossed; at his mother, biting her lip; at Mira, still and watchful; at children pointing eagerly.
At the top, he stopped to catch his breath. The glider loomed beside him, a strange bird of wood and canvas.
Leonard leaned close. "Remember—don't panic if you dip. Let the wind carry. Don't fight it."
"I know," Edward said. His voice cracked, betraying his nerves.
Elsie gave him a firm nod. "And if you crash, at least we stitched it well enough not to splinter straight away."
"That's very reassuring," Edward muttered, but the words steadied him.
He slid into the harness, gripped the wooden bar, and took one last look at the valley stretching out below. The river glimmered, the meadow spread green, and the villagers waited like dots of color. His heart pounded.
He ran.
The glider wobbled with each stride, canvas catching gusts that pulled at his arms, but he pushed harder, faster, until the hill dropped away beneath him.
The moment of weightlessness came again, sharp and sudden. His stomach lurched, but then the wings caught. The air rushed under him, holding, lifting. He wasn't walking, wasn't falling—he was carried.
Cheers rose from the meadow as he soared forward.
Edward grit his teeth, adjusting his weight as the glider tilted. He remembered Leonard's words: don't fight it. The craft dipped, then leveled, and suddenly the valley spread beneath him wider than he had ever seen.
This—this was more than thirty paces. He had doubled that already. Maybe tripled.
The wind roared past his ears, the canvas thrummed, his arms ached from gripping the bar—but he was flying. Not perfectly, not like the birds wheeling high above, but something close enough to burn through his fear and fill him with fierce joy.
Below, the villagers shouted, pointing.
He angled the glider, trying to keep steady, but the air shifted suddenly. A downdraft tugged him down, jerking the wings unevenly. His heart lurched. He tried to lean against it, but too sharply—the glider tilted dangerously, nearly rolling.
Gasps rose from the meadow.
Edward fought the urge to flail. He eased his grip, steadied his weight, and the wings leveled again with a shudder.
The meadow was rushing closer now. He wasn't falling headlong, but he couldn't stay aloft either. He braced himself, legs tucked.
The glider touched down hard, skidding through the grass. The frame creaked but held. Edward stumbled forward, tripped, rolled once, then staggered to his feet—dirt-streaked but grinning.
He had flown.
---
The crowd erupted.
Children whooped and clapped, men shouted over one another, and even the skeptical old women muttered in grudging approval. Elsie sprinted toward him, nearly bowling him over with a hug.
"You did it!" she cried. "Farther than ever!"
Leonard was right behind her, grinning. "Nearly broke your neck, but saints above, that was something."
Edward laughed breathlessly, shaking his head. His arms trembled from the effort, his knees ached, but exhilaration overrode everything else.
Then his father approached. The man's expression was unreadable, but his steps were firm, measured. Edward braced himself for scolding.
Instead, his father stopped in front of him, studying him for a long moment. Then he said, "You didn't just throw yourself off a roof. You built something that carried you."
Edward blinked. "So you're not angry?"
"Angry?" His father snorted. "I thought I'd be burying you by now. Instead, I saw my son in the sky." He shook his head, almost smiling. "It's foolish, dangerous. But perhaps not impossible."
Edward's throat tightened. "Thank you," he said quietly.
His father clapped him on the shoulder once, then turned back toward the crowd.
Mira was the last to approach. She hadn't shouted like the others; she hadn't moved until the noise quieted. She stepped closer, her gaze steady on him.
"You looked afraid when the wind shifted," she said.
Edward let out a breath. "I was. Thought I'd crash."
"But you didn't." Her tone wasn't questioning, but thoughtful. She tilted her head slightly. "And now you know. The air won't always obey. But sometimes, it will listen enough."
Edward managed a small smile. "That's… exactly what it felt like."
Mira nodded, her eyes distant as if already considering what books might compare. Then she added, softer, "I'm glad you came down safely."
Something in Edward's chest warmed at the words.
---
That evening, back in the workshop, the four of them gathered around Ashwing, battered but intact. The canvas bore streaks of dirt, the frame a few scratches, but it had survived.
Edward touched the wing with something like reverence. "She can go farther still."
"No doubt," Leonard said. "Though maybe next time try not scaring everyone half to death."
Elsie flopped onto a stool, grinning. "You should've seen their faces! Even old Mr. Tarrow nearly fell over cheering."
Edward laughed. "I thought he'd be the first to call me a fool."
"He did," Elsie said cheerfully. "But he still cheered."
Mira, sitting quietly at the edge of the workbench, finally spoke. "The meadow isn't enough. The air currents there are short. If you want true distance, you'll need a higher ridge."
Edward blinked. "You mean—another test? Higher?"
She nodded once. "The library has maps of the northern hills. You should study them."
The thought sent a thrill through Edward's veins. Higher. Farther. Beyond the meadow, beyond the valley.
"Yes," he whispered, almost to himself. "I'll do it."
And as the firelight flickered over Ashwing's frame, his friends' laughter in the background, Edward realized something had changed.
The dream was no longer his alone. It was theirs.
And together, they would push it higher still.