Fenrick Builds the Sunstaff — Every night before the frost parade, Fenrick swept brass curls from the makers’ hall and saved the straightest pieces in his coat cuff, daring himself to build a staff that could wake the plaza lights without any borrowed magic. Read the full story →
Every night before the frost parade, Fenrick swept brass curls from the makers’ hall and saved the straightest pieces in his coat cuff, daring himself to build a staff that could wake the plaza lights without any borrowed magic. The metal smelled sharp as pennies; his file sang skritch-skritch while he cut a blue glass chip into a point no larger than his thumb.
Until one day, the parade captain locked the old switchbox and shouted, “Handmade sparks only!” Because of that, Fenrick raced to the deco plaza with his untested staff knocking against his knee; because of that, the first touch sent light leaping too fast, star to ornament, ornament to arch, until the whole gate hummed like a hive in winter. He tightened the wire he had twisted himself, pressed his palm to the warm shaft, and the wild blaze settled into a proud golden fan above him.
By dawn, the plaza smelled of snow and hot brass, and every lamp burned steady from the little blue point he had shaped by hand. Fenrick kept one brass curl in his cuff, still daring it to become something brighter.
