Horses were shaken out of the thatching as Thistle and Tria climbed onto the roof.

“And you’re sure this will work?” asked the younger woman.

“Nope!” Thistle replied. “But that’s the idea!” Thistle had read that only in times of greatest need did the magic come. Though these moments usually came along with something about treasure and friendship, she figured the same principle applied. When you were unsure, it was assured that it would work for sure. If not, well at least she had insurance.

Mace nervously looked up at her from the garden. The young woman was half crouched and hands clenched, as if she was afraid the ground was going to drop out from under her. Thistle knew that feeling well. Not the sensation of jumping off a cliff, but the sympathetic anxiety of watching someone else do it.

Looking down, looking all the way down, Thistle realized just how devastating even a short fall was. Her legs would probably shatter instantly, if she was lucky enough to land on them. What was worse was the tingly feeling that made her legs feel like mush.

She breathed in, and gripped the broomstick. She became very aware of how loose her roof thatching was under her feet.

This was it. Do or die. Just a thirty foot drop that stretched into infinity.

All it took was…

One

Single

Step.

Yessir.

Just one

Little

Tiny

Minuscule

Step.

She raised her right leg, and stepped over the edge.

Her stomach lunged upwards! Lighting shot up her spine! She didn’t scream. Didn’t let out even a single sound. All she did was wait for the thud.

Nothing happened.

She risked a peek.

She was flying! Or at least not falling. Thistle and her broom were listing in mid air, not soaring but still high above the ground.

“Well, at least we know it works at thirty-some feet in the air,” said Tria with a relieved sigh.

Thistle’s mouth curled into something between a smile and scream. She was actually in the sky! But she wasn’t moving. The adrenaline high was quickly wearing off as her smile fell.

Was this really…it? She thought. Was hovering in air, just idly bobbing up and down really what she was hoping for? Thistle began rocking back and forth, trying to get the broom to do something…anything! She began to feel her eyes tear up.

Normally, Thistle had no problem hiding her emotions, especially when disappointed. But high emotions invite other high emotions. Her anxiety from nearly plummeting off her roof had invited desperation in, and desperation brought its friend hopelessness wherever it went.

“Are you ok?” asked Tria in a soft voice.

“It just…it’s just…” she began. But that was it, she thought. It wasn’t just. No just world would take the things Thistle had lost. No just world would cast her to the side like it did. No just world would give her the magic while her husband was dead.

She froze. Thistle looked over to where her husband was and cursed herself for being so childish about this broom. Was she really crying about a floating broom not being good enough? We’re magic lessons, a magic sword, and magic broom really not enough for her. But chastising herself only made her cry harder. Everything from her stomach to her head was twisting into knots because she did, deep down, desperately want to soar instead of merely float, and she hated that she wanted it.

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Her husband put his hand on hers and whispered “It’s ok,” into her ear. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, feeling his scratchy beard on her head and breathing in his familiar scent.

She paused and stared down at her hand. It was still holding the broom.

There are those little moments in life when you’re reminded of something or someone you thought you’ve forgotten, only for a single whisper to bring it all back. Like waking up from a dream, the illusion of time and loss lifts. Thistle wiped her eyes and realized that she had stopped crying.

“Come on,” whispered Clover. “Show me what you can do…”

Thistle set her jaw, tightened her grip, and fixed her gaze on where Clover was buried.

Thistle blurred.

Mace dove to the ground as Thistle shot past. Millions of grass seeds from her garden were flung into the air as she passed over them. She yanked the broomstick upward, barely missing the tree line and soaring into the sky. She was thirty, forty, fifty feet up before she wheeled around. Thistle beamed even with her hair whipping in her face.

Tria hollered her joy and cheered Thistle on. Mace was kneeling in the dirt, dumbstruck, until she finally gasped out a laugh. Thistle aimed towards Tria and stuck out her hand, who got the message. Her hand morphed into a long snake that sprang out and coiled around Thistle’s arm. Tria’s skirt puffed as she vaulted herself into the air and swung onto the back of the broomstick.

“You did it!” she said as she landed behind Thistle. Thistle turned again and took them downwards. With Tria hanging on, she aimed for Mace. She had just risen to her feet as she saw them, her face fell the instant she saw them.

“Wait, wait!” she tried to say, but before she could even react Tria wrapped an anaconda around her and pulled her on. “Oh gods!” shouted Mace over the wind. They flew through the treetops, scattering twigs and leaves in their wake. The broom climbed higher and higher. Clouds rushed towards them. Thistle squinted her eyes as it enveloped her. Just a little further. The cloud darkened her vision, Mace whimpering all the way. Almost there. Thistle grit her teeth. Half a heartbeat later and they erupted from the cloud. Tria yelled in triumph. Thistle beamed and looked at Mace. Even she had a grin starting to pull on her face. Sunlight, clear and bright bathed them as they sailed through the clouds.

“Hold on!” Thistle cried over the wind. She swung her body to the side. Mace yelped as the broom rolled. They spun through a cloud leaving a corkscrew of white fluff when they emerged. Mace laughed, and let out a holler of her own.

Shapes rose up from the clouds beneath them. A wing of geese flapped upwards, surrounding the trio. Mace looked back at Thistle, her classes askew, her eyes and smile glowing. A warmth settled in her chest as she slowed the broom down. Thistle could feel all three of heartbeats hammering. The geese flew past and they gradually came to a halt. She looked over at Tria. She could see Tria blushing, and her eyes settling on Mace.

“That was- that was- ” Mace gasped through laughing. “I’m going to need a moment.”

They floated there for what felt like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes at most. The three women watched the clouds gently swim along as they stayed still. Thistle’s muscles relaxed. She breathed in the cool, clean air. She looked to the two other women, who gave her short nods, and she started willing the broom to descend.

They were quiet in their reverie as the broom gently floated downwards, until Mace broke the silence. “So how did you get it to move?” she asked.

Thistle held her breath. What was she going to say? ‘Oh, my late husband whispered some words of encouragement from beyond the grave and then it was just easy peesy?’ She didn’t want to make a fool out of herself in front of her mentor.

“Well I uh…just…took your words to heart I guess?” she could hear the unsureness in her own voice.

“The thing about the focus or the mental block? Or was it something to do with your life goals?” she asked.

“Uh…” Thistle started to sputter. Did she just imagine her husband? If so, what had she done differently? Was it something psychological like Tria had implied earlier? Then it hit her. Or more precisely, it hit them, and ‘it’ being Ringabell.

Ornithology, the study of birds, had long had a philosophical branch, devoted entirely to asking why birds had such a sense of timing. From understanding the migration patterns to defecating on some uptight person’s shoulder, their sense of time seemed to stretch into the metaphysical. Augury was the study and application of bird time. Diviners from across the world and history looked to birds to predict everything from the weather to royal births. Only augurs could be both excited and annoyed at bird droppings on their lenses.

Thistle, Mace, Tria, and now Ringabell fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and feathers. Luckily they had only been a few feet from the ground when the corvey rammed into them. Tria pulled herself to her feet.

“Everyone alright?” she asked. A chorus of groans answered her.

“Were you all just…flying now?” asked Ringa, rubbing a sore wing.

Thistle’s pain disappeared as she beamed at him. “We were! Did you see us from up there? How did I do?”

Ringa cocked his head to the side. “No, I didn’t,” he cawed dryly. “How did you even get up there? Calling on ghosts again?”

The broom had clattered to the ground, and Thistle worried for a heartbeat that she had broken it. She let out a sigh of relief when she picked it up and felt the familiar surge of energy from when she flew. It felt like pent up energy building and waiting to be let out.

“With this!” said Thistle, excitedly waving the broomstick in the corvey’s face Ringa’s big yellow eyes focused on it for a second, then he shook his head.

“That’s great and all, but I have an urgent message!” he said. He began to hop towards the town. “Quickly! It’s the schoolhouse, it’s…well it’s…” the words died in his beak. “It’s something you have to see to believe!”