Morning crept over Windmere on a somnolent shroud of mist, and half-heartedly, in the distance, crowed a rooster, as though even that could not be bothered.
Edward groaned awake in bed, gazing upwards at the broken ceiling, his body throbbing as though he had been propelled into the world with not so much as one day's repose.
At last, he hooked his legs over the side and hobbled to the crooked old mirror hanging on the wall. He frowned at himself. His hair was disheveled, as if he'd battled a haystack and lost, and a dirty scratch across his temple. His blue eyes — hard and obstinate — glared back.
Edward wasn't the kind of boy to be called handsome. His nose was crooked from a childhood injury, his jaw a trifle too pointed. But there was something about his eyes, something obstinate, that caught attention when he remembered to smile.
"Great," he grumbled, gently rubbing the bruise. "Another day of appearing to have been run over by a cart."
Downstairs, the smell of warm bread and onions sizzling in a pan drew him out of his self-pity. His boots thudded on the groaning stairs as he headed for the tiny dining room off the kitchen.
His mother stood already at the fire, the pot steaming in one hand while she swatted at smoke with the other.
"Morning, sky-diver," she remarked without so much as a turn.
"Morning," Edward grunted, sinking into a chair at the worm-eaten wooden table.
She put a bowl of hot stew before him and added a wedge of bread to the side. Her eyes scanned his bruises — but, sensibly, she did not comment. Not yet, anyway.
"I heard the crash yesterday," she said, taking a seat across from him. "And Tolle's goat screaming like it was going up in flames."
Edward grinned abashed. "Landing gear failure."
"Landing gear, eh?" She snorted, shaking her head. "Glad you didn't fall into the well."
"I'm still figuring out the details."
"You're working yourself into an early grave," she snapped, though her voice wasn't really scolding. More resigned, as if it had become part of their daily routine. The corner of her mouth curled into a half-smile as she watched him wolf down the bread.
The kitchen was cozy — with the din of pots, the roar of the fire, and the aroma of good food.
"You know," she said after a moment, "you've got your father's headstrong ways. And his stubbornness too."
Edward paused. He remembered his father in flashes — thick hands, soot-stained from the forge, and a loud laugh that seemed to fill the room. Jonas Wren, the village blacksmith — tough, practical, with a mind that always seemed a step ahead of what was possible.
Edward had inherited the stubbornness, no doubt. And the blue eyes.
"I'll be careful," he promised.
"You'd better," she stood up and prodded the fire. "Or I'll tie you to the ground myself."
Edward laughed into his stew. If anyone could keep him on the ground, it was her.
---
Later in the afternoon, Edward sat on a splintered barrel in the village square, bent over a crumpled piece of parchment. His forehead furrowed in thought as he wrote ideas — wing shapes, support beams, crazy sketches that didn't make much sense. He was lost in it, obsessed with the details, when something struck him squarely between the eyes.
"Oi," a voice called out familiarly. "You look like you're setting out to rob the king."
Edward rubbed his forehead and glanced upwards. Elsie was standing there, smiling.
"Better," Edward said, throwing the bread back at her. "I'm going to fly."
She leaned closer to examine the parchment, raising an eyebrow. "You're serious?"
"Deadly."
She whistled low, impressed. "And how on earth do you propose to make that a reality? Hope real hard?"
"I'll take care," Edward said stubbornly. "I just need. better supplies."
Elsie snorted. "Better supplies, huh? Going to rob a treasure chest?"
"No," he said, grinning, "but I have a friend who's very skilled at finding things."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're a bad influence, you know that?"
He made a little, over-the-top bow. "Why, thank you."
Elsie sighed but didn't argue. "Alright. Where's this 'better stuff'?"
Edward gestured toward the distant end of the village. "Hawthorne's manor."
She blinked. "You're going to steal from Lord Hawthorne?"
He smiled wider.
"You're daft," she mumbled under her breath, then after a moment: "When?"
"Tonight."
Elsie groaned. "All right. But if we get caught, you're informing your mum."
---
Thank you for your patience.
Lord Hawthorne's estate was a looming mansion on the outskirts of Windmere, its granite walls casting long shadows over the town like an unblinking guardian. The estate spoke for itself of its owner, Thaddeus Hawthorne, a wood merchant who had accumulated his wealth by cornering the local timber trade.
Lord Hawthorne wasn't wicked — he was simply. stern. He operated his business with precision, negotiating with the finest merchants, eliminating anyone who was not good enough. His employees complained about him, calling him hard to please and even harder to work with. Some gossiped about his temper, though not many dared utter it. He was a man who earned a living on ruthless business transactions, and though his reputation wasn't so bad it was necessarily in need of mending, nor was it bright enough to dazzle.
His manor was much the same as its proprietor. The iron gates were weighty black iron, the stone walls frigid and formidable, built to shield more than mere family within.
But the guards were idle, more concerned with when they would next eat than with keeping anyone out. The ideal opportunity.
Edward crept low among the grass, his chest pounding with excitement, waiting for Elsie to give him the signal. She had already sneaked inside in the guise of bringing some cloth, and now he waited, trying his best not to picture her getting caught.
Finally, she appeared, darting across the garden, her skirts lifted above her knees.
"Storeroom by the kitchens," she hissed. "Third door on the left. Planks. Canvas. You're welcome."
Edward smiled. "Knew you liked me."
She shoved him lightly. "Move it before I change my mind."
---
That night, Edward moved stealthily through the fields, pulse racing as he made his way to the manor. The kitchen door swung open, throwing a warm light onto the wet grass. Within, the aroma of roasting meat and sweet bread wafted through the air, but Edward overrode his stomach and concentrated.
One door. Two doors. Third on the left.
He stole in and stiffened in the storeroom, eyes agog as he took in mounds of wood, bundles of canvas. Plentiful enough to construct a couple of devices.
Smiling to himself, he took an armload of supplies and turned back — only to stiffen when a voice bellowed through the hallway.
"Oi! Who's there?"
Without hesitation, Edward dashed.
Through the manor, past startled maids and fumbling guards, dodging down narrow hallways until he finally burst into the cool night air. He didn't dare look back.
He didn't stop running until he was deep in the fields, lungs burning, the stolen materials digging into his arms.
Finally, he collapsed in the tall grass, laughing shakily up at the stars.
---
"You're a fool," Elsie said the morning after, tying a tight bandage around his arm.
"A fantastic fool," Edward said, smiling through the pain.
She sighed, but couldn't help smiling. "Try not to get yourself killed before you've even begun."
"No promises."
And he meant it. For there was something in the atmosphere, something in the procedure, that was propelling him forward. One error at a time, he was drawing near.