The hill had been good to him so far. Gentle, wide, predictable. But Edward was starting to feel its limits.
A new model sat cradled in the grass beside him. It wasn't much bigger than the last, but it was heavier—wood frame instead of reed, waxed cloth instead of parchment. Mira had helped him adjust the proportions. Leonard had scrounged better fasteners. Elsie had painted the tips red "so it doesn't look like a sack of laundry."
He stood at the top of the slope, staring down into the valley, wind tugging at his sleeves.
"Any last words?" Elsie called.
Edward exhaled. "If I die, bury me with my notebooks."
Leonard gave a mock salute. Mira wasn't there, but Edward had her notes tucked in his satchel. Folded, organized. Like a talisman.
He steadied the glider. This time he was wearing a harness—straps, loops, buckles that Leonard had stitched together from spare leather. It wasn't elegant, but it held the glider to his back.
Edward took three measured breaths. Then he ran.
Faster. Down the hill. The slope caught him.
Then—lift.
Then—
Snap.
One of the wing joints gave out. Just a single creak and a jolt of slack.
The glider twisted. Dipped left.
Edward tried to correct, shifting his weight.
Too late.
He hit the ground hard, tumbling once, twice, grass and sky trading places until everything stopped.
Silence.
Then Elsie's voice, far away: "Are you alive?"
Edward groaned. "Not… yet."
Leonard reached him first. "Your leg's bleeding."
Edward sat up. His elbow ached. His knee was scraped raw. The glider was a mess. A wing splintered. One of the rear struts had torn free completely.
He pulled the harness off and laid back in the grass.
"Failed test," he muttered.
"No," Leonard said. "Just a rough one."
Elsie arrived, holding her skirts. "You spun like a windmill."
"Did I at least glide a little?"
They exchanged looks.
"Four seconds," Elsie said, honest.
Edward covered his face. "Brilliant."
"You made it farther than the last one," Leonard pointed out. "That's progress."
Edward wasn't sure if he believed that. But it helped.
---
Back at the house, his mother fussed over the scrape on his knee. His father stood nearby, arms crossed.
"It'll bruise," his mother said. "You need more padding."
"It's not supposed to crash," Edward muttered.
His mother gave him a look. "Well, it did. And you didn't break anything. So maybe count that as a win."
His father didn't say anything until later, when the others had gone to bed. Then he stepped into Edward's room, where the broken glider frame leaned against the wall.
"Next time," his father said, "test the joint without weight first."
Edward looked at him. "You think there'll be a next time?"
His father shrugged. "There's always a next time. Unless you give up."
Edward didn't reply. He stared at the cracked spar, still faintly sticky from the last coat of glue.
"Pain's a part of it," his father added. "Same as learning. You'll learn more from this one than the ones that don't break."
Edward nodded, slow.
He wouldn't give up.
Even if he'd failed today.
Especially because he had.
---
The next morning, Edward limped back to the library. Mira didn't ask about the limp.
She saw the bruise on his jaw, the scrape across his knuckles, and simply placed a book in front of him: Load Distribution in Rope Bridges.
He raised an eyebrow. "You saw it coming?"
"Your joints were too narrow," she said. "And your glue formula was too wet."
"You didn't tell me that yesterday."
"You weren't ready to hear it yesterday."
Edward sighed. "Fair."
She slid over a page of her own notes. "Fix the weight ratio. Add more bracing. Don't be clever—just be sound."
He looked at the sketch. Then at her.
"Thanks," he said. "For not saying 'I told you so.'"
"I'm saying it in my head," she replied.
But she was smiling.
---
Later that day, Edward sat behind the forge where it was quiet and warm, the scent of iron and coal clinging to the walls. He held the broken spar in his lap and began scraping off the splintered edges.
Leonard joined him, dropping onto the ground with a grunt. "You know what you need?"
"Tell me."
"Wheels. Just give up on the sky, make a fancy cart."
Edward snorted. "Never."
Leonard pulled out an apple and bit into it. "That's what I figured."
The sun dipped low. Edward kept working, smoothing the wood, thinking of what came next.
Not the last failure.
Just the next beginning.