A Little Light for the Work

The trip back from Brindlehook took longer than I wanted and less time than my legs feared. Both facts could be true. By the time I reached Ponyville, I had learned that a unicorn could get tired from walking, from magic, from worry, and from trying to look as if none of those things were happening.

I took the next morning slowly. In the afternoon, I went to Fennel Wick’s bindery with Twilight and a promise to avoid calling a sheet of paper an NPC unless the situation truly demanded it.

Fennel had set up a clear patch of worktable beside a shallow tray of scrap paper. A spool of thread, a blunt awl, and a small stack of folded signatures waited there. It was a tidy arrangement, which made me suspect I was about to be tested on something deceptively difficult.

“Nothing sharp until you can hold the paper still,” Fennel said, nudging the scraps toward me. “Start with one corner. A little lift. No squeezing.”

Twilight settled into a chair nearby with a notebook balanced across her forelegs. “I’ll only record what you ask me to.”

“That’s comforting,” I told her. “In the same way that knowing the room has a fire extinguisher is comforting.”

She put her pencil down. “I can put the notebook away.”

The offer was sincere enough to make my joke feel cheap. I rubbed a hoof over the edge of the table. “Keep it. Just don’t let me turn into a science fair.”

Twilight nodded and left the pencil where it was.

Fennel folded one scrap into a small tent and pushed it toward me. “Try that.”

I aimed my attention at the nearest corner. My horn gave a faint glow. The paper shivered, lifted, and promptly folded itself into a tighter tent.

“Too much,” Fennel said, looking at the paper rather than me. “Start with less.”

“I was hoping the first lesson would be more flattering.”

“It usually isn’t.” She pulled the scrap flat again. “Try to hold the edge, not the whole thing.”

I’d been taught to picture the object moving. That was useful for levitating a quill or a cup, but Fennel was asking for something more precise. The page didn’t need to go anywhere. I wanted it to stay exactly where it was while the thread passed through it.

I tried to imagine a hoof pressing down, then let the idea go before it became another invisible grip. My horn warmed. The paper’s corner rose a fraction, then settled.

“Better,” Fennel said. “You felt it slip and let go. That’s better than hauling it back.”

The praise was so practical that I couldn’t even suspect it of being charity. I tried again. This time the corner lifted without curling. The scrap hovered a few inches above the tabletop, not much, but cleanly.