Chapter 3 — The Duct-Taped Teddy
Portals don’t open; they forget to stay shut.
We punched through one, then another. Each new temperature slapped us for existing. Stars wheeled, clouds came and went like offended guests, and the runners sang a thin metal hymn only fools and old machines remembered.
Chuck gripped the reins until he didn’t. His right hand left them, disappeared into his coat, and came back holding a teddy bear that looked like it had survived a bar fight with a chimney.
Dax noticed first. “That thing’s a cry for help.”
“It’s airworthy,” Chuck said, clutching it tight while the sleigh bucked. One button eye was missing. The other glared upward, judging us all. Its seams were held together with silver duct tape in a crosshatch that would make tailors cry and engineers nod.
I braced a boot on the rail and leaned closer. “Contraband?”
“Trash,” Chuck said. “Gwen’s. Doesn’t matter.”
The bear disagreed by existing louder.
Dax tilted his head. “Why bring trash onto a sky cart already allergic to mass?”
“I heard it improves handling.”
A new portal opened ahead, blue-rimmed and cold enough to sting thought. The sleigh dived through, and frost webbed over everything. Chuck bent low, shielding the bear from the wind.
“You’re white-knuckling a stuffed animal in a high-speed death trap?” I asked.
“Observation recorded,” Chuck said. “Please fall off now.”
I didn’t. I waited for smoother air—well, less suicidal air—and tapped the bear’s duct tape with two fingers. It vibrated under my touch. “It hummed.”
“It’s the thread,” Chuck snapped. “Thread hums when you rub it with cold fingers.”
“No it doesn’t.” I narrowed my good eye and let the implant focus. “That’s resonance. The duct tape’s just decoration. The core enchantment sits under the sternum seam. That patch isn’t repair. It’s a seal.”
Chuck stared ahead. “Gwen gave it to me.”
The bear warmed against his chest.
Dax grinned. “You get a lot of guilt that purrs?”
I fished a brass disk from my pouch, simple and honest—one of my truth tools. Holding it near the bear, I watched the needle tremble, shiver, then settle into a steady point.
“Maker’s signature,” I murmured, and my throat went dry.
Chuck glanced over. “Oh what.”
“That’s a sympathy charm,” I said. The showman fell out of my voice. “It’s meant to carry grief so it doesn’t drown the owner. Old work. Rare, because it needs—” I stopped. Words felt heavy. “It needs someone to love you more than the outcome.”
The wind stole what came next. The sleigh hit turbulence, tossing us like dice. Chuck held the bear tighter. The red coat creaked where it disapproved of tenderness.
“Who enchanted it?” I asked quietly.
“Trash,” he said again. “From Gwen.”
The brass disk turned gray, then clear. I reset it and tried once more. “It hums true when you say her name. It dies when you call it trash.” I met his eyes. “It judges intent, not words.”
Dax stared at the stars, pretending not to listen.
Chuck studied the single stitched smile, the duct-tape star across the chest where a sigil should have been. I saw the memory in him—the girl with ink-stained fingers, her mouth bent in concentration, tongue caught at one corner because focus made her forget to be beautiful. He’d laughed at the uneven ears, called it an abomination.
She’d called it good enough to hold a heart.
“Gwen made this,” I said, naming what he wouldn’t. “For grief.”
“For mine,” Chuck said, and the seams glowed faint gold. Not much. Enough.
We clipped a thin cloud and shattered it into sugar. The air smelled briefly of snowberries.
I let my quill rest in my lap. “Why would she make you a sympathy charm?”
“Because she knew something I didn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’d end up exactly this kind of idiot.”
Silence followed us for a long breath. Then the sky ahead rippled green—the aurora waking before its cue.
Dax pointed. “Lights are wrong.”
“They’re early,” Chuck said. “Or we’re late.”
I tucked the brass disk away, still watching the bear. “It’s not trash,” I said. “It’s a cup. And you’ve kept it empty.”
Chuck raised it as if to hide it again but couldn’t. His hands had gone soft with memory.
“Belt in,” he said.
The sleigh answered with a hard shudder that promised weather worth remembering.
I tightened my strap.
Dax planted his feet.
Chuck tucked the bear under his coat, close enough for it to hear his heartbeat—or ignore it.
The aurora brightened.
Far ahead, something enormous turned in its sleep and remembered its name.
Wait, wait, wait. What enormous thing is turning???