(This story is a sequel to “On Wings of Silk and Dreams” from A Clockwork’s Dreaming and Other Tales — Translator)
The invitation arrived with the first light of dawn, carried by a young spider who scuttled along the Greenhouse ceiling with the grace of a practiced courier. She dangled on a silken thread until she reached eye level with Ivy's bed, then waited patiently for the sleeping mouse to stir.
"Appointment for Ivy of the Greenhouse," the spider announced when Ivy's eyes finally fluttered open. "Today. Garden Council meeting. Border issues. Flying requested."
Ivy sat bolt upright, her silver-white fur gleaming in the morning light that streamed through the glass walls. "The Garden Council wants me to fly? Outside?" Her voice caught between excitement and alarm. "But I've never flown beyond the Greenhouse!"
The spider, having completed her assigned task, was already ascending her thread. "Message delivered," she confirmed. "Timothy sends regards. Spiders will observe with interest."
"Wait!" Ivy called, but the messenger had already disappeared into the elaborate network of webs that formed the Greenhouse's living communication system.
Her wings, carefully folded and stored in the special case Timothy and the spiders had crafted for her, seemed to tremble with anticipation as she removed them. In the weeks since her first successful flight, she had mastered navigation among the Greenhouse's controlled air currents, learning to soar between herb beds and around hanging plants with increasing confidence. But the Garden's open air? With its unpredictable breezes and changing temperatures? The thought made her whiskers quiver.
"You've been practicing for this very thing," she reminded herself firmly, strapping the wings to her back with the reinforced clover-stem harness. "And they wouldn't ask if they didn't think you could do it."
She paused at her small workbench, contemplating the various tools and instruments she'd crafted for her aerial experiments. After a moment's consideration, she selected a delicate brass compass that Master Oakenwise had made specially for her, a small notebook for observations, and a crystal vial of emergency nectar from Madame Argent "for fortifying courage when altitude provides excess perspective."
When Mrs. Wisteria found her at the side door, Ivy was performing final wing adjustments, her paws checking each connection with methodical precision.
"Ah, the Council summons you," Mrs. Wisteria nodded, producing the rarely-used brass key from her apron pocket. "I suspected they might. May is when the boundaries need most attention."
"Mrs. Wisteria," Ivy began hesitantly, "what if the air currents are too strong? What if my wings can't handle the Garden's open spaces?"
The elderly Greenhouse Keeper's expression softened. "My dear, your wings were never designed for our controlled environment alone. They've always been dreaming of wider skies." She unlocked the door and swung it open, revealing the Garden in its mid-May splendor. "Remember, the same principles apply—only the scale has changed."
Ivy took a deep breath, feeling the unmistakable difference in the Garden air as it flowed through the open door. It carried scents her nose couldn't identify, hints of places she'd only seen through glass. With careful movements, she extended her wings to their full span. The morning light caught in their silk, creating rainbow patterns across the threshold between worlds.
"Begin with gliding," Mrs. Wisteria advised. "Let the currents introduce themselves before you attempt conversation."
Ivy nodded, her heart pounding in her chest like a tiny drum. She moved to the doorway, balancing precisely between the Greenhouse's eternal spring and May's gentle warmth. With one final adjustment to her wing struts, she leaped forward, leaving the safety of controlled conditions for the wild unknown.
The first thing she noticed was how alive the air felt. Inside the Greenhouse, air currents were predictable companions, moving in patterns she had long since memorized. But out here? The air danced and swirled, carrying whispers and secrets from distant parts of the Garden. It rushed beneath her wings with a vigor that momentarily alarmed her, then thrilled her as she felt herself lifted higher than she'd ever flown indoors.
"Oh!" she gasped, instinctively adjusting her wings to capture the unexpected buoyancy. The world expanded around her, the Garden revealing itself from an angle she'd never imagined. From this height, she could see patterns that remained invisible from the ground—how the flowers arranged themselves in spirals that matched the mathematics of starlight, how paths connected different Garden realms like veins carrying life-giving nutrients.
A sudden updraft caught her left wing, sending her into an unplanned spiral. For a heartbeat, panic fluttered in her chest. Then she remembered Timothy's words during their training: "The air doesn't fight you unless you fight it first. Listen before you speak."
Relaxing into the spiral instead of resisting it, Ivy found herself carried even higher, where she could spot landmarks she'd only heard described in stories. There was the great Oak where Master Oakenwise had established his workshop! And beyond it, the Library teapot where Miss Hazel kept all the Garden's collected wisdom! And the Wall—that mysterious boundary that separated Garden from Wild—with tiny figures she guessed must be the Wall Guard on their morning patrol.
A particularly playful breeze ruffled her fur as she glided toward the Garden's center, where a circular clearing indicated the Council grounds. She could see preparations underway for a meeting—mice arranging seating on carefully positioned acorn caps, scholars consulting notes, Guards establishing a perimeter. And there, his fur unmistakable with its silver sheen from spider-silk study, was Timothy, scanning the skies with what appeared to be a miniature telescope.
He spotted her immediately, his face breaking into a smile she could discern even from her altitude. He waved, then pointed to a landing area that had been specially prepared—a flat stone surrounded by cushioning moss in case her landing proved less than graceful.
Ivy circled once, assessing the air currents around the stone. Unlike the Greenhouse's predictable patterns, these shifted constantly as the sun warmed different parts of the Garden. She needed to time her approach perfectly...
The landing was not her most elegant. She misjudged the final descent, forgetting to account for how much lighter the outdoor air felt compared to the Greenhouse's humidity-laden atmosphere. She hit the moss harder than intended, tumbling forward in a less-than-dignified arrival that ended with her nose pressed into sweet-smelling green.
"Magnificent approach," Timothy declared, helping her up with a paw that showed no judgment. "You accounted for the crosscurrent perfectly. Most first-time Garden flyers end up in the pond."
"I nearly did," Ivy admitted, carefully checking her wings for damage. The spider-silk had performed beautifully, flexing without tearing despite the rough landing. "The air speaks a completely different dialect out here. It's like... like they're cousins who grew up in different villages."
"Precisely!" came an enthusiastic voice, and Ivy turned to find herself face-to-face with Mr. Thistledown, who was frantically scribbling notes while trying not to drop the numerous scrolls tucked under one arm. "Most irregular observations! Most extraordinary insight! May I inquire as to the precise difference in lift ratio you experienced between interior and exterior atmospherics?"
Before Ivy could formulate an answer to this rather technical question, a dignified throat-clearing drew everyone's attention. The Garden Council had assembled on their ceremonial mushroom caps, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and concern. At their center sat an elderly mouse with fur so white it seemed to glow in the morning light.
"Young Ivy of the Greenhouse," the white mouse said, her voice gentle but carrying undeniable authority, "thank you for answering our summons. I am Elder Whitepetal, Council Leader." She gestured to the assembled mice. "We face a matter that requires your unique perspective—and abilities."
Ivy folded her wings carefully behind her back and gave her most respectful bow. "I'm honored to be called, Elder. Though I'm not sure how I can help..."
"It concerns the boundaries," Elder Whitepetal explained. "As you know, May is when the threshold between Greenhouse and Garden grows thinnest. Traditionally, this has been a time of healthy exchange and mutual enrichment."
Timothy stepped forward, his role in these proceedings apparently pre-arranged. "But this year," he continued, "something is different. The border plants are showing signs of confusion. The Threshold Vines are growing inward instead of outward. The Translation Roses have fallen silent."
"And most concerning of all," added Mr. Thistledown, adjusting his spectacles, "the morning glory messengers have ceased their communications entirely. Most disquieting! Most unprecedented interruption of inter-environment relations!"
Elder Whitepetal nodded gravely. "We believe someone—or something—is disrupting the natural exchanges that have sustained both our worlds for generations. We need eyes in places mice cannot easily reach, observations from angles we cannot achieve from the ground."
"You want me to patrol the boundaries," Ivy realized, her mind already calculating flight paths and observation points. "To look for signs of... interference?"
"Precisely," the Elder confirmed. "Your wings give you a perspective no other mouse can claim. And your understanding of both Greenhouse and Garden air currents makes you uniquely qualified."
Ivy's wings shifted slightly, as if responding to her quickening heartbeat. This wasn't just a test flight or an experiment—this was real responsibility, a chance to serve both the worlds she loved.
"I'll need to modify my wing design," she said thoughtfully. "The current configuration is optimized for Greenhouse navigation. For extended Garden flight, especially near the boundaries where air currents collide..." Her voice trailed off as she mentally recalculated ratios and materials.
"The spiders have anticipated this need," Timothy said, producing a small packet wrapped in night-silk. "They've prepared special reinforcements for your wings. Mathilda herself oversaw the spinning."
The mention of the Spider Queen sent a ripple of impressed murmurs through the Council. Spider-Queen silk was the strongest material known in the Garden, capable of withstanding even the Wild's fiercest winds.
"When do I begin?" Ivy asked, accepting the packet with reverent paws.
"Tomorrow at dawn," Elder Whitepetal replied. "Today, you must prepare. Study the boundary maps, familiarize yourself with the normal patterns of exchange, and most importantly, strengthen your wings for extended flight."
As the Council meeting adjourned, Ivy found herself surrounded by mice offering assistance. Mr. Thistledown provided detailed notes on boundary botany. Timothy arranged for spider engineers to help with her wing modifications. Even Captain Prickleweed of the Wall Guard appeared, offering tactical advice on patrol patterns and observation techniques.
By the time she prepared for her return flight to the Greenhouse, the sun had begun its westward journey. Her wings had been reinforced with spider-queen silk, her notebook filled with diagrams and flight plans, and her mind whirling with the enormity of the task before her.
"Are you ready to fly back?" Timothy asked as they stood at the Garden's edge, the Greenhouse glowing in the afternoon light.
Ivy extended her wings, feeling the difference the reinforcements made. They caught the light differently now, the spider-queen silk adding silver highlights to the translucent surfaces.
"Actually," she said, surprising herself with her confidence, "I think I'd like to take a longer route. To practice reading the air currents before tomorrow's patrol."
Timothy's whiskers twitched with approval. "The long way home it is. I'll watch until you're safely back."
With a deep breath of Garden air—so much richer and more complex than she'd ever imagined—Ivy leaped skyward. Her wings caught the afternoon thermals perfectly, lifting her higher than she'd flown that morning. Below, the Garden spread like a living map, its paths and plantings forming patterns that seemed to tell stories to those who knew how to read them.
As she banked toward the Greenhouse, riding an air current that tasted of approaching evening, Ivy realized something fundamental had changed. The Greenhouse would always be home, but the Garden's open skies had claimed a piece of her heart as well.
Tomorrow she would begin her patrol of the boundaries, seeking whatever was disrupting the ancient exchanges between worlds. But today—right now—she was simply flying, existing in that most magical of spaces: the threshold between worlds, belonging fully to both and yet somehow more than either alone.
For as every mouse in the Garden knows, the most extraordinary magic happens not when we stay safely in one place, but when we learn to fly between worlds, carrying the best of each place within our wings.