Nineteen years ago on this day, he had entered the world. Today was different, not only a day of birth but of destiny. With eyes focused upward, he could see the vision that had been prepared, standing open for him. Gazing forward, he felt prepared to enter and make it his own. Pride for the solemn occasion thrilled his whole being, but with a start, he found it was pure emptiness ahead, vision vanished. He trembled at this mistake. As his sight filled again with mist and flames, the vision slowly returned. Humbly he stepped in, never to turn back.

Everyone wished me happy birthday. Queen herself paused to say hello—equivalent to throwing a feast. All but my own teacher, who said nothing. Too much to ask that Prophet might remember. Prophet remembered the future and had vague notions of the past. But I rather thought birthdays belonged somehow to both, and that he'd know.

Crawling into bed, I found the gift wrapped in paper: Quill needle. Golden thread. For your seventeenth, read Prophet's note. Today I'd turned fifteen only.

I smiled. He'd given me not what I wanted now but what, in some future, he saw I'd need.