THE BATTLE OF THE LABYRINTH Percy Jackson ... - No one's invited.

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The old man looked sickly. He was terribly thin, his hands raw and red from working. White hair
covered his eyes, and his tunic was smudged with grease. He was bent over a table, working on some
kind of long metal patchwork—like a swath of chain mail. He picked up a delicate curl of bronze and
fitted it into place.
“Done,” he announced. “It’s done.”
He picked up his project. It was so beautiful, my heart leaped—metal wings constructed from thousands
of interlocking bronze feathers. There were two sets. One still lay on the table. Daedalus stretched the
frame, and the wings expanded twenty feet. Part of me knew it could never fly. It was too heavy, and
there’d be no way to get off the ground. But the craftsmanship was amazing. Metal feathers caught the
light and flashed thirty different shades of gold.
The boy left the bellows and ran over to see. He grinned, despite the fact that he was grimy and sweaty.
“Father, you’re a genius!”
The old man smiled. “Tell me something I don’t know, Icarus. Now hurry. It will take at least an hour to
attach them. Come.”
“You first,” Icarus said.
The old man protested, but Icarus insisted. “You made them, Father. You should get the honor of
wearing them first.”
The boy attached a leather harness to his father’s chest, like climbing gear, with straps that ran from his
shoulders to his wrists. Then he began fastening on the wings, using a metal canister that looked like an
enormous hot-glue gun.
“The wax compound should hold for several hours,” Daedalus said nervously as his son worked. “But
we must let it set first. And we would do well to avoid flying too high or too low. The sea would wet the
wax seals—”
“And the sun’s heat would loosen them,” the boy finished. “Yes, Father. We’ve been through this a
million times!”
“One cannot be too careful.”
“I have complete faith in your inventions, Father! No one has ever been as smart as you.”
The old man’s eyes shone. It was obvious he loved his son more than anything in the world. “Now I will
do your wings, and give mine a chance to set properly. Come!”
It was slow going. The old man’s hands fumbled with the straps. He had a hard time keeping the wings
in position while he sealed them. His own metal wings seemed to weigh him down, getting in his way
while he tried to work.
“Too slow,” the old man muttered. “I am too slow.”
“Take your time, Father,” the boy said. “The guards aren’t due until—”