Page 32 of Wings of Starlight

“What do you think?” Iris asked.

“It’s spectacular,” Clarion said quietly, and she meant it. To see herself represented with such care stirred within her a feeling she could not entirely place.

Clarion would have sworn she felt more than heard the collective sigh of relief behind her. As though the entire clearing had been holding its breath, the sound of splashing and chatter resumed.

Iris clapped her hands together. “Oh, good! Your coronation is going to be incredible, Your Highness. Just wait until…”

The sound of Iris’s voice faded to a drone as Clarion stared up at her own likeness, a version of herself more queenly and poised than she knew herself to be. She could hardly bring herself to focus on any of the beautiful things Iris was describing for her. Her coronation somehow felt entirely insignificant in the face of the threat against Pixie Hollow. As much as she longed to enjoy the talents of her subjects, as much as she wished she could believe in Elvina, all she could think about was how precarious everything felt. All she could think about was the winter coat waiting for her in Tinker’s Nook—and how tonight, she would cross into Winter.

“Your Highness?”

Clarion startled. Iris was frowning at her with a look of genuine concern on her face—and also disappointment. Clarion felt guilty to have gone somewhere else so obviously. Clearly, this mattered a great deal to Iris.

“I’m so sorry, Minister,” Clarion said. “Did you ask me something?”

Iris folded her arms and fixed her with an appraising look. “Is there something on your mind?”

“A few things,” Clarion said sheepishly. “There’s so much to prepare for the coronation. Sometimes, I don’t feel ready.”

Surprise flickered across Iris’s face before she smiled. “Your Highness, are younervous?”

Clarion winced. “A little.”

“Really?” Iris sounded genuinely shocked, if not somewhat delighted. “I never would have guessed. You always seem so composed.”

“It’s a careful illusion,” Clarion said wanly.

“It’s normal to be nervous.” Iris tapped her chin. “But you really do look exhausted. Are you sleeping enough?”

She almost certainly was not. “Well, I—”

“I know just the thing.” Iris brightened. “I’ll send you home with some skullcap tea.”

Both her exuberance and generosity caught Clarion off guard. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome,” said Iris. “Tea fixesalmosteverything. But if you’ll listen to some advice, think about it like this. You’re like a bulb flower.”

That…did not sound like a compliment. Clarion wrinkled her nose. “Oh?”

With a casual curl of Iris’s finger, a flower bulb in miniature appeared in her hand, glimmering with pixie dust. “In Pixie Hollow, of course, flowers bloom whenever we ask them to. But on the Mainland, these types of flowers are planted in autumn, just before the soil freezes. You’d think that would kill them, but they lie dormant all through winter. Then, as soon as spring arrives…”

Hyacinths sprung from the earth all around them in shades of white and vibrant pink and soft purple. They gave off a damp, green scent, as ethereal as spring itself.

“Spring is all about renewal,” Iris said serenely. “When things seem impossibly dark, bulb flowers are sparks of hope. It takes time for things to bloom. You just have to be patient and nurturing.” After a considering pause, she jabbed a finger at Clarion. “So be nice to yourself. You’ll grow into it, I promise.”

For a moment, Clarion felt too stunned to reply. “Thank you, Minister. Truly.”

“Anytime,” she said sweetly. “Now, about those floral arrangements…”

By midafternoon, Clarion and Artemis had made it to Petra’s lonely stone cottage. Predictably, she did not answer when they knocked, but Clarion could see the faint orange glow of the forge through the dew-streaked windows.

She nudged the door open and called, “I’m here.”

As always, Petra’s projects cluttered every surface—and most of the floor. But strangely, her metalworking tools lay still and inert, catching faint glimmers of the firelight. Today, Petra’s workshop looked like it belonged to a sewing-talent—if that sewing-talent had emptied their entire ration of pixie dust over their workspace. As Clarion made her way deeper into the room, she had to dodge airborne needles and shears. She touched a spool of thread, watching as it sailed lazily across the room, unraveling as it went. Everywhere she turned, it was a riot of colorful fabrics and buttons.

Petra stood in the eye of the storm she had created, fussing with a coat she’d wrapped around the metal shoulders of a dress form. She looked about as well rested as Clarion did, which was to say: not at all. She wouldn’t be surprised if Petra hadn’t slept since she began this project. To say she was single-minded was a gross understatement.

“Are you all right?” Clarion asked tentatively.