Page 41 of Wings of Starlight

Milori led them to the border of Winter and Spring. As soon as Fenris lay down, Clarion slid off his back and hurried over the bridge. When she crossed into Spring, she undid her buttons with numb, trembling fingers and let her coat pool at her feet. The chill of Winter still lingered on her skin, but she unfurled her wings: stiff—but still golden and whole.

Milori’s anxiety dropped off him, and the relief brightening his face made her feel oddly flustered. He descended from where he hovered and sat on the bridge. “How do you feel?”

“Physically? I’m all right.” She rubbed her hands together, pleased to find that the sensation was slowly returning to her fingers. She withdrew a few paces backward, until she stood far enough away that the chill emanating from Winter could not reach her anymore, and sighed. “I’m only disappointed I couldn’t be of more use. I don’t know where we go from here. But knowing our realms used to be so close…”

They couldn’t let Elvina go through with her plan.

“I know.” After a moment, more hesitantly, he asked, “What do you make of what the Keeper said?”

If there’s one thing stronger than fear, it’s hope.

Clarion absently plucked snow from her hair. “That he has more faith in me than I do myself.”

Milori frowned at her. “I think you’re capable of far more than you know.”

Her chest constricted with the sudden force of her emotion. “How can you say that? You’ve only just met me.”

As if it were the most obvious thing in the world, he said, “Because you were made for this. I feel it, when I look at you. Perhaps it’s your magic. Perhaps it’s you. Whatever it is, you have an aura about you. You command respect, yes, but more than that, you inspire hope. It is the first time I have felt it in a very long time.”

Clarion’s face warmed. She felt overwhelmed—so much so, she forgot how to speak entirely. “Oh.”

Milori’s expression went endearingly blank, as though it occurred to him belatedly that he’d said all that aloud. “Forgive me,” he said hastily. “I don’t mean to—”

“No,” she cut in. “Please, don’t apologize. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Wasshe made for this? Clarion had never believed it. But with his gray eyes steady and earnest on hers, she could almost convince herself it was true. Maybe, if she allowed herself to entertain it—if she pretended, just for one moment, that she was equal to the crown that would soon be hers…

Maybe she could do this.

A Pixie Hollow, fully united and safe, was worth fighting for. As much as it frightened her, she had to try. For the sake of the winter fairies. For the sake of Rowan and the others. If there was any chance that they could break the Nightmares’ spell over their subjects, it was worth the risk.

“Tomorrow,” Clarion said, with far more conviction than she felt, “take me to this prison. I want to put the Keeper’s theory to the test.”

When Clarion awoke, her pillow was damp with melted snow. If it weren’t for that, she might have believed she’d dreamed her excursion into Winter. But then: there was the coat shoved into the very back of her closet. All of it had been real. A library carved from ice. Riding a wolf through the snowy thickets. A book describing talents long gone. And a white-haired boy who ferried her through the cold.

I think you’re capable of far more than you know.

Maybe dream-talent magic lives on in you.

It seemed too much to hope for. But tonight, she would find out for certain whether she could seal the barrier and wake her subjects from their slumber. They weighed heavily on her mind this morning. And so, as soon as she readied herself, she asked Artemis to escort her to Feverfew Fields, where the healing-talents performed their work. It was one of the most peaceful corners of Summer, a meadow carpeted with feverfew and dotted with clear springs. Drinking from them had a calming effect, so the healers always kept vials of their water on hand.

Clarion couldn’t help feeling a twinge of relief that it was still untouched. Not all of Pixie Hollow was so fortunate. Yesterday, a swarm of Nightmare-aphids had descended on Autumn’s pumpkin patches and Cottonpuff Fields, draining the very life from them. She had not seen it herself, but Artemis had relayed the rumors she’d overheard from the other scouts.

By the time the sun peered above the horizon, Clarion and Artemis had arrived at the clinic, a space nestled into the hollowed-out trunk of a maple. They landed on one of the toadstools that served as the clinic’s front porch, which was cluttered with an assortment of rocking chairs. Lights burned in the window, even at this early hour. Healing-talents took shifts at all hours to ensure they were always available to help fairies in need.

Clarion hesitated in front of the door, breathing in the bitter-citrus smell of the feverfew. A terrible mixture of nerves and guilt roiled in her stomach. She had not come to visit Rowan or the others since they’d been attacked, and she did not know if she could face them.

“Ready?” Artemis asked gently.

Her voice and steady presence grounded her.Readywas perhaps a strong word. But she could do this. Clarion nodded.

She knocked, and a healing-talent opened the door. She wore a fluted white gown of calla lily, and her black hair was tucked into a nurse’s cap. Only a few wavy strands escaped and settled against her ochre skin.

“Good morning,” she chirped, then visibly startled when she registered exactly who was standing on her doorstep. “Oh! Your Highness. I wasn’t expecting you as well. What brings you here?”

“I’d like to visit the Minister of Autumn.” Although she already knew the answer, Clarion couldn’t help asking, “Has there been any change in his condition?”

The healer’s wings drooped, as did her smile. “No, sadly. I’m sorry to not have better news. We’ve been working hard on an antidote, but I—”