Page 7 of Wings of Starlight

The pressure would crack her if she dwelled on it too much. Instead, she would put Elvina’s advice to work and focus on the task at hand. If she could not manifest a burst of magic, then she would at least run a meeting with unequivocal poise. Today, Elvina would find no fault in her.

She stood, and immediately, a shudder passed through her. Clarion turned, half-expecting to find someone—or something—watching her through the glass doors of her balcony. But it was only her own weary reflection staring back at her, framed like a portrait by interlocking branches—and beyond it, the mountains of the Winter Woods. The tallest of them rose into curved peaks, reaching toward each other in the shape of a crescent moon. In the early-morning light, all the snow was washed pink as a shell. Sometimes, she could almost imagine the mountains were staring back at her.

All her life, she’d been told that winter fairies were not to be trusted. Few stories remained that explained the source of their conflict, but Clarion had seen one or two theatrical performances that touched on the conflict that had driven their worlds apart. She still remembered sitting beside Elvina—breathless, with her hands white-knuckled around the railing of their opera box—as Saga, the most gifted of Pixie Hollow’s storytellers, wove the tale of Titania, the first Queen of Pixie Hollow.

As she spoke, images shimmered in a cloud of golden dust behind her. Flashes of icicle spears and quill arrows. The Pixie Dust Tree, no more than a sapling bending to the wind. The Warden of the Winter Woods and his cruel, serrated crown, wreathed by a towering darkness.

Privately, Clarion had thought the drama of it terribly romantic. Elvina, meanwhile, had scoffed when one of Titania’s trusted advisors died his tragic death. But for all its theatrics, the legend never expounded on the details Clarion craved. It told of only some vague disagreement between the two rulers—and a dark force that had consumed the Warden of the Winter Woods. That, for most citizens of the warm seasons, was enough to discourage any curiosity about their neighbors.

Clarion gathered up her notes and unlatched her balcony doors. Cool air washed over her, and the sounds of Pixie Hollow stirring awake filtered down from above. With a flutter of her wings, she leapt onto the balustrades of her balcony, then into the air.

She ascended, pushing aside leaves and twigs, until she could see the source of the Pixie Dust Well. A cascade of golden dust spilled from a knothole and onto the pink petals of a lily. The overflow dripped onto tiers of pearl oyster mushrooms until at last it emptied into the well, cradled in the spiraled nexus of the tree’s limbs.

Pixie dust—the lifeblood of their society—was produced deep within the heart of the tree. No one knew exactly how or why, although dustologists had penned dense academic tomes and quibbled over theories for centuries. All Clarion knew for certain was that magic flowed through it, suffusing all of Pixie Hollow with its vast network of roots. If she let herself pause, she could feel it all around her, warm and comforting. It made the very air smell sweet, like honeyed tea and cinnamon rolls rising in an oven. Its subtle presence never failed to fill her with wonder.

This early, everyone had begun lining up for their daily ration of dust: a teacupful and no more. Dust-keeper fairies stood ankle-deep in the shallows of the Pixie Dust Well, dipping their cups into the pool. With efficiency Clarion admired, they poured it over each fairy. Without it, flight would be impossible; a fairy’s wings couldn’t support their weight unassisted. All the way down the queue, fairies gossiped and laughed. Some carried cups full of dandelion tea, eager for a kick of energy; others still buzzed with energy from their night shifts. One of the sparrow men below noticed her half-hidden behind a curtain of leaves. She lifted a hand in a sheepish wave. He paled, then looked away, attempting to do something complicated and industrious-looking with the blade of grass in his hands.

Clarion tried not to wilt with disappointment. Petra had always said her expression conveyed a certainqueenliness, as did her voice. It wasn’t as if there were anything she could do about either of those things.

“Your Highness.”

Clarion let out a gasp of surprise. She craned her neck to find Artemis seated on one of the branches just above her. She always managed to hide herself in plain sight—an impressive, if not occasionally terrifying, talent.

“Good morning,” Clarion said, a little breathlessly.

Her guard wore an expression verging on sympathetic. It was always difficult to tell with Artemis, who had mastered the subtle art of stoicism. But sometimes, Clarion caught Artemis watching the other scout-talents when they went out on patrol with something like yearning in her eyes. On the one occasion Clarion had asked her about it, Artemis had shuttered completely. Some wounds, Clarion supposed, should not be picked at.

“They’re unaccustomed to a queen who welcomes familiarity,” Artemis said gruffly. “It’s only respect they’re offering you.”

Respect, was it? Even if she wanted it, she hardly felt worthy of it. Still, Artemis’s halting attempts to comfort her never failed to bringsomecheer. Artemis would never admit it, of course, but Clarion suspected there was a sensitive soul buried somewhere beneath that cool, professional exterior. One of these days, she just might reveal it.

“Of course.” With forced brightness, Clarion asked, “Shall we go?”

Artemis nodded.

Doing her best to stay out of sight, Clarion led them to the council chambers, located just below the Pixie Dust Well. There was no door to speak of; rather, the sides of the domed ceiling had been carved so that it seemed to be paned with swatches of open sky. Intricately scrolled designs, rendered in glittering pixie-dust paint, filled the thin strips of bark left between each pane. Hidden within the patterns were the symbols of each season: the Evergreen flower for Spring; the full moon for Autumn; a rainbow for Summer; and a snowflake for Winter. It had always intrigued Clarion. If their realms had always been separate from one another, why had the art-talents included Winter in their designs?

As they drew nearer, the muffled sound of the ministers bickering among themselves reached Clarion through the open ceiling. What there was to argue about this early in the morning was beyond her. She supposed it came with such infinitely long working relationships. There was an endless number of petty squabbles and political slights to dredge up and litigate, the origins of which Clarion had only vaguely pieced together since her Arrival. At any rate, they never tired of debating which of the seasons mattered most. She steeled herself as she entered the chamber.

Inside, the three Seasonal Ministers gathered around a long table that took up almost the entirety of the room. The Minister of Spring seemed to be delivering some sort of impassioned speech, which the Minister of Autumn vacantly nodded along to. The Minister of Summer, meanwhile, looked on the verge of falling asleep where she stood. But as soon as they noticed her, a hush fell over them. It was part of governing-talent magic, she’d learned: an ability to command a crowd’s attention. Artemis folded herself into the shadows, falling into a perfect parade rest. Clarion kept her chin high as she made her way to the head of the table, where Elvina usually stood. Somehow, the room looked entirely different from this vantage point.

Closest to her was the Minister of Autumn—Rowan—who flashed her an easy smile. As always, he looked as though he’d just stepped out of the cold; his pale cheeks were stung red. His brown eyes twinkled at her, and auburn hair curled around his ears. He wore a patchwork cloak of autumn leaves fastened with a polished chestnut brooch. Clarion liked him best, if only because he dared to speak out of turn in her presence. He was keen, agreeable, and onlyoccasionallyprone to bouts of melancholy.

Beside him was the Minister of Summer, Aurelia, who lifted her chin in acknowledgment. Today, she had dressed in the full bloom of her season: a gown of hydrangeas, a necklace of zinnias, and bracelets of roses. She’d arranged her hair in an elaborate bun atop her head.

And then, there was the Minister of Spring—Iris—who offered Clarion a small wave of her fingers. She’d chosen a wide-skirted snowdrop gown, and delicate new growth was woven into a crown around her temples, framing her face in long tendrils. She had a warm, sandy complexion and eyes almost as black as her hair, which fell long and loose down to her mid-back. Like her season, she was light and airy, flighty and eager: a personality bright enough to rouse nature from its slumber.

This had been Elvina’s retinue for as long as Clarion had been alive. Still, she couldn’t help feeling that they were incomplete with no Minister of Winter. Somewhere across the border, the Warden of the Winter Woods ruled in solitude over their frozen realm. But even if the warm seasons and Winter had been on good terms, it wasn’t as if the Warden of the Winter Woods could join their meetings. Warm fairies could not withstand the cold of Winter; after only a few minutes, their wings would turn brittle and shatter. Winter fairies’ wings, meanwhile, would melt like frost beneath the springtime sun.

Iris smiled radiantly at her. “Good morning, Your Highness!”

Clarion startled. The cheer she could muster, even at the earliest hour, never failed to strike her. “Good morning.”

“I hear you’re leading us today,” said Rowan, dropping his voice conspiratorially low. “Finally convinced Her Majesty to slow down for a change, hmm?”

Clarion spread her notes out on the table in front of her. “It’s nothing like—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the doors opened to admit Elvina. She whisked into the room in a whirl of pixie dust and diaphanous skirts. The ministers immediately snapped to attention, all of them murmuring “Your Majesty” in unison. Elvina, however, did not pause for pleasantries. She said nothing as she took her place at the opposite end of the table. Then, she pinned Clarion with an expectant look. Straight to business, then.