Page 11 of Wings of Reverie

Periwinkle could see it in the distance as she followed Weaver through trees, over snowdrifts, across a frozen pond. The well was fed by the Winter Woods’ Pixie Dust Root, which ran all the way from the Pixie Dust Tree at the heart of all four seasons.

Periwinkle was there every morning for her daily supply of pixie dust. But as she moved toward the well’s edge then, trying not to stare at how the gold light played over Weaver’s face, she gasped.

There was a large black stain on the rock face near the PixieDust Root. When Weaver moved to study it, Legs skittered up his shoulder to hide behind his waistcoat’s high collar.

“Is it ash?” Periwinkle fluttered up behind the dream-talent, close but not too close. “A burn mark?”

The suggestion didn’t make sense, though, and she knew it as soon as she asked. The stain on the rock was a big dark smudge, yes, but it looked nothing like ash, and there was nothing to burn there in the snow, anyway. Most important, it didn’tfeelright.

Looking at the stain, Periwinkle felt a tightness in her chest, a lurch in her stomach. An unpleasant heat that sent panic skittering over her skin.

It wasn’t a familiar feeling. Or—ithadbeen unfamiliar, several months ago.

Weaver gestured at the mark. “This is what I was looking at when I heard you cry out. This is why I’m out here.” Then he hesitated. “And I wonder if this isn’t why your dream brought you out here, too.”

“But what is it?” Periwinkle pushed. Impulsive, she threw a little frost at the awful-looking mark, but it only cast a translucent layer over the stain.

Weaver slid off his gloves and tucked them back in his pocket, twisting his fingers together and cracking his knuckles.

“There’s an old legend that says the dreams of human children used to come to Pixie Hollow from the Mainland, and dream-talent fairies spun and threaded them through the branches of the Pixie Dust Tree. Their dreams protected the tree, made it strong.”A muscle in Weaver’s jaw flexed. “But it wasn’t only good dreams that crossed the Never Sea.”

“What are you saying?” A tremor ran up Periwinkle’s spine. “Are you talking about—”

“Nightmares.” Weaver’s gaze was direct as an arrow. Periwinkle’s heart dropped. “I’m saying that nightmare magic has somehow found its way to the Pixie Dust Root.”

“How?” she asked.

“I don’t know. But if nothing stops the nightmare rot from spreading through the rest of the root system, the tree will decay from the inside out. And with the damage happeninginsidethe tree, even Queen Clarion’s magic might not be able to fix it till it’s too late.” Weaver’s voice was somber. “I’m saying that the tree is in danger. There’s a storm coming, and a weak, rotted Pixie Dust Tree won’t survive it. So if you can dream, too, I need your help.”

The Pixie Dust Tree—in danger?

No. Impossible. Periwinkle whirled away, wings and hands fluttering dismissively even as panic began to rise inside her. “Of course the Pixie Dust Root isn’t rotting. That’s ridiculous. Look, it’s fine!” She gestured at the root, still dripping tiny grains of gold dust into the well like always. “Anyway, shouldn’t the Autumn Revelry have been enough to protect against something like this? This is exactly what the blue pixie dust it makes is for—to keep the tree strong.”

“Who cares aboutshould have?” he demanded. “Look at the mark.”

“It’s one mark,” she argued. “Everyone would know if something was wrong.”

“Sparkles, I’m going to ask you one last time.” His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was needle-sharp. “What were you dreaming about when you sleepwalked out here?”

Flurries swirled in Periwinkle’s stomach as she thought of it again.

She’d been flying over the Mainland, until she hadn’t been. Until suddenly she’d been home, knowing she’d never seen such a furious blizzard, knowing something was wrong.

Weaver cut into her thoughts. “Let me tell you aboutmydream tonight,” he said, stepping nearer to her, dipping his chin just a little. Periwinkle’s stomach flipped. “At first, I was working, dealing with an order. It was a normal day. And then suddenly the sky went hazy, and clouds blew up, and far away, I could see a—”

“Storm,” she whispered. “There was a huge storm, near the Pixie Dust Tree.”

Weaver nodded. His eyes on hers were magnetic. Periwinkle felt faint.

Because all her nightmares had been like the one he was describing. Even with that spark that never left her—that sense that always let her know she wasn’t alone—there was always wood snapping and creaking, roots tearing, furious gusts of wind and snow. Always that same violet haze, and the sickening sense of bottomless dread and decay she felt echoed in the Pixie Dust Root even now.

They were having the same nightmare. And their nightmares were a warning.

“Is it us?” Periwinkle asked. Guilt and panic swept over her. “Is itournightmares creating the rot? Or did it come from somewhere else?”

“I don’t know,” Weaver said grimly. But Periwinkle immediately knew that the question of whose fault this was mattered less than what had to come next.

“We have to find Lord Milori,” she said, taking off and pointing herself toward Snowlight Square. “This can’t wait until morning. We—”