Page 54 of Wings of Reverie

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Floss’s workshop was quiet when Periwinkle showed up.

There were no fairies fulling or dyeing material in the sinks. The looms were quiet, and the dress forms stood alone, like dancers in a ballet that hadn’t started yet.

There was only Weaver alone at his workbench, and a few suncatchers hovering overhead. He stood with his back to her, spinning on a spindle, a pencil behind his ear and the usual measuring tape tucked behind his collar.

Periwinkle had watched the spinning fairies yesterday, and they’d taught her all the names and the steps for what they did. She knew the spindle had a disc called a whorl on one end with a hookattached to it, and that with every flick Weaver gave the spindle he was putting twist into the new bits of fiber he’d added. Once he’d spun enough thread, he’d wrap it around the rod of the spindle and add more fiber and make more thread, until he’d collected all the fiber off the distaff holding it.

But Weaver wasn’t all those other spinning fairies, and there was something different about seeing him work in private. About being able to watch his wrists and forearms as he rolled the spindle against his outer thigh and then loosed it, or watch his fingers as they ran expertly over the fresh yarn, without wondering if anyone was watchingherwhile she did.

When he was finally done, Weaver bent backward with his hands on his hips, then stretched out his arms and rolled his wrists and neck and shoulders. Shadows and light from the suncatchers slid over his pale skin as his muscles shifted underneath.

Periwinkle bit her lip, unable to look away, heart beating inexplicably quickly.

When she bumped into a box of tiny crystal beads beside her and scattered them all over the floor, Weaver gave a huge start and stared around for the source of the noise. Periwinkle, of course, threw herself to the ground.

Not to hide—obviously!—although being invisible for a second hardly felt like a drawback. The beads were everywhere, barely visible except as tiny twinkles in the dark, and she flailed and stretched to reach them under tables and chairs.

“Sparkles?” Weaver’s voice cut through the dim workshopbefore he crossed it himself. When he crouched beside Periwinkle on the floor, she couldn’t look at him.

This had been a mistake. Weaver was clearly busy; she should’ve just stayed home and let him work. Periwinkle squinted at the floor, trying desperately to pry a stuck bead from between the cedar floorboards.

“Sparkles.”

His voice was patient; Periwinkle’s face burned anyway. She wished this were a dream and she could wake up. Legs skittered over gleefully, hopping onto her shoulder.

“Hi, Legs—ow.” A sharp-edged crystal bead pressed itself unhelpfully into her knee.

“Periwinkle.”Weaver reached out a hand and stopped her. “What are you doing here?”

His palm was only resting on her wrist. But Periwinkle’s pulse jumped at the brush of his thumb, the softness of his voice.

He almost never used her real name.

“The door wasn’t locked or anything,” she said defensively.

Weaver raised an eyebrow. “It’s usually not.” He watched her, waiting to hear whatever she had to say, and Periwinkle eventually made herself meet his eyes.

But she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t tell him that she knew he was hiding because of what had happened in the Bobbin Wood workshop. Because they had shared—something.

She went back to collecting the scattered beads. Weaver brushed a few tiny crystals off his palms into the box, then stood and madehis way back to his station. When Periwinkle was done, she followed him.

Whatever Weaver had been working on at his bench before, he’d thrown a cover over it when he’d spotted her, and now he was busy weaving. His long fingers pushed the shuttle up and down through the purple warp thread on the loom, left to right, right to left, before tamping it all down with his comb. Legs jumped off Periwinkle’s shoulder and began building a little web high on the frame as she fluttered closer to watch Weaver work.

He moved more like a music-talent conducting a band than a crafting-talent, she thought; back and forth with the shuttle, up and down with the comb. His grace was practiced, skillful, and the material took shape on the loom like music flowing out of an instrument.

Periwinkle had really meant to let him be the one to speak first. But he was too calm, and she was on edge, and she couldn’t resist the urge to push him. When Weaver glanced significantly at her over his shoulder, the words finally burst out of her.

“You never showed tonight,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. We have work to do, and you keep disappearing.”

Immediately, his expression shuttered. “You knew I had to catch up on orders,” he said. “I told Floss I’d be in tonight instead of this morning, and I’ve got a backlog for the First Frost Ball.” Finished at the loom, Weaver lifted the material from its frame and took it to an empty dress form, where his careful fingers shaped the flax into a cloak beneath an acorn-cap collar, one pin at a time.

“That’s not why you’re still here.”

“If you don’t believe me, check out my order log—”