Page 56 of Wings of Reverie

“Technically, I thinkIkissedyou.” Weaver gave a cough andtugged at his collar, blushing a little. “Still not sure that’s going to help me get my work done.”

“Well, I can…hold things. Work the weaving comb. Carry supplies. Make you tea.” She reached out to twine their fingers together, and Weaver hesitated only a second before he let her.

“You know, I’d never kissed anyone before tonight,” Periwinkle said quietly.

“Kind of unbelievable, considering how many people would’ve gladly volunteered to help you out.” He let out a dazed, helpless laugh. “I hadn’t, either, though. Are you sure it’s notyoursecret second talent?”

Periwinkle gave a nervous giggle that turned into a cackle and clapped her free hand over her mouth. “I still can’t believe Trim asked me to ask you out for her.”

“I can’t believe you acted like you were fine with it!” Weaver exclaimed. “Oh, I was so mad. I thought I was—I thought you didn’t—well.” He broke off, swinging their hands a little between them. Neither of them said anything for a moment.

“Say I can stay and help you,” Periwinkle finally said, “and that we’ll go tomorrow.”

Weaver hung his head, bringing their joined hands to his cheek. When he looked back at her, his dark eyes were completely defenseless. “You can stay,” he said. “And we’ll go tomorrow.”

Weaver worked all night, and Periwinkle, at the very least, didn’t slow him down.

She held his pincushion and thread for him first, trying pointlessly not to stare at the careful angles of his wrists while he stitched the purple cloak to its collar. Next, she held a basket of birch-bark curls while he shaped them into a tiered gown on another dress form, then picked out the sparkliest blue jewels from a box of tiny gems for him to stitch across the gown’s papery white surface. Periwinkle talked as he worked, frosting and re-frosting his glass of tea, blushing when he finally laughed out loud at one of her jokes. And when Weaver mentioned his head ached and he fell asleep for a few minutes on his workbench, Periwinkle sat with her elbows propped on her knees and watched the breeze slipping in from under the door play with his hair.

She couldn’t believe she’d finally gotten to touch his hair.

She’dkissedhim, and it had been sweet and terrifying and thrilling. It had been a kind of magic she’d never felt before.

As Periwinkle watched over Weaver’s sleep, tiny wisps of dream—some peridot and rose and aquamarine, some light gray or mauve—appeared like a crown around his head.

She wished she could see what he was dreaming.

Periwinkle startled, though, when Weaver made a noise of frustration. Thinking he might be waking up, she reached for the cup of tea she’d made him, ready to hand it over. But he only made another vague, unhappy sound, stretching for something without actually moving.

When Weaver let out a groan, Legs leapt from his shoulder to capture one of the dusty purple dreams haloing his hair and carry it away.

It looked much lighter than Periwinkle’s nightmares always did. But as she watched the spider’s eight legs wrap it in a ball of spider silk, Periwinkle couldn’t help putting a hand to her heart. She crouched to the spider’s eye level and stroked his back as he finished his strange little cocoon.

“Oh, Legs,” she said softly. Because she knew what he’d done.

Legs had protected Weaver. And he’d done it by trapping his nightmare.

Reverie

The Winter Woods were dark, and Weaver was dreaming of chasing the moon again.

Again, because—though he couldn’t be sure—he thought he’d gone after it a hundred times. From a hundred different places.

He’d flown through pitch-black meadows, his path completely obscured, with only the pinpricks of stars overhead. He’d threaded through eerie woods, spotting evidence of the moon by its cool light piercing here and there through the trees, but never the moon’s whole self.

But tonight was different. He could feel it.

Near the Pixie Dust Well, there was a frozen pond, its ice smoothand perfect, brilliantly lit though it was midnight. The whole world was the color of a flawless gray pearl, bright as a veiled midday and filled with shadows. And Weaver could see the full face of the moon, as he rarely ever did.

He always flew fast in these dreams, like he’d been touched with a talent other than his own, his wings beating unnaturally fast, his body barely seeming to strain as he wove among trees or around the curves of hills or through underground caverns, searching for the light. But tonight, he seemed faster than ever, his wings more agile, the wind whipping his hair and the raven feathers of his clothes. The moon hung alone in the stillness, and his path to it was clear. There was nothing but pure, icy air between him and its face.

This dream would be different. If he flew hard enough, high enough, he could lay hands on it and keep it safe.

Faster. Closer. Closer. Closer—

Weaver felt no pain when he hit the surface of the pond. But he curled up on his side when he did, heart aching, efforts all for nothing.

But then it shot through the night. A sound, a feeling, a sign.