Page 61 of Wings of Reverie

“Belated Book Flood gift?” he asked wryly.

“Um.” Periwinkle searched for a charming response that would also stop him from asking more questions. “No.”

“I see,” Dougal said, though he clearly didn’t. Periwinkle smiled awkwardly and nodded at Floss’s door.

“Well, I should go inside,” she said. “Time to work. Past time, actually. So, uh—enjoy the Frost Festival.”

Dougal stiffened.

Periwinkle wanted to take her words back the second she’d said them.

It had been a thoughtless, throwaway comment. And Dougaldidn’t know Periwinkle had been eavesdropping that morning. But everyone knew he thought the festival was getting more attention than the Winter Woods’s issues, and Periwinkle had no desire to make him feel more frustrated.

But Dougal only cocked an eyebrow. “If Lord Milori has his way, it’ll be a week to remember,” he said.

He glanced down at her book one last time before heading back toward his apothecary.

Periwinkle couldn’t be sure why. But as she stepped inside Floss’s, she somehow felt she’d had a narrow escape.

It took Periwinkle several moments to spot Weaver at the back of Floss’s workshop. She was only a few minutes late, but activity had already risen to feverish levels, with fairies flying (or running) constantly between its two levels and floating (or just dropping) supplies from one floor to another. Also, someone (Periwinkle suspected Spangle) had knocked over everything in the upstairs supply closet. Tools and materials covered nearly every surface, including the floor, and she nearly let out a cheer of vindication as she picked her way around a scatter of beads someone else had spilled. Clearly, she wasn’t the only fairy there capable of the odd clumsy moment. She just hoped Floss didn’t have to send anyone over to Dougal’s with a twisted ankle.

When she reached Weaver’s side, Periwinkle was a little breathless from all the havoc. “Hi,” she said. “I found it.”

Weaver’s face lit up. He gave a quick, cautious look around. “You did?” Legs poked his head out of Weaver’s waistcoat pocket, and Periwinkle gave the spider a gentle brush across the head.

“I did,” she said. “An encyclopedia I found said there was a sapphire spindle in the ‘s./g. mine’ at the end of the Chilly River.”

“Think thatSstands for sapphire?” he asked.

“I hope so.” Periwinkle glanced up again at the state of the room. “So, what happened in here?”

Weaver grinned down at her and her stomach flip-flopped. “It’s because the ball’s tomorrow. Don’t let Spangle see you, she’s been here five minutes and she’s already asking where her favorite mannequin is.”

“It’s like a fast-flier got their hands on a bunch of crystals and feathers and dyes and went crazy. What’s that?” She reached for a scrap of something green and pink beneath a cover on a dress form, but Weaver swatted her hand away.

“What’d I tell you before? No poking around,” he said with mock sternness. Then he was back at the loom, his fingers navigating each strand of spun flax with elegant precision.

“Your weaving is so delicate,” she said, stepping near his side. “What’s on your order log today?—hang on, let me guess. You’re making a curtain so you can wall yourself off entirely back here. No, wait. A sheet you can drape over yourself so you don’t have to make eye contact with anyone while you fly around the Winter Woods.”

Weaver smirked. “I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Not at all. I’ve always been funny; you just haven’t always deserved a demonstration.”

His eyes sparkled, smirk expanding into a proper grin. “You’re sort of in my personal space again, you know.”

“Hush.” Periwinkle leaned close to the loom to study the pure white flax. When she straightened again, Weaver’s arm was pressed against hers. He didn’t move away.

Periwinkle thought of their kiss the night before and felt her skin prickle with goose bumps.

“It’s an underskirt. Or it will be,” he finally said, nodding at a half-clothed dress form. Its bodice was stylishly oversized, made of a pomegranate shell; a festive fluff of snowy owl feathers made the start of a skirt beneath. “My last order for the First Frost Ball.”

“It’s completely magical.” She grinned up at him, and his dark eyes danced. “Your days as a cynic are numbered, dear Weaver.”

One of the sewing-talents, the brown-haired sparrow man with the freckles, cleared his throat. “Peri, what are you wearing tomorrow?”

“Oh, hey, Onyx,” she said. “I’m not sure. Why?”

“Ah, it’s Alder, actually.” The sparrow man scratched the back of his neck. Periwinkle bit her lip. “Anyway, I have to finish smoothing the sharp edges off these pine cone scales, but if you want, I can—”