Page 75 of Wings of Reverie

“Why are somedaysterrible if others are good?” Weaver asked helplessly. “I know so little about dreaming. I wish I understood more. But bad dream or good dream, bad day or good day—you know I’m here. You aren’t alone.”

Periwinkle reached up slowly and swept the hair out of his eyes, letting the heel of her palm brush his temple.

She barely knew what she was doing. But did Weaver know how instinctively he tilted his cheek into her hand? Or was he as defenseless as his expression said he was, like he’d made space for her in his thoughts just like she had for him in her room, and she was welcome inside whenever she pleased?

For just a moment, Weaver shut his eyes, and Periwinkle wished she had the time to count every single one of his lashes.

She kissed him, instead.

It was softer than their first kiss—slow, tentative, burning with the dregs of her nightmare. Sitting forward, Periwinkle traced her fingers lightly over Weaver’s face, from the corners of his eyes to the space between his mouth and his jaw. Weaver cupped her neck and kissed her back, slanting his mouth over hers, leaning in to her like even the barest brush of her hands was an irresistible pull.

There was a desperation to his touch, though, that she couldn’t read.

The heat of his kiss made her stomach bottom out. But his shoulders were rounded like her nearness was hollowing him out inside.

When Weaver pulled back, he touched his fingers to his lips, like the kiss had stung him. Periwinkle watched him, thinking he might say something, but he only squinted past her at the door. “What is it?” she asked.

Weaver got to his feet, pressing his lips together. When he spoke, his voice sounded far away. “Come on.” He pointed toward the mine shaft. “I think I see a light.”

Getting out took time. It took time to move rocks out of the blocked workshop entrance, and it took time to squeeze their way outside into the early morning air, bringing only the spindle and the dream-talents’ journal with them. It took time after that to stop at the Pixie Dust Well and fly home. The wind was biting and the sky was a bitter gray, just as it had been in Periwinkle’s dream.

That she’d dreamed at all told her she’d slept a little back in the mine. But Periwinkle could barely keep her eyes open as they made their way south from the Chilly River. Weaver had to jostle her awake to keep her out of the downdrafts near Snow Globe Mountain, and again to keep her from flying right into a fir tree as they passed over the Frost Forest. And when they finally reached her home, it was a good thing he’d walked her inside, because Periwinkle tripped over her own feet as she crossed the threshold. “What now?” she asked. Her eyelids were drooping again.

“For you, sleep,” Weaver said firmly. “I’ve got to finish up at Floss’s. I’ll meet you at the ball tonight.”

“I thought you were finished.” Periwinkle yawned.

“Almost. But there’s always something to do,” he said. “And I have to spin your dreams, now that we have the spindle.”

“Almost. All right. Well, you gotie up loose ends.” Periwinkle laughed at her own joke. Weaver gave a small smile. “Do you need any help? I know I can’t help with the spinning, but I can do something else.”

But Weaver shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’ve got everything I need.”

There was no distance in his voice. But there was something shuttered—troubled—in his expression as Periwinkle slid clumsily into bed.

“All right,” she said, uncertain. “Then I’ll see you tonight. Once we find Lord Milori at the ball—”

“Then we’ll move.”

“Yes. And then…”

But then, Periwinkle’s voice trailed off.

She hadn’t thought about what would happen after they’d healed the Pixie Dust Root. Would they tell the other winter fairies? Or would they keep what they’d done a secret? And then—what about them?

When the tree was saved, would Weaver go back to being a stranger at a workshop in Snowlight Square? Would this be nothing but a strange week to tell her friends about when they finally came home?

Would whatever it was that had sprung up between them keep growing, or would it die like a Summer seedling in the frost?

“I’ll see you tonight,” he said, brushing her hair gently off her forehead like he’d done before. “Your mask and gown will be here soon.”

Her gown! Periwinkle wanted to ask more. But Weaver gave a gentle squeeze of her hand, and then he was gone.

Somehow, as he left, Periwinkle was afraid he’d been saying goodbye for longer than the afternoon.

Found in Floss’s Workshop, on Weaver’s Workbench:

Anonymous Snowflake Note