Page 77 of Wings of Reverie

“No.” He shook his head, throat working as he slowly moved closer. “You look like a dream.”

Had anyone ever seen her like this? Caught a glimpse of her true heart, and still believed she deserved something so truly exquisite?

Periwinkle didn’t even have to guess. It was the most beautiful she had ever felt.

“I have something for you,” Weaver said.

Periwinkle bit back a grin, gesturing to her dress. “Something else, you mean?” But Weaver only beckoned her nearer, dark eyes glinting, and reached into his breast pocket.

The bracelet that he drew out had been made with the pink flaxfrom the Lattice’s Bakery box, the one he’d used to measure her wrist. Now, though, it had the same iridescent sheen as her dress. Periwinkle held her wrist out to him, and Weaver carefully tied the aurora-colored length of flax into a bow.

When he took her hand and pressed a kiss to the pale, soft skin at her pulse, a shiver ran all the way up her arm.

Periwinkle could feel every point where their palms and fingers touched. She was burning, freezing, nervous, dazzled.

“Dance with me,” Weaver said quietly.

And Periwinkle said yes.

Out on the snowflake platform, the fairies formed lines, and the music-talents struck up a sweeping, glittering tune. She and Weaver danced opposite each other, fluttering in time with their neighbors, twirling on the spot with their arms raised. She caught glimpses of richness and sparkle and frost and moonlight and color every time she turned, and Periwinkle thought of Weaver at his loom, the back-and-forth winding of beautifully dyed thread.

The fairies’ dance was just as intricate, just as delicate. They fluttered and spun, this way and that way, she and Weaver never more than brushing hands or wings as the rows of dancers threaded around one another and back. Occasionally, their lines shifted, and Periwinkle would find herself opposite Spangle, or Flare, or one of the baking-talents from Lattice’s, or—but the next fairy was wearing a large mask covered in glittering gray stones, and she was gone before Periwinkle could recall where she’d seen her.

Then the music turned again, and so did their lines, like theshuttle through the warp on a loom. And as the two rows of dancers finally met, Periwinkle found herself in Weaver’s arms.

It wasn’t the closest they had ever been. He’d kissed her until her head spun the other night at Floss’s, and again in the mine the night before. But there was an intent to their proximity, there in the middle of the hall’s atrium, a beauty to the night that was concentrated between them and swelled with every step and sweep of their wings.

She wished the two of them could stay there like that, his hand on her waist and her free hand in his, like they were two figures spinning in a snow globe.

Weaver bent close to her ear. When he spoke, his voice was thick. “Periwinkle, whatever happens after tonight, I need you to know that this week has meant everything,” he said. “Whatever happens…”

Periwinkle looked up. She forced Weaver to meet her gaze, though she knew he would see the stars in her eyes, that he would know they all burned for him.

“Our plan will work,” she said. “It will.”

Periwinkle hadn’t forgotten her dream from the night before. Her fear was strong. But she hoped that her hope was stronger.

Periwinkle’s throat tightened as Weaver drew her closer, bringing their joined hands to her cheek. His throat moved, eyes roving over her face, and when Periwinkle saw his gaze move to her lips, awareness lit inside her like a sunrise.

Weaver leaned toward her, and she sighed, already melting like snow in summer.

But then he stilled.

Weaver was staring at something over Periwinkle’s shoulder, somewhere out in the crowd of dancing fairies or maybe on the mezzanine above. Though his feet and his wings still carried him along, his expression was as frozen as a snow sculpture’s. Periwinkle turned to look where Weaver had, but she couldn’t see what could’ve distracted him. “What is it?”

“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Did you see someone?” she asked, then lowered her voice. “Did you see Lord Milori? Is it time yet?”

“Yes—no,” he corrected himself. “Listen, Periwinkle. When I say it’s time to go, you have to trust me. Our window tonight is small.” She knew how serious their plans were, but the vehemence in his voice surprised her.

“Okay,” she agreed, startled.

“Promise.”

“I promise. I promise,” she said, feeling almost shaken.

Of course she would listen. Saving the Pixie Dust Root meant everything. But as Weaver left Periwinkle on the dance floor, the music shifted the rows of dancers again unexpectedly and moved her away, and Periwinkle had the terrible feeling she’d missed something.