3
T he next morning, with Elvina’s admonition still ringing in her ears, Clarion prepared for the council meeting: the first she would ever run alone. For good measure, she shuffled one last time through the papers on her writing desk, a collection of briefs from her ministers. Today’s agenda was mercifully—and surprisingly—light. Pixie Hollow was at its most bustling in the weeks leading up to each seasonal turn. With the solstice a month away, late spring hardly constituted a lull.
Not to mention, there was the matter of her coronation.
Her coronation. The very thought of it made her nerves flare with renewed intensity. Soon, Clarion would make the decisions that ensured the queendom functioned as it should and that the seasons changed without a hitch. Not only Pixie Hollow depended on her—but also the Mainland and all the humans within it.
The pressure would crack her if she dwelled on it too much. Instead, she would put Elvina’s advice to work and focus on the task at hand. If she could not manifest a burst of magic, then she would at least run a meeting with unequivocal poise. Today, Elvina would find no fault in her.
She stood, and immediately, a shudder passed through her. Clarion turned, half-expecting to find someone—or some thing —watching her through the glass doors of her balcony. But it was only her own weary reflection staring back at her, framed like a portrait by interlocking branches—and beyond it, the mountains of the Winter Woods. The tallest of them rose into curved peaks, reaching toward each other in the shape of a crescent moon. In the early-morning light, all the snow was washed pink as a shell. Sometimes, she could almost imagine the mountains were staring back at her.
All her life, she’d been told that winter fairies were not to be trusted. Few stories remained that explained the source of their conflict, but Clarion had seen one or two theatrical performances that touched on the conflict that had driven their worlds apart. She still remembered sitting beside Elvina—breathless, with her hands white-knuckled around the railing of their opera box—as Saga, the most gifted of Pixie Hollow’s storytellers, wove the tale of Titania, the first Queen of Pixie Hollow.
As she spoke, images shimmered in a cloud of golden dust behind her. Flashes of icicle spears and quill arrows. The Pixie Dust Tree, no more than a sapling bending to the wind. The Warden of the Winter Woods and his cruel, serrated crown, wreathed by a towering darkness.
Privately, Clarion had thought the drama of it terribly romantic. Elvina, meanwhile, had scoffed when one of Titania’s trusted advisors died his tragic death. But for all its theatrics, the legend never expounded on the details Clarion craved. It told of only some vague disagreement between the two rulers—and a dark force that had consumed the Warden of the Winter Woods. That, for most citizens of the warm seasons, was enough to discourage any curiosity about their neighbors.
Clarion gathered up her notes and unlatched her balcony doors. Cool air washed over her, and the sounds of Pixie Hollow stirring awake filtered down from above. With a flutter of her wings, she leapt onto the balustrades of her balcony, then into the air.
She ascended, pushing aside leaves and twigs, until she could see the source of the Pixie Dust Well. A cascade of golden dust spilled from a knothole and onto the pink petals of a lily. The overflow dripped onto tiers of pearl oyster mushrooms until at last it emptied into the well, cradled in the spiraled nexus of the tree’s limbs.
Pixie dust—the lifeblood of their society—was produced deep within the heart of the tree. No one knew exactly how or why, although dustologists had penned dense academic tomes and quibbled over theories for centuries. All Clarion knew for certain was that magic flowed through it, suffusing all of Pixie Hollow with its vast network of roots. If she let herself pause, she could feel it all around her, warm and comforting. It made the very air smell sweet, like honeyed tea and cinnamon rolls rising in an oven. Its subtle presence never failed to fill her with wonder.
This early, everyone had begun lining up for their daily ration of dust: a teacupful and no more. Dust-keeper fairies stood ankle-deep in the shallows of the Pixie Dust Well, dipping their cups into the pool. With efficiency Clarion admired, they poured it over each fairy. Without it, flight would be impossible; a fairy’s wings couldn’t support their weight unassisted. All the way down the queue, fairies gossiped and laughed. Some carried cups full of dandelion tea, eager for a kick of energy; others still buzzed with energy from their night shifts. One of the sparrow men below noticed her half-hidden behind a curtain of leaves. She lifted a hand in a sheepish wave. He paled, then looked away, attempting to do something complicated and industrious-looking with the blade of grass in his hands.
Clarion tried not to wilt with disappointment. Petra had always said her expression conveyed a certain queenliness , as did her voice. It wasn’t as if there were anything she could do about either of those things.
“Your Highness.”
Clarion let out a gasp of surprise. She craned her neck to find Artemis seated on one of the branches just above her. She always managed to hide herself in plain sight—an impressive, if not occasionally terrifying, talent.
“Good morning,” Clarion said, a little breathlessly.
Her guard wore an expression verging on sympathetic. It was always difficult to tell with Artemis, who had mastered the subtle art of stoicism. But sometimes, Clarion caught Artemis watching the other scout-talents when they went out on patrol with something like yearning in her eyes. On the one occasion Clarion had asked her about it, Artemis had shuttered completely. Some wounds, Clarion supposed, should not be picked at.
“They’re unaccustomed to a queen who welcomes familiarity,” Artemis said gruffly. “It’s only respect they’re offering you.”
Respect, was it? Even if she wanted it, she hardly felt worthy of it. Still, Artemis’s halting attempts to comfort her never failed to bring some cheer. Artemis would never admit it, of course, but Clarion suspected there was a sensitive soul buried somewhere beneath that cool, professional exterior. One of these days, she just might reveal it.
“Of course.” With forced brightness, Clarion asked, “Shall we go?”
Artemis nodded.
Doing her best to stay out of sight, Clarion led them to the council chambers, located just below the Pixie Dust Well. There was no door to speak of; rather, the sides of the domed ceiling had been carved so that it seemed to be paned with swatches of open sky. Intricately scrolled designs, rendered in glittering pixie-dust paint, filled the thin strips of bark left between each pane. Hidden within the patterns were the symbols of each season: the Evergreen flower for Spring; the full moon for Autumn; a rainbow for Summer; and a snowflake for Winter. It had always intrigued Clarion. If their realms had always been separate from one another, why had the art-talents included Winter in their designs?
As they drew nearer, the muffled sound of the ministers bickering among themselves reached Clarion through the open ceiling. What there was to argue about this early in the morning was beyond her. She supposed it came with such infinitely long working relationships. There was an endless number of petty squabbles and political slights to dredge up and litigate, the origins of which Clarion had only vaguely pieced together since her Arrival. At any rate, they never tired of debating which of the seasons mattered most. She steeled herself as she entered the chamber.
Inside, the three Seasonal Ministers gathered around a long table that took up almost the entirety of the room. The Minister of Spring seemed to be delivering some sort of impassioned speech, which the Minister of Autumn vacantly nodded along to. The Minister of Summer, meanwhile, looked on the verge of falling asleep where she stood. But as soon as they noticed her, a hush fell over them. It was part of governing-talent magic, she’d learned: an ability to command a crowd’s attention. Artemis folded herself into the shadows, falling into a perfect parade rest. Clarion kept her chin high as she made her way to the head of the table, where Elvina usually stood. Somehow, the room looked entirely different from this vantage point.
Closest to her was the Minister of Autumn—Rowan—who flashed her an easy smile. As always, he looked as though he’d just stepped out of the cold; his pale cheeks were stung red. His brown eyes twinkled at her, and auburn hair curled around his ears. He wore a patchwork cloak of autumn leaves fastened with a polished chestnut brooch. Clarion liked him best, if only because he dared to speak out of turn in her presence. He was keen, agreeable, and only occasionally prone to bouts of melancholy.
Beside him was the Minister of Summer, Aurelia, who lifted her chin in acknowledgment. Today, she had dressed in the full bloom of her season: a gown of hydrangeas, a necklace of zinnias, and bracelets of roses. She’d arranged her hair in an elaborate bun atop her head.
And then, there was the Minister of Spring—Iris—who offered Clarion a small wave of her fingers. She’d chosen a wide-skirted snowdrop gown, and delicate new growth was woven into a crown around her temples, framing her face in long tendrils. She had a warm, sandy complexion and eyes almost as black as her hair, which fell long and loose down to her mid-back. Like her season, she was light and airy, flighty and eager: a personality bright enough to rouse nature from its slumber.
This had been Elvina’s retinue for as long as Clarion had been alive. Still, she couldn’t help feeling that they were incomplete with no Minister of Winter. Somewhere across the border, the Warden of the Winter Woods ruled in solitude over their frozen realm. But even if the warm seasons and Winter had been on good terms, it wasn’t as if the Warden of the Winter Woods could join their meetings. Warm fairies could not withstand the cold of Winter; after only a few minutes, their wings would turn brittle and shatter. Winter fairies’ wings, meanwhile, would melt like frost beneath the springtime sun.
Iris smiled radiantly at her. “Good morning, Your Highness!”
Clarion startled. The cheer she could muster, even at the earliest hour, never failed to strike her. “Good morning.”
“I hear you’re leading us today,” said Rowan, dropping his voice conspiratorially low. “Finally convinced Her Majesty to slow down for a change, hmm?”
Clarion spread her notes out on the table in front of her. “It’s nothing like—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the doors opened to admit Elvina. She whisked into the room in a whirl of pixie dust and diaphanous skirts. The ministers immediately snapped to attention, all of them murmuring “Your Majesty” in unison. Elvina, however, did not pause for pleasantries. She said nothing as she took her place at the opposite end of the table. Then, she pinned Clarion with an expectant look. Straight to business, then.
“I hereby call this meeting to order.” Clarion cleared her throat when her voice wavered, just barely. “We’ll begin with reports from the ministers. Minister of Summer, will you please share any new business?”
“We are nearly ready for the seasonal turn,” Aurelia said languidly. “I have little to report on, apart from your coronation.”
Elvina said nothing, but she looked visibly discomfited. Clarion did her best to put it far out of mind. The alternative was giving weight to that quiet fear within her: that Elvina did not trust her to assume her role.
“Preparations are proceeding on schedule,” Aurelia continued. “We have gathered nearly all the sunlight we’ll need, and we’ve identified the perfect location. When you have a free moment, Your Highness, I’ll ask that you come by to approve it.”
In her warm, drawling cadence, Aurelia outlined the other projects her fairies had been working on over the past week. By the time she finished, Iris was practically vibrating with barely restrained excitement.
“We’ll continue with the Minister of Spring’s—”
“I am so glad you asked, Your Highness. My garden-talents are hard at work on the floral arrangements. But there are just a few tiny things I want to nail down….” Iris procured no fewer than five bouquets from beneath the table. Rowan looked on in silent wonderment as she placed them in a neat row. “Talk to me about colors. What do you think of these? We could also go in a completely different direction and—”
Clarion felt only a little overwhelmed. “I trust you, Minister. I’m sure it’s going to be beautiful.”
“It certainly will be.” Iris preened. “Ooh! But that still leaves the matter of the dewdrop mosaics…. The water-talents have been experimenting with designs. Of course, I can’t bring them here, but perhaps soon, you could come by Springtime Square, and we can go over all the details.”
“I look forward to it,” Clarion said, and she found she meant it. Even if she did not have the eye for design that Iris did, her enthusiasm was admittedly infectious. “Minister of Autumn…?”
“I,” Rowan said, ruefully, “have nothing to contribute at the moment—at least not to your coronation.”
It was understandable. Although autumn wouldn’t arrive on the Mainland for months, preparing for the seasonal change took a great deal of coordination and effort. Before she could say so, Iris huffed out a sigh.
“Oh, but you do ,” said Iris. “I need to borrow some of your fast-flyers.”
“Ah, right.” Rowan tapped his chin. A teasing edge crept into his tone. “Now, why was that again?”
“To carry the petals for—Ugh!” Iris threw up her hands “Listen. If you can’t appreciate my artistic vision—”
“While we’re on the subject,” Aurelia interjected, “I could use some tinkers, if you haven’t put them all to work yet.”
“A more practical concern,” Rowan mused. “But I’m not convinced I can spare them.”
As the three of them wandered down the back roads of their tangent, Elvina fixed Clarion with another speaking look from across the table. This one said, Well?
Right. It was up to her to bring the meeting to order.
“If I may,” Clarion cut in, softer than she intended. Even so, they fell quiet. Every gaze in the room landed on her again. Determined not to lose her nerve, she continued, “Surely we can arrange a schedule that works for everyone. Perhaps the Minister of Autumn can spare some fairies for one day a week…?”
Rowan glanced at Elvina, as if seeking her approval. Elvina only gave a vague wave of her hand, as if to say, As she wishes.
Satisfied, Rowan nodded.
Clarion couldn’t bite back a smile. Perhaps she had managed one small victory: a resolution for a problem that had been brought before her. Before she could continue the meeting, however, a scout-talent all but tumbled into the room from above.
All five of them jumped with surprise.
The scout only narrowly avoided crashing into the table. Nevertheless, she saluted Elvina, even as she struggled to even out her breathing. It was as if something had chased her all the way here. Clarion chanced a look back at Artemis. Curiosity and concern warred in her expression, but she did not break from her station.
Elvina stood, once again assuming her role as queen. “What is it?”
“Apologies for the interruption, Your Majesty,” the scout-talent wheezed, “but just before dawn, a monster was sighted in Pixie Hollow.”
A chilly silence descended over them.
Iris spoke first, her confusion evident in her voice. “A monster? Like a hawk, or—”
“No, Minister,” the scout replied gravely. “A monster. I don’t know what else to call it. It crossed into Spring from Winter.”
A monster? From Winter? Clarion hadn’t known anything besides winter fairies and a few animals thrived there, much less monsters . But when she glanced at Elvina, the queen did not look rattled at all. Then again, she kept her composure in every situation, no matter how dangerous. As much as it baffled Clarion, she had always admired and envied that about Elvina. A true Queen of Pixie Hollow could show no cracks.
“And what,” Rowan asked warily, “did this monster look like?”
“It’s hard to place, sir. Something like a fox, but not like any fox I’ve ever seen. It had something like a glow, or a shadow….” The scout trailed off, growing paler. “We followed it as long as we could, but we lost sight of it when the sun rose.”
“Send for the commander at once,” Elvina said. “I will see her here.”
With the grounding comfort of following an order, the scout regained some of her composure. She snapped back to attention. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Once you’ve done that, take your unit and ensure every citizen gets inside,” Elvina continued. A troubled frown creased her brow. “Until we can identify the threat, no one goes out.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Artemis perked up, her fingers twitching toward the sword strapped to her hip. “Your Majesty, if there’s anything I can—”
“You will not desert your post at the princess’s side,” Elvina replied icily.
Clarion felt a pang of sympathy at how Artemis wilted. Bowing her head, she said, “Of course not.”
Elvina flicked her wrist at the other scout. “You are dismissed. As for the rest of you, this meeting is adjourned. As a matter of safety, do not leave the palace until you hear otherwise.”
“But, Your Majesty, I can’t stay here,” Iris protested. “If it came in through Spring—”
The look on Elvina’s face brooked no argument. “The scouts will handle this.”
“Yes. Of course,” Iris replied, but Clarion did not mistake the worry in her tone. Aurelia rested a steadying hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
The rustling of paper and low murmurs filled the room. Clarion watched the ministers filter out, with cold dread lodged deep in her chest. A monster. How could such a thing be possible?
“You, too, Clarion,” said Elvina wearily. “Go to your room.”
Indignation flared within her. Was that it, then? Dismissed, just like the others, as though she were nothing more than a child? This meeting—an opportunity to demonstrate her capability—had gone awry. And now, Elvina would shut her out of something so important? “I can help.”
“You cannot. This isn’t a matter that concerns you.”
It should have gutted her to have confirmation of all her worst fears: Elvina did not need her. Instead, that seed of anger flared into full bloom within her. She flitted across the room in a rush, her glow intensifying and casting an amber light on the walls around them. “How can it not concern me? I am expected to govern all of Pixie Hollow within a month’s time.”
At last, Elvina looked at her— truly looked at her. Clearly, Clarion had shocked her, because she did not reply for a long few moments. “I only mean to say that you shouldn’t worry yourself with this.”
Clarion could not accept that. “But shouldn’t I learn how to handle a crisis?”
“There’s still time to teach you. That time is not during a crisis. Trust me. I have this in hand.” Elvina rested her hands on Clarion’s shoulders. They weighed heavily on her, and Clarion found her resistance momentarily smothered beneath her shock.
Elvina so rarely touched her, so rarely displayed any sort of tenderness toward her. And yet, Clarion could not forget the way Elvina had looked at her when she first arose from the star on her Arrival Day. She’d helped Clarion out of the crater, then cradled her face with something like wonder and terrible recognition shining in her eyes. It had filled Clarion with such a sadness—one she did not and could not understand.
Before she could reply, in flew the Captain of the Scouts, Nightshade. She was dressed in full regalia—a breastplate, and plates of bark armor strapped to her forearms and shins, all of it gleaming menacingly—and carried a spear in her hand and a quiver of saw-grass arrows across her back. Her blond hair was pulled back into a severe bun at the nape of her neck, which was bronzed from sun exposure.
“Your Majesty. Your Highness.” She clasped a fist over her heart in salute. “We should discuss logistics.”
“We should,” Elvina agreed. “Clarion—”
“Please let me stay,” Clarion pressed. “I won’t interrupt.”
“It is out of the question,” Elvina snapped. “Go.”
Clarion could only stare at her, stunned. Elvina had been impatient or disappointed in her before, yes—but never had she been so curt. Without another word, she turned toward Nightshade and began to speak with her in low tones. Clarion, bristling all over with affronted humiliation, understood that was indeed the end of the discussion. Elvina had promised to teach her everything she needed to know—and what better way to learn than by observing? Clearly, her insight was not valuable or welcome.
She had half a mind to listen in at the door like a child sent off to bed. She had sworn to do better—to comport herself with the dignity befitting her role. And yet…
“Come on, Your Highness,” Artemis said quietly. Now, there was no mistaking the pity in her voice. She all but steered Clarion out of the council chamber and back to her room. This time, Clarion felt too raw to protest.
Outside her bedroom window, controlled chaos had erupted in Pixie Hollow. Distantly, she could hear the sound of the horns echoing from the watchtowers high in the pines. Pixie dust streaked the sky as fairies flitted home and scouts soared above the canopy with their bows drawn and their eyes trained on the shadows. Clarion’s heart ached with worry. Her people were suffering. Petra was likely terrified out of her mind, and that pained her most of all.
You have to help at scale, Elvina had told her. But she couldn’t. Not while she was locked away in her bedroom—and certainly not while Elvina was barring her from duty.
The Queen of Pixie Hollow does not sit idle while there is still work to be done.
Clarion had never been perfect, she knew. But how could she ever be when Elvina’s mandates contradicted each other? She would have to choose one. And right now, with her coronation looming so close, she could not content herself with doing nothing at all.
It couldn’t hurt to look for the monster herself, could it?
If she came back with something useful, she would never be shut out again. And maybe—just maybe—she could convince herself that the stars hadn’t made a horrible mistake. Surely, with all the scouts and Elvina occupied, no one would notice her missing. She’d just have to wait until nighttime, when Artemis was finally off duty, to make her escape.
As the hours wore on, the sun sank lower, staining the sky a wildfire red. Just before twilight descended, Clarion eased open her balcony doors. When she stepped outside, shadows settled heavily over her and prickled her skin with unease. A gust of wind set all the branches clattering, and buried somewhere beneath the sound, she would have sworn she heard the distant scream of a fox.
Somewhere out there, a monster lurked.
The thought had no sooner slithered through her mind than her gaze fell on the mountains. The near dark of dusk had transformed them into something stark and shadowed. For the first time, they leered back at her almost expectantly. Clarion could not tell if it thrilled or unsettled her more. Gathering her nerve, she took flight toward Spring Valley—to the border where Spring met Winter.