14
N octua brought them to a sprawling holly bush where the winter healing-talents had established their clinic. All of its leaves were sharp and silvered in the flood of moonlight, and sprays of red berries dripped from the snow-covered branches. Everything was impossibly quiet at this hour. Clarion heard nothing but the flutter of Noctua’s wings as she landed.
Milori helped her down from her seat and led her through a hollow cut in the holly branches. Pale light filtered in through the gaps in the leaves, patterning the hard-packed ground and setting the frost aglow. As they walked, the path began to slope downward.
“It’s underground?” Clarion asked, with some surprise.
“Just slightly,” Milori replied. “It keeps it insulated from the wind.”
Clever, Clarion thought. It was noticeably warmer in here than it was outside. Even so, her every breath plumed in the air. The cold seeped through the tear in her coat, but she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. They came to a stop in front of a curtain of lichen. She tried not to notice the blood beading on her fingertips—and how it pattered onto the ground.
“Hello?” Milori called softly.
The curtain parted, and a healing-talent’s face appeared. She had umber skin and white hair that framed her face in tight curls. Like the healers in the warm seasons, she wore a gown of white; this one, Clarion noted, was made from primroses.
“Milori—” Her smile faltered when she took in Clarion, and it was replaced with momentary shock. Clarion knew she must have looked quite a sight. Blood had dried on her hands and soaked into the beautiful coat Petra had made her, staining the gold a livid red. Half her hair had come loose from its braid and hung bedraggled and partially frozen around her shoulders. “Who is this?”
“This,” he said wanly, “is Princess Clarion.”
Clarion watched at least ten emotions pass over the healer’s face before she settled on dismay. “And how, may I ask, has she ended up in this condition?”
He winced. “We ran into some trouble.”
“I can see that.” Concern bled into her voice. “And you—”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, holding up his hands.
“Good.” The healer rearranged her expression back into stern displeasure, but Clarion could see the fondness she had for him: a kind of familiarity born from knowing each other for a long time. It astounded Clarion how casually Milori’s subjects spoke with him. “Do be more careful with her going forward.”
Chastened, he replied, “I will.”
“I like her,” Clarion whispered to Milori, unable to help her teasing smile.
“I thought you might,” he said. “This is Yarrow.”
“I’m honored to meet you, Your Highness,” Yarrow said with a bow. “I only wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Me, too,” Clarion said, momentarily stunned. How unusual, to be treated with both respect and warmth. How she wished the warm seasons were more like this.
Yarrow ushered them through the lichen curtain and into the ward. Clarion froze in the doorway, her hand clasped to her chest. The room was filled with cots built from platforms of snow and covered with a latticework of twigs. All of them housed fairies trapped in their tormented dreams. There were far more of them here in Winter. Clarion’s heart ached for them—and for Milori, who surveyed the room with an expression of pure guilt.
It’s not your fault, she wanted to say, but Yarrow urged her along. She stationed Clarion on a cot piled high with blankets. Clarion pulled one around her shoulders and sighed in relief.
Milori leaned closer and murmured, “Will you be all right alone for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said encouragingly. “Go.”
He nodded, gratitude plain on his face. Within a few moments, he’d flitted across the sickroom floor and begun speaking with another healer in low tones. Every now and again, he cast a worried look out at the slumbering fairies.
Yarrow, who had been fussily arranging the blankets and pillows around her, said, “He’s been in here every day, you know. Are you warm enough?”
Clarion tore her gaze away from Milori, embarrassed that she’d been caught staring. “I am, thank you. Has he really?”
Yarrow nodded. “There’s nothing he can do, but…”
But he feels responsible, Clarion filled in. She knew that particular feeling well. “I know he cares a lot.”
“Yes. He’s beloved in Winter.” Yarrow paused for a moment, as if choosing her next words carefully. “I’m glad he found you. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him so…hopeful.”
Clarion tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She regretted it when she felt her skin warm with a blush. “It’s nothing I’ve done.”
“As you say.” She smiled knowingly. “Well, let’s take a look at you.”
Clarion let the blanket slide off her shoulder and offered her arm. The sight of the blood made her stomach turn, but she had not inspected the wound closely. The torn fabric of her coat clung to her skin, concealing the worst of the wound from view.
Yarrow clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You can’t remove your coat, so I’m going to need to cut the sleeve to get a better look.”
Clarion cringed. Petra was going to kill her for brutalizing her masterpiece this way, but that was a problem for another time. “That’s fine.”
Yarrow nodded and withdrew into another room in the clinic. Here in the main room, it was dark and cozy in the candlelight. Everything sparkled in the light refracted through the icicles dripping from the ceiling. The shelves lining the walls were cluttered with books and kettles, acorn shells filled with tinctures and sea-glass bowls of dried herbs. The air smelled earthy and green. Until now, Clarion had never realized just how many things grew in Winter. How had anyone ever believed it was devoid of life here?
She let her attention drift back to Milori, who had begun assisting the other healing-talent. They moved from bedside to bedside, helping each fairy drink sips of water. Her heart fluttered with a terrible fondness. How had she ever thought him cold, even for a moment?
A few minutes later, Yarrow returned with a woven basket, a stone mug that steamed in the cold, and a delicate set of fabric shears. She cut away the blood-mottled sleeve, and Clarion hissed in pain as the wound was exposed to the freezing air. Yarrow set down the scissors on a side table with a clack and bent down to inspect her more closely. She turned Clarion’s forearm carefully this way and that. “It’s clean, but it’s fairly deep. I’m going to need to stitch it for you. It should heal quickly, but you’ll need to keep a wound dressing on for tonight.”
Clarion felt a small measure of relief that she would not have to explain away her injury or commit to the questionable choice of wearing long sleeves in Summer. “All right.”
Yarrow rummaged through a basket and procured a thin hooked needle, as well as a poultice of juniper, usnea, and linseed wrapped in a leaf parcel. She worked in silence, cleaning and suturing the wound. Clarion stared resolutely at the wall, willing herself not to flinch with every tug of the thread through her skin. When Yarrow finished slathering on the poultice and applying a bandage, she handed her a mug.
“What is this?”
“Balsam fir and wintergreen,” Yarrow said. “It will help with healing and inflammation.”
Clarion brought the cup to her lips. It smelled resinous—and tasted it, too. But it warmed her hands, and right now, that was all she could ask for. “Thank you.”
Yarrow gave her a stern look. “Try not to irritate the wound before it closes. Don’t do anything strenuous.”
“I won’t.”
“I’ll send you home with this poultice, too. Apply it once per day.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t forget.”
Clarion could see how Milori allowed himself to be fussed over. Yarrow was quite forceful. With a laugh, Clarion said, “I won’t.”
“Good.” Yarrow studied her pensively. “I hope you’ll come back soon, Your Highness—although maybe not here . There’s a lot to see in Winter that has nothing to do with that dreadful lake.” She paused, and her expression brightened as something occurred to her. “Milori is a very talented ice-skater, you know. I’m sure he’d teach you.”
Clarion beamed. “I would love that.”
She just had to figure out how to stop the Nightmares before Elvina’s plan took shape. She could not abandon the winter fairies to the Nightmares. She refused. That conviction filled her up with a determined fire.
As soon as Yarrow moved on to the next patient, Milori reappeared at her side. “How are you feeling?”
Clarion offered him a small smile. Yarrow had cleaned the blood from her skin. Now, all that remained was a neat line of stitches. She caught him studying it, a lock of white hair falling out of place as he tilted his head. She resisted the urge to right it.
“Much better,” she said. “A little cold.”
“We should get you home.”
Home. More and more, she dreaded leaving Winter. “Right. Good idea.”
Outside, Noctua waited for them, her white feathers fluffed and gleaming coldly in the moonlight. The two of them climbed on, and this time, when Milori hooked an arm around her, Clarion found herself grateful for the close contact. Her bare forearm stung in the cold, and the wind slipping beneath the tattered half sleeve chilled her to the very bone. Noctua took flight toward Spring, and the thickening flurries swirled around them. Even in darkness, Winter was breathtakingly beautiful. Endless forests of pine dusted in snow reached toward them.
Clarion tipped her face toward Milori’s until she could see his profile limned by starlight. Like this, unguarded and lost in thought, he looked so serious.
It’s been a long time since we’ve seen him so hopeful.
She couldn’t believe she’d had that effect on him. And yet, if it was true, she wanted to pull him out of his gloom as much as she could. “Well, that didn’t go entirely as planned.”
She startled a laugh out of him. It was a nice sound, made sweeter for how rare it was. “No, it certainly didn’t.”
“But we’ll find a way,” she said. “Next time will be better.”
“Next time,” he echoed, as solemn as a promise.
“I’ll need to get my coat repaired first.” She plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I’m not sure how long it will take. It took a few days for her to make it the first time.”
“I don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll wait for you.”
Clarion frowned as he fixed his gaze straight ahead. There was something terribly vulnerable on his face. Loneliness. How could he not be? He spent his time poring over unreadable books or standing at the border or patrolling a prison he could not guard. He was so duty bound—and forever bound to fail.
“I could come visit you,” she said—and immediately wished she could rephrase. It sounded far too eager to her own ears. She cleared her throat and added, “If you’re going to be there waiting anyway. We can strategize on what our next steps are.”
Matching her feigned nonchalance, he replied, “As you wish.”
She gave him a look that said, As I wish?
Apparently unable to maintain the facade, he relented. “I would like that.”
She did not mistake the faint pink burning on the tips of his ears. “Well, then,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
His lips curled into a soft smile. “Tomorrow.”
A strange lightness—a sort of giddiness —filled her up inside. Even though they soared high above the Winter Woods, Clarion had the distinct sensation of free-falling. Between the Nightmares and Milori, she’d landed herself in far more trouble than she’d bargained for.
The next morning, Clarion and Artemis stood outside Petra’s door at first light. Despite the danger she’d found herself in, Clarion had awoken in a strangely good mood. That was, of course, until she processed that she was about to ruin Petra’s day, if not her entire month. In her pack was the ripped, bloodstained coat Petra had so generously sewn for her. If there was any good news to be taken from the entire ordeal, it was that the boots had escaped the scuffle with little more than a scratch.
“Are you going to knock?” Artemis asked.
Clarion realized she had been staring at the door—and that she’d been clenching her jaw. She willed her face to relax. “I’m mentally preparing myself.”
Artemis shot her a look that landed somewhere between sympathetic and pitying. “Surely she’ll understand.”
“We’ll see,” Clarion replied skeptically. Even Artemis didn’t sound fully convinced by her own words. “You may have to intervene.”
“I stand at the ready.”
“Good.” With a sigh, she knocked. “Petra, it’s me.”
Barely a second passed before Petra flung open the door. She looked weary—but like she had been up for quite some time. Her face was already streaked with grease, and the heat of her forge emanated steadily from within. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
Clarion smiled innocently. “Dawn?”
“Exact—” She cut herself off with a strangled squeak when she spied Artemis. “Oh. Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Artemis replied stiltedly.
Clarion let her gaze volley between them for a moment, trying not to let her exasperation show. “Are you going to invite us in?”
Petra groaned but stepped aside to admit them. “You have that look in your eyes again. What is it this time?”
Best just to get it over with, Clarion decided. She cleared a new pile of detritus from Petra’s kitchen table, then upended the contents of her bag onto its surface.
Petra let out a soft wail of dismay. “What have you done ?”
Clarion winced. “I might have gotten into a little accident.”
Artemis pinned her with a flat stare that said, You could have handled that better.
“All my hard work, ruined! Completely ruined!” Petra picked up the jaggedly cut sleeve of the coat. After a moment’s inspection, she hurled it across the room with a yelp of surprise. “Is that blood ?”
“Keep your voice down,” Clarion hissed. “Yes, it’s blood. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Petra seized Clarion’s shoulders and shook them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Artemis shift, as though debating whether or not to intervene. In the end, she let out a long-suffering sigh and folded her arms behind her back.
“What do you mean it’s nothing to worry about?” Petra demanded. “There are monsters on the loose, and you’ve suddenly decided to gallivant around the Winter Woods, and now you show up on my doorstep with blood on your clothes?”
As much as she resented the suggestion that she was gallivanting , when Petra put it like that, Clarion supposed it sounded a little bad. “It looks a lot worse than it is. I’m not hurt. Not badly, anyway.”
She pulled up her sleeve to show Petra the thin strip of gauze bound to her forearm. Mercifully, it concealed the stitches underneath. Petra let her go and slumped heavily into an armchair. Something in the far corner of the room tipped over and clanged to the ground. Petra hardly flinched. “I know I said I didn’t want to know, but I’ve decided the not-knowing is much worse than the alternative. What is going on with you?”
There was something in her voice deeper than her usual anxiety. There was a real plea there, and Petra was staring at her with an accusation in her eyes: I feel like I don’t know you anymore.
She hated disappointing Petra—and not knowing how to stop. But if she couldn’t be honest with her, what friendship did they really have anymore? Clarion couldn’t lose her after everything they’d been through together.
“If I tell you,” Clarion said, “you have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“I didn’t tell anyone you were going into the Winter Woods before,” she said defeatedly. “I hate keeping secrets, though, Clarion. You know I’m terrible at it, but…I’ll try. For you.”
With as much levity as she could muster, Clarion said, “You have to promise not to scream, either.”
Petra glared at her, which Clarion chose to take as agreement.
“About two weeks ago, when the Nightmare was first spotted in Pixie Hollow, I went to the border of Winter. I thought I’d find a trail there. I didn’t, but there was something else there…well, someone .” She took a deep breath. “The Warden of the Winter Woods.”
Petra looked on the verge of either fainting or combusting. “The Warden of the Winter Woods? You met the Warden of the Winter Woods?”
“Just listen.” Clarion took hold of her elbow. “I was a little skeptical at first. He isn’t all that bad once you get to know him.”
“How reassuring.” Petra laughed breathlessly, the sound fraying at the edges. Then, something dawned on her. “You’ve met multiple times, then?”
“A few.”
Petra gasped. “Did you cross the border to see him?”
Clarion flushed. “Yes. But—”
“You’re sneaking out to see a boy ?” Petra sounded positively disgusted, but there was no real bite to it. She’d never had much of an eye for sparrow men; the very notion of finding one comely enough to risk life and limb for was surely confounding.
Artemis made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.
“It’s not like that!” Clarion protested, and she realized too late it was not exactly a denial. Petra’s eyes gleamed with vicious triumph. “We’ve found a way to stop the Nightmares. Which is why I need your—”
“And this is what stopping them looks like?” Petra jabbed a finger at the coat crumpled in the corner. “You should have no part in it. It’s too dangerous.”
Clarion could not keep the frustration out of her voice. “I’m so tired of being told things are too dangerous.”
“But they are . I know it’s never been a concern for you, but some of us are happy tucked away in our nooks.”
“Petra…”
“No. Don’t use your queen voice on me,” she said, almost pleadingly. “I won’t do it. I can’t watch you come home like this again. I’m a tinker, not a healer. I can patch up your coat, but not you .”
For a moment, they remained in brittle silence, staring at each other across the darkness of Petra’s workshop. Clarion felt monstrous, indeed. Was this really what Petra thought of her? That she was some kind of reckless instigator who had ignored her discomfort all these years?
Artemis, clearly sensing they needed space, wordlessly slipped out through the door. When it clicked shut behind her, Clarion found her voice again. She had to fight to keep the hurt out of it. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. There’s no one else I can rely on.”
Petra sighed fretfully. “Both you and Elvina are depending on me for your schemes to work. Being in this position isn’t easy for me.”
“I know.” Guilt plucked at Clarion. “But her plan is misguided. It’s the duty of the queen to ensure the well-being of her subjects—not to leave an entire realm to fend for itself.”
Petra frowned and absently picked up a pair of sewing shears, the conflict clear on her face.
“I’m sorry that I’ve put you in this position,” Clarion continued, “and I’ll be as careful as I can. But I can’t walk away from this. I won’t, whether I have your support or not, because for the first time, I feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Petra groaned: a telltale sign that her surrender was nigh. “Fine. Fine. Consider it my coronation gift. But if it comes back to me in tatters again—”
“It won’t,” Clarion cut in breathlessly. “Thank you, Petra.”
“Keep your gratitude.” She turned back to her worktable and began rearranging her tools. “Just live.”
Clarion’s breath caught in her throat. “I will.”