Wings of Starlight

15

“Y our Highness?”

Clarion startled awake—and found herself rather undignifiedly slumped over her writing desk. At least she managed to avoid falling out of her chair in surprise. She turned toward the door, where a harried-looking sewing-talent hovered over the threshold. Artemis loomed just behind her, wearing an apologetic expression that seemed to say, I tried to stop her.

“Hello,” Clarion said blearily.

Her fingertips tingled with numbness from her pillowing her head on her forearm. Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the window, a fact Clarion felt a small measure of dismay about. She’d been asleep for hours, and she could hardly recall when, exactly, she had drifted off. She certainly hadn’t intended to take a nap.

Hazily, she retraced her steps. After her spat with Petra this morning, she’d arrived late to the weekly council meeting, where she proceeded to spill the contents of her teacup all over her notes as well as the Minister of Spring’s new gown. When she returned to her room, still hot with embarrassment, she’d attempted to decipher the swirl of tea and ink in her notebook….

That must have done it. Clearly, staying up late and waking up early were not agreeing with her.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the sewing-talent said delicately. “But you have a dress fitting.”

She had entirely forgotten that she had a dress fitting today. Patch, the royal seamstress, would no doubt be displeased at her lateness. She’d already made a gown for her coronation, but Clarion would need a new one for the ball.

“Thank you.” Clarion dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Shall we go?”

The sewing-talent led her to Patch’s studio. Helper-talents—including dusting-talents and polishing-talents—bustled through the corridors and trailed after organizer-talents. Clarion had taken to calling the latter Elvina’s Trusted Circle of Decorators. They flitted through the palace, barking orders at their assistants and appraising every detail of others’ work. She noted that her sewing-talent guide conspicuously—and expertly—avoided them.

When they at last arrived, they were greeted with an abrupt “There you are!”

Patch floated in the center of her studio. She was of narrow frame, angular features, and a birch-white complexion, as though she had not seen the sun in some time. Her dark brown hair was woven into a neat braid that lay neatly against her elegant cloak of black calla lily. A length of tailor’s tape was draped around her neck like a serpent.

While Patch styled herself in dark garments, there were bolts of fabric in every imaginable shade piled on the shelves that lined the room. Half-finished garments covered the dress forms scattered throughout the space, and the whole studio seemed to glow in the sunlight, which reflected off the mirror sitting in its ornate frame—and glimmered on the skeins upon skeins of spiderweb Patch had gathered in baskets. Just outside the window, a vast web stretched between the branches of the Pixie Dust Tree, each strand like a thread of gold in the afternoon light. This was where Patch sourced the silk for her spectacular embroidery and lace. No doubt, Fil—her orb weaver companion—was basking in the center of her web.

But what struck Clarion when she entered the room was the Minister of Summer. Aurelia sat in an armchair, drowsing in the wash of sunlight with one elegant hand propping up her chin. She wore a gown of sunflower petals; their vibrant gold contrasted with her deep black skin. As always, she looked as radiant and luminous as summer itself.

“Minister,” Clarion said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Aurelia’s golden eyes rested on her curiously. “I missed you earlier.”

Realization dawned on Clarion. She’d missed her meeting with Aurelia, all because she’d fallen asleep. “Oh, no. I am so sorry.”

“It happens.” Aurelia waved a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing I can’t discuss with you here. I wanted to get your opinion on the menu for the Coronation Ball. I’ve brought some of my cooking-talents, but Patch has banished them from this room.”

Patch skewered the minister with a glare. “Because if they smudge that gown, I—”

“Peace.” Aurelia stifled a yawn. “It can wait until you’re finished.”

“Good.”

Patch wasted no time in ushering Clarion behind a privacy screen. There, her gown for the Coronation Ball waited for her. The fabric glittered brilliantly and moved through her hands like water. Clarion slipped out of her gown, doing her best to conceal her injured arm from view. Patch, if she noticed it at all, did not remark on it. She laced her into the ball gown with a practiced ease, then guided her by her shoulders to the mirror in the main room.

“What do you think?”

In truth, it was the most beautiful thing Clarion had ever owned. The skirts of the gown were a spill of golden fabric, unfurling into a long, elegant train. The sleeves, made of sheer fabric, trailed to the floor. When she moved, they billowed behind her like a cape. In this, she almost felt like a queen. “It’s perfect, Patch. I love it.”

Clarion saw both Aurelia’s and Patch’s approving gazes reflected back at her.

“Excellent,” Patch said, clearly pleased. “I’ll just make a few final adjustments.”

The twenty minutes passed in a blur. While Patch slid pins into the hem and sleeves, the Minister of Summer excused herself for a moment—only to return with her retinue of cooking-talents. Patch radiated a palpable discontent as they set up what seemed to Clarion an entire tea service in the corner of her studio.

“If I find a stain on anything, even so much as a drop —”

“You won’t,” Aurelia said, completely unperturbed.

The two of them began to bicker, but Clarion could hardly focus on what they were saying. With no one speaking to her directly, all the things she tried to keep at bay closed in on her: her looming coronation, the Nightmares, Milori.

She had to get back to Winter as quickly as she could.

Eventually, once Patch finished sticking her gown full of pins, she led her back to the privacy screen so that she could change back into the gown she’d arrived in. Patch folded the ball gown almost reverently over her arm, then called: “She’s all yours, Aurelia.”

When Clarion reemerged, Aurelia had installed herself at the table the cooking-talents had set up in the corner. Atop one of Patch’s ornate spider-silk lace tablecloths was one of the most decadent spreads Clarion had ever seen. A tiered stand showcased an impressive display of tarts, some filled with thin rounds of squash and tomato, others with slivers of apricots and blackberries. Beside it was a bowl of watermelon gazpacho, garnished with a sprig of mint and a drizzle of olive oil. There was even a plum cake, with pockets of jam that smelled of cardamom and cinnamon.

Everything burst with the colors and scents of summer. It evoked pure joy—or it should have. Looking at it all made Clarion feel oddly cold. How could she sit here planning a party after what she had seen in Winter? So many fairies depended on her to save them. But right now, Aurelia sat before her with something like anticipation in her expression.

Clarion forced herself to smile as she took her place across from Aurelia. “Everything looks incredible.”

Aurelia relaxed some. “We can make any adjustments you’d like.”

Clarion stared down at the spread. She hardly knew where to begin—and hardly knew how she would manage to get through this, when stress had stolen most of her appetite. Still, she filled her plate with a small sample of each dish and began to eat without tasting much of anything.

Halfway through her first mouthful, Aurelia let out a sigh. “Your Highness, is something the matter? I can see that you’re somewhere else.”

Clarion swallowed without fully chewing. “No, nothing.”

Aurelia fixed her with an assessing golden stare. “The same thing that kept you from our meeting, perhaps?”

She winced. “It’s just…everything is happening too quickly.”

Each day, coronation loomed larger over her, and she felt more and more as though she could not keep her commitments to everyone. Time slipped through her fingers. And now, she feared not even her closest relationships were solid anymore.

“Ah.” Aurelia grew pensive. “Especially on the Mainland, summer is a season of opposites—a time where you want to do nothing and do everything. Humans are equally likely to spend an entire day lying in the grass as to stay up all night dancing beneath the stars. The heat has that effect on them.”

How she wished she had such luxury. “I see.”

“What I mean to say, I suppose, is that summer encourages us to savor our time, in whichever way we choose to.”

Clarion lowered her eyes to her plate and absently pushed a tart with her fork. Perhaps it was sound advice, but she could think of no way to apply it. There was far too much pressure and far too much at stake for her. “I’m finding it difficult to savor this time.”

Aurelia frowned at her. “Like summer, this brief moment before you ascend the throne is fleeting. Think of it, then, as a time to be awake to what you want—and who you want to become.”

I’ve always wanted things I shouldn’t, she’d told Milori once.

But now, she wasn’t so certain. When she allowed herself to dream, she thought of Pixie Hollow, united and safe. She thought of the warmth of Winter, where respect did not mean distance. She thought of Milori.

Those moments of freedom and happiness had felt something like power. What would it be like if she got out of her own way? If she trusted her instincts? If she did what felt right, not what she had been taught? Conviction felt like sunlight, illuminating her from within. Maybe her heart had never really steered her wrong.

That evening, Clarion returned to the border. Here, sitting cross-legged on the bridge between Spring and Winter, she could feel the barest whisper of the cold over her skin—and the snow-laced breeze winding itself around her wrist. It felt as though it beckoned her closer, inviting her to drift over the pale grass, frozen stiff with lacy hoarfrost. She’d never escape the pull of it now that she’d experienced firsthand what a magical place it was—one where there were libraries carved from ice and mountains you could traverse by sled and fairies who made friends of wolves.

How sad that no other warm fairy had experienced what she had.

Clarion shivered when she sensed another presence. When she looked up, she caught the exact moment Milori began descending from his flight. Clearly, some part of her was attuned to him—or perhaps sought him out. He landed delicately on the earth beside her, the glow shed from his wings silvering the snow like moonlight. This time, she did not admonish herself for the answering lurch of her heart.

What harm was there in allowing herself this?

“You’re back.” It warmed her to see his pleasantly surprised expression and know he had looked forward to this meeting as much as she had.

“I did promise I’d be here tonight,” Clarion countered. “Besides, Yarrow told me you could teach me to skate. I have to come back for that.”

“Did she?” Surprise flickered across his features, before he schooled them into composure. “I imagine that’s because she didn’t see you fall off your sled. Who knows what will happen when we put you on the ice?”

Clarion glared at him, but she found she could not muster much heat at the twinkling in his eyes. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground beside her. They sat almost knee to knee in the darkness, close enough to touch. The very thought prickled along her skin like electricity. Ridiculous, she scolded herself. They’d been far closer than this last night. But then, that had been out of necessity. Somehow, this felt far more vulnerable. Especially when he was looking at her like this. Clarion could not name what exactly she saw there, but it made a terrible longing rise up within her.

“I’ll teach you one day.” His voice was low, almost wistful, as though he’d lost himself in a reverie. It took a moment for Clarion to recall what they’d been discussing.

“I’ll hold you to it,” she said, only a little breathlessly.

Milori traced the very edge of her sleeve. “How is your arm?”

“Fine.” Clarion pulled the fabric to her elbow and turned her arm over. She’d removed the dressing earlier and had been shocked; the wound beneath looked days older than it was. No swelling, no complications. She offered him a teasing smile. “You should put more faith in your healers.”

He huffed out a breath. “I do. But I’m aware of how lucky we are it was only a minor wound. If anything worse had happened…”

“Milori.” Clarion reached across the border and rested her hand on his forearm. He went terribly still, then raised his eyes to hers. Her glow bathed his face in gold and set his pale eyes ablaze. For a moment, she was acutely aware of the sensation of his skin, cool and smooth against her own—and of the bitter cold of winter, like another comforting hand laid atop hers. The thought made her chest ache.

“Please don’t blame yourself,” she continued. “It was my choice to cross. I knew the dangers. And even if I had been seriously injured, it would have been my fault—not yours.”

Just like it was her fault what happened to Rowan. She breathed through the sudden rush of shame.

“That isn’t true,” he protested.

“It is. If I had a better handle on my magic, we wouldn’t be in such a precarious position. No one would be trapped in a nightmare. Neither of our realms would have to worry. But I don’t, and so I can’t save anyone.” She had not known these feelings were so close to the surface. She could not bear to look up at him with them pouring out of her. Now that she had opened the floodgate, she found she could not stop herself from giving voice to them. “What kind of queen will I be? I am the only fairy in the entirety of Pixie Hollow who can’t do the one thing she was born to do.”

Milori laid his hand over hers, chasing away the familiar chill of the air. She hadn’t realized she’d begun digging her fingers into his arm. She certainly hadn’t realized how close she had come to weeping. Slowly, she loosened her grip on him, and she was left with nothing but the blunted edge of her despair. After a moment, he let her go, and Clarion withdrew her arm to the warmth of Spring. The lack of contact felt more like a loss than it ought.

“You mustn’t blame yourself for things beyond your control,” Milori said.

She laughed thickly, blinking through the rheum of tears that threatened to spill. She swiped her fingertips beneath her eyes. “You can’t just turn my advice back on me. Not until you take it yourself.”

“In that case, I retract it.” He smiled, just barely. “You’re not the talentless queen you believe yourself to be. You can use your magic, even if it isn’t to your standards. I saw it myself.”

“So rarely,” Clarion protested. “Besides, I’m barely conscious of it when I do manage to wield it. That hardly counts.”

“Start there, then.”

Clarion let out a startled laugh. “Are you really going to give me a magic lesson?”

“Humor me.” He angled himself toward her, drawing one knee into his chest. “What do you feel in those moments?”

“In the moments it comes easiest?” Clarion sighed, leaning back onto the palms of her hands. She tipped her head back toward the sky and watched the light slowly drain. “Fear. During the Nightmare attack in Autumn, it came to me in an instant.”

Milori leaned forward, intrigued. “And when it slips away from you?”

Where exactly was he going with this?

“I remember myself. I remember to master my fear. To control my will and shape it. Drawing on my power, I think, is easy. It’s molding it into anything useful…” She trailed off at his expression, caught somewhere between incredulous and concerned. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“It’s nothing.” He hesitated. “It’s only that it seems to me that trying to suppress your fear is hindering you. In fact, you seem to access your power easiest when you’re trying to protect others—when you’re afraid for others but brave enough to act.”

He was giving her another meaningful look—one that seemed to say, That is the kind of queen you will be. Clarion averted her eyes. He had an inconvenient knack for challenging her worst opinions of herself. He made her sound almost noble.

“Maybe.” She frowned. “But that’s what Elvina told me I should do. She said that our power is easiest to access when your mind is clear.”

“Perhaps she conceptualizes it differently than you do.” Milori held out a hand. In an instant, the very air before him began to sparkle. Delicate ice crystals glimmered in the sunset, swirling and coalescing into an orb of ice in his palm. “No one taught me to do this. That is the case for most winter fairies. I don’t say that to confirm what you fear, but…Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but it’s possible that advice might have done you more harm than good. You already know how to harness your magic. All fairies do. What would happen if you let go of what she told you?”

Stubborn resistance flared to life within her. Elvina wouldn’t have misled her. At least, not intentionally. All Clarion’s life, Elvina had been the image of a perfect queen—everything she knew she should model herself after. Naturally, that extended to the way she wielded her magic. But Milori’s assessment made a terrible kind of sense. Every time Clarion tried to control whatever spark of magic she’d clawed from the wellspring of starlight within her, the walls in her mind slammed down. It baffled her that someone who had known her for such a brief period of time had pierced to the heart of her.

Think of it as a time to be awake to what you want—and who you want to become.

“I’m not sure how.”

“It will come to you,” he said. “You were made for this.”

His reassurance made that voice within her—that nasty self-doubt that had plagued her for weeks—settle and fall quiet. “Encouraging,” she replied. “But hardly practical.”

Milori considered it for a moment. “You said your magic comes to you most easily when you’re afraid. Maybe it’s not fear —but when you’re fully immersed in a moment, whether it’s positive or negative.”

“You’re suggesting I stop thinking so much?”

He smiled that wry little smile again. With a curl of his fingers, the orb of ice in his hand shattered into a fine dusting of frost. It sparkled against his skin until the wind carried it away. “Something like that.”

It wasn’t a terrible theory. “You want me to try now?”

“If you’d like,” he said.

Why not? She had nowhere else she wanted to be.

Clarion closed her eyes and tried to—No, she could not try . That rather defeated the purpose, when the entire point of the exercise was to simply be. And yet, it was so difficult to be fully present when she could feel Milori there. Self-consciousness would make this entirely impossible. She opened her eyes again, prepared to tell him she couldn’t manage it, when the sight of him silenced her every protest.

He was gazing at her like she was something to marvel at. His expression went soft and unguarded when he noticed her staring back at him, as though he hadn’t expected to be caught but did not mind it overmuch. There was no mistaking the wide-open yearning in his eyes. He had looked at her like this once before, she realized: the very first time she’d crossed into Winter. She wondered exactly how long he had wanted to kiss her—and felt very foolish, indeed, for being so oblivious.

And yet, Milori sat as if frozen.

Snow fell only an inch away from her in a glittering, tantalizing whirl. This close to the border—to him—her breath was a soft plume of white in the air. Clarion shifted closer, until the cold washed over one shoulder, then the shell of her ear. It was a strange sensation: half of her safe in the warm seasons, half of her nipped with cold. Carefully, almost reverently, she let her fingertips trace the line of his jaw and tipped his face toward hers. The space she held between them was a question—one he answered readily. His hand came to cradle the side of her neck, and although his touch chilled her skin, warmth flooded through her.

Clarion leaned fully into Winter and kissed him.

As his lips moved against hers, something bubbled up within her like spring water until it spilled over completely. Happiness, she thought, far purer than any she had ever felt—and magic. She felt it trilling in her bones and weaving through her fingertips, eager to apply itself. This time, it did not feel like something she had to master. It felt like a river—like a deep and inexhaustible well. It flowed forth until her entire body radiated a soft golden light.

Milori drew back, just barely. His forehead rested against hers as they shared the same tremulous breath. Her eyes fluttered open, and she would have sworn that the stars above them shone brighter. Their brilliance was reflected in the pale gray of his eyes—and sparkled all around them, as though the constellations had been drawn down to earth. Pixie dust glimmered on her eyelashes and the sleeves of her gown. It danced joyfully through the air and gathered in Milori’s hair like snowfall, painting all the world in gold.

Had she done this?

When he spoke, his voice was low and full of wonder. “You’re incredible.”

For perhaps the first time, she believed it.