Chapter 12
“Well,” Weaver said. “This is a hitch in the plan.”
He and Periwinkle stared at the crowd gathered on Mistletoe Terrace. Dozens—scores—of fairies and animals were spread out through the trees, eating, drinking, and talking.
And they were all in Weaver and Periwinkle’s way.
There was nothing beyond Mistletoe Terrace but Snowcap Glade and the Drift. Snowcap Glade was basically empty. And the Drift was actually empty. If the two of them flew past Mistletoe Terrace without stopping first, someone would have questions.
And they were already on thin ice. Weaver had only gotten out of work that morning by telling Floss he was “tired of everyone” and he’d go in that evening.
As surly and quiet as he’d been the day before, Periwinkle figured Floss was used to him announcing things like this.
She was just hoping Floss wouldn’t notice she was missing, too—or that, at the very least, she wouldn’t think to mention it to Lord Milori.
But the excuse would only work for them once. If they were going to go looking for the Bobbin Wood workshop, they had to do it now.
“You know,” Periwinkle said, “it doesn’t have to be a problem. We could just join them for a bit.”
Legs had been sitting happily on Weaver’s collar since Weaver had gotten him from the workshop that morning.
But at Periwinkle’s suggestion, the spider dropped straight into his pocket.
Weaver drew back, grimacing like she’d suggested they walk to the workshop on their hands. “I don’t do brunch, Periwinkle.”
She gaped. “What could you possibly have against brunch?”
“The problem isn’t brunch food items,” he said pointedly. “The problem is the kind of people who like to show up late for breakfast and stay there too long.”
Periwinkle loved brunch. She, Gliss, and Spike had standing brunch plans every other Sunday at their favorite out-of-the-way café in Chilly Falls.
Blizz’s Bistro served the fluffiest waffles in the Winter Woods, and Periwinkle had every intention of starting up her dates with her friends again right after everyone got back.
“You have to understand that I take this personally,” she said. And really, the brunch set out in Mistletoe Terrace looked to die for.
She and Weaver had eaten a bite when he’d come over early that morning. But that had been a matter of toast with jam over Periwinkle’s kitchen sink, nothing compared to the spread laid out on the tables. Besides that, it had been a strange night.
The moon had been well on its way across the sky when Periwinkle had woken up from her nightmare and found Weaver still there, the storybook open on his pallet, one starcatcher hovering dimly above him as he collected her dreams and nightmares.
Periwinkle had tried to explain everything about the Pixie Dust Tree and the race with her friends so quickly that she hadn’t made any sense.
And then she’d remembered.
“I was Selene,” she’d gasped. There had been more, she knew, but that was the point that had lodged itself like an icicle between her ribs.
“Selene?” Weaver had frowned. “Did you know her?”
Periwinkle had shaken her head. “Not really. I mean, we all knew of her, but—no, I didn’t know her well. I probably dreamed about her because her name’s come up lately.”
She’d done her best to ignore the knot tightening in her stomach—to forget how, after racing through the skies as Selene, she’d watched the Pixie Dust Tree shatter like glass.
It was Weaver who’d helped her back to sleep, strangely enough. Before he’d left, he’d reminded her quietly that her dream had been just that. That her friends were safe, far away on the Mainland.
Just now, though, she kind of wished they were here with her at brunch.
“This could be a good thing for our cover, you know,” she said. “Joining in with everyone else for a while before we sneak into the forest is better than Lord Milori wondering why neither of us has been to a single Frost Festival event.”
Weaver dragged his hands down his face and groaned.
“You’re right,” he finally said. “I know you’re right. We’ll do it.”
Periwinkle laughed. “It’s brunch, Weaver, not a rescue mission from a dragon’s cave.” But he clearly didn’t agree.
“Listen,” she said, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “Like you said last night, we can’t afford to waste time, so we won’t stay forever. We eat something, we make light conversation, and then we dash.” She paused, giving him a large, encouraging grin. “Ready to party?”
Weaver huffed a laugh, hanging his head. When he finally looked back up at Periwinkle, he looked pained, but his mouth was almost smiling.
“Why is it impossible to say no to you?” he asked. Then he sighed. “You know me, Sparkles. I’m always ready to party.”
The fairies had built a pavilion of mistletoe, its leaves and berries gleaming in the light of the mooncatchers beneath its canopy.
Between icicle plinths showcasing pieces by the art-talents ran four long wooden tables, their tops coated in lace-patterned frost that must have taken days to plan and create.
Fairies hovered around the tables or sat in chairs with their backs draped in mistletoe leaves, helping themselves to platters at the tables’ centers piled with miniature quiches, potato pancakes, pastries—Periwinkle’s stomach growled.
A little way off, white rabbits and badgers loped around dishes of carrots and cucumbers laid out especially for them, and cardinals nibbled at bird feeders in the trees overhead.
“Just a few minutes,” Weaver muttered to himself. “This is fine.”
But as the two of them flittered casually into the trees, a shriek cut through the chatter. Weaver winced and put a hand over one ear. Periwinkle whirled, then sagged in relief. “Mitsy!”
“Periwinkle!” Mitsy squealed. The decorating-talent zipped toward them, ponytail flying. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
Periwinkle laughed. The two of them linked elbows and flew the rest of the way to the tables, leaving Weaver to skulk along behind them.
“I didn’t know I was coming either, to be honest,” she said to Mitsy.
“It was a last-minute thing. But this is beautiful.” Periwinkle served herself from a platter of potato pancakes and from another of cardamom knots, then touched up the frost on a pitcher of cinnamon-clove tea.
She looked longingly down the table as she poured herself a glass, thinking it was a shame she didn’t have time to taste everything.
“I know! They did great work,” Mitsy said, popping a bit of raspberry into her mouth.
She seemed about to sit down, but when she noticed Periwinkle still standing, she propped her hip against one of the mistletoe-covered chairs instead.
“Speaking of parties, I’ve been waiting to hear all about yours from the other night.
You know, the exclusive one you said you were going to?
Who exactly got a snowflake invite? Was it fun?
” Mitsy lowered her voice, tipping her head significantly so her shiny ponytail swung to one side. “Or were you bored without Fletcher?”
“Bored without Fletcher?” Weaver appeared at Periwinkle’s elbow, smirking.
Mitsy nodded energetically. “Everyone knows he and Periwinkle are meant to be—and their looks complement incredibly well.”
“Wow.” Weaver took a long drink of his own iced tea. “So that connection runs deep, huh?”
Mitsy looked indignant. “I’m a decorator,” she said.
“Hazard of the job. You may think it sounds trivial, but no one’s happy about a decorator who doesn’t understand aesthetics.
Not that anyone’s complaining about your aesthetic, so you can calm down,” she added, gesturing at Weaver with an eye roll.
Weaver looked to Periwinkle and fake-gasped. “Did you hear that? No one’s complaining about my aesthetic. I—”
Periwinkle stuffed a mini quiche in his mouth before he could say anything else.
For a second he gaped at her, wide-eyed as his jaw worked around the food, but Periwinkle just patted him on the cheek and turned back to Mitsy.
“You’re right. It’s been really hard without Fletcher,” she said, laying a hand over her heart and finding it was racing a little.
“The Frost Festival has been such a nice distraction.”
“I’m sure.” Mitsy nodded sympathetically. “It’s nice to have so much to celebrate. Oh, did you go to the snowball fight last night?”
Periwinkle thought of racing through the snow with Weaver the night before. Not just of their snowball fight, but of their argument, and everything he’d said to her afterward.
Of the moment she’d promised him honesty, even if it wasn’t pretty.
When she glanced back at Weaver, he’d finished choking down his quiche, and he was looking at her, too. “We did,” he said politely to Mitsy, stifling his smile. “How about you?”
“Of course!” Mitsy tossed her hair. “I was on Ginger and Ursa’s team. Our base wasn’t far from here, actually—”
Beneath the cover of the table, Periwinkle reached for Weaver’s hand.
Weaver glanced over sharply, startled. But he didn’t let go.
When he squeezed her fingers, Periwinkle felt the slide of his palm against hers like a lightning strike.
A second later, Mitsy turned away to pour herself another drink, and Periwinkle nodded her head toward the edge of the pavilion.
Now, she mouthed silently, and she and Weaver darted toward the other side of the terrace to hide behind an oak tree.
When Periwinkle looked back at Mitsy, she found her enthusiastically hugging another party guest.
She only realized she was still holding Weaver’s hand when Weaver’s thumb brushed her knuckles. Abruptly, she tugged her fingers free.
“You’re totally right. I get it now,” Weaver said around another mini quiche, raising his eyebrows. “Brunch is great.”
“Is that—did you put more of them in your pockets?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “One of them’s for Legs.”
Periwinkle shook her head. “Forget it,” she said, and gave a breathy laugh. Her palm was still tingling. “Let’s go.”
Then they took off toward Snowcap Glade—and the Drift.