Chapter 14
Floss’s workshop was quiet when Periwinkle showed up.
There were no fairies fulling or dyeing material in the sinks. The looms were quiet, and the dress forms stood alone, like dancers in a ballet that hadn’t started yet.
There was only Weaver alone at his workbench, and a few suncatchers hovering overhead. He stood with his back to her, spinning on a spindle, a pencil behind his ear and the usual measuring tape tucked behind his collar.
Periwinkle had watched the spinning fairies yesterday, and they’d taught her all the names and the steps for what they did.
She knew the spindle had a disc called a whorl on one end with a hook attached to it, and that with every flick Weaver gave the spindle he was putting twist into the new bits of fiber he’d added.
Once he’d spun enough thread, he’d wrap it around the rod of the spindle and add more fiber and make more thread, until he’d collected all the fiber off the distaff holding it.
But Weaver wasn’t all those other spinning fairies, and there was something different about seeing him work in private.
About being able to watch his wrists and forearms as he rolled the spindle against his outer thigh and then loosed it, or watch his fingers as they ran expertly over the fresh yarn, without wondering if anyone was watching her while she did.
When he was finally done, Weaver bent backward with his hands on his hips, then stretched out his arms and rolled his wrists and neck and shoulders. Shadows and light from the suncatchers slid over his pale skin as his muscles shifted underneath.
Periwinkle bit her lip, unable to look away, heart beating inexplicably quickly.
When she bumped into a box of tiny crystal beads beside her and scattered them all over the floor, Weaver gave a huge start and stared around for the source of the noise. Periwinkle, of course, threw herself to the ground.
Not to hide—obviously!—although being invisible for a second hardly felt like a drawback. The beads were everywhere, barely visible except as tiny twinkles in the dark, and she flailed and stretched to reach them under tables and chairs.
“Sparkles?” Weaver’s voice cut through the dim workshop before he crossed it himself. When he crouched beside Periwinkle on the floor, she couldn’t look at him.
This had been a mistake. Weaver was clearly busy; she should’ve just stayed home and let him work. Periwinkle squinted at the floor, trying desperately to pry a stuck bead from between the cedar floorboards.
“Sparkles.”
His voice was patient; Periwinkle’s face burned anyway. She wished this were a dream and she could wake up. Legs skittered over gleefully, hopping onto her shoulder.
“Hi, Legs—ow.” A sharp-edged crystal bead pressed itself unhelpfully into her knee.
“Periwinkle.” Weaver reached out a hand and stopped her. “What are you doing here?”
His palm was only resting on her wrist. But Periwinkle’s pulse jumped at the brush of his thumb, the softness of his voice.
He almost never used her real name.
“The door wasn’t locked or anything,” she said defensively.
Weaver raised an eyebrow. “It’s usually not.” He watched her, waiting to hear whatever she had to say, and Periwinkle eventually made herself meet his eyes.
But she couldn’t say it. She couldn’t tell him that she knew he was hiding because of what had happened in the Bobbin Wood workshop. Because they had shared—something.
She went back to collecting the scattered beads. Weaver brushed a few tiny crystals off his palms into the box, then stood and made his way back to his station. When Periwinkle was done, she followed him.
Whatever Weaver had been working on at his bench before, he’d thrown a cover over it when he’d spotted her, and now he was busy weaving.
His long fingers pushed the shuttle up and down through the purple warp thread on the loom, left to right, right to left, before tamping it all down with his comb.
Legs jumped off Periwinkle’s shoulder and began building a little web high on the frame as she fluttered closer to watch Weaver work.
He moved more like a music-talent conducting a band than a crafting-talent, she thought; back and forth with the shuttle, up and down with the comb. His grace was practiced, skillful, and the material took shape on the loom like music flowing out of an instrument.
Periwinkle had really meant to let him be the one to speak first. But he was too calm, and she was on edge, and she couldn’t resist the urge to push him. When Weaver glanced significantly at her over his shoulder, the words finally burst out of her.
“You never showed tonight,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. We have work to do, and you keep disappearing.”
Immediately, his expression shuttered. “You knew I had to catch up on orders,” he said.
“I told Floss I’d be in tonight instead of this morning, and I’ve got a backlog for the First Frost Ball.
” Finished at the loom, Weaver lifted the material from its frame and took it to an empty dress form, where his careful fingers shaped the flax into a cloak beneath an acorn-cap collar, one pin at a time.
“That’s not why you’re still here.”
“If you don’t believe me, check out my order log—”
“You panicked!” Periwinkle had blurted out the words before she could stop herself.
“Today was special—no, incredible. And something happened with us, and we both know it.” She could hear the shake in her voice; she knew Weaver could hear it, too.
But she didn’t stop. “You’re not just in here working. You are hiding from me.”
“I never said we should be friends,” he said vehemently. “I said I needed your help. But I never said I wanted anything with you.”
Periwinkle lifted her chin and clenched her fists at her sides. Her hands were trembling. “Don’t you?” she asked.
It was a dare. And when Weaver met her eyes, she saw dread of it there, mingled with something low and longing.
Dread of the job in front of them?
Or of her?
“Sparkles.” He stepped away from the dress form, wiping his hands on his pant legs, throat bobbing.
“Stop calling me that. Stop pretending this is a joke, or that I’m imagining it all,” she said. “Because it’s not. I’m not.”
He shook his head, wordless now.
He was asking her to leave him alone, and begging her not to.
“What?” she demanded. “What, Weaver?”
He wet his lips. When he spoke, his voice was pleading. A warning. “You’re going to ruin everything.”
But still, he reached for her.
His hands seemed instinctively to go for her shoulders, palms flexing against the contact with her skin. Periwinkle’s breath hitched as she let him draw her closer.
When Weaver pressed his forehead against hers, thumbing her right collarbone, she felt like she’d stepped into a snowstorm. Still, her own hands reached for the feather-soft lapel of his waistcoat.
“I am only going to hurt you,” he breathed. “Periwinkle, I am warning you. I cause problems for people. That’s all I know how to do.”
Periwinkle slid her trembling fingers into his curls, felt Weaver sigh through her hair. “You forget I’ve been alone with you in the dark,” she said almost against his throat, echoing his words from the night before. “And I know you’re not as cruel as you think you are.”
Weaver looked down at her, hesitating, eyes tortured. Periwinkle watched him steadily as she gave a small, certain nod.
He didn’t wait any longer after that.
Weaver’s mouth came down on hers like he’d been holding himself back for longer than he could bear, and Periwinkle rushed up toward him, fingers still knitted into his hair, heart beating so hard it hurt.
She was overwhelmed by him, the impatience and hunger of his kiss while his touch was still so unbearably gentle.
His hands slid clumsily from her shoulders to her wrists to the small of her back, uncertain and lacking their usual grace as he began to trace the length of her spine.
Weaver hadn’t practiced this. But he’d clearly thought about it.
Goose bumps prickled over Periwinkle’s skin.
Suddenly, though, Weaver sucked in a breath and pulled away, resting his head on her shoulder, hands braced on the table behind her. “This is such a terrible idea,” he mumbled. “We are both going to regret it, and it is killing me.”
“You’ve got to quit running away,” Periwinkle said softly, voice shaking. “You don’t always need a way out.” She skimmed a gentle hand over his hair, turning her head just a little so he would look up at her.
When he finally did, his eyes were impossibly soft and entirely focused on her, like she could tell him to do anything, and he’d do it. When he put the pad of his thumb on her chin, Periwinkle thought for a second she might tell him to kiss her again.
“You’ve got work to do tonight,” she said finally. “Let me help you get it done.”
“I know.” Weaver sighed. “I have to finish this, but we’ve also got to go find the Sapphire Mine. Now that we’ve seen the Bobbin Wood workshop, I need to know what else is out there.”
“Let me help you,” she urged him again. “Then, in the morning, I can go find out where the Sapphire Mine is, and we can leave.”
“How are you going to help?” Weaver teased as he straightened, smiling at her weakly. “All you’ve done since you came in is berate me and knock over that box of beads.”
Periwinkle bit back a grin. “Berate you, knock over that box of beads, and kiss you.”
“Technically, I think I kissed you.” Weaver gave a cough and tugged at his collar, blushing a little. “Still not sure that’s going to help me get my work done.”
“Well, I can…hold things. Work the weaving comb. Carry supplies. Make you tea.” She reached out to twine their fingers together, and Weaver hesitated only a second before he let her.
“You know, I’d never kissed anyone before tonight,” Periwinkle said quietly.
“Kind of unbelievable, considering how many people would’ve gladly volunteered to help you out.” He let out a dazed, helpless laugh. “I hadn’t, either, though. Are you sure it’s not your secret second talent?”
Periwinkle gave a nervous giggle that turned into a cackle and clapped her free hand over her mouth. “I still can’t believe Trim asked me to ask you out for her.”
“I can’t believe you acted like you were fine with it!” Weaver exclaimed. “Oh, I was so mad. I thought I was—I thought you didn’t—well.” He broke off, swinging their hands a little between them. Neither of them said anything for a moment.
“Say I can stay and help you,” Periwinkle finally said, “and that we’ll go tomorrow.”
Weaver hung his head, bringing their joined hands to his cheek. When he looked back at her, his dark eyes were completely defenseless. “You can stay,” he said. “And we’ll go tomorrow.”
Weaver worked all night, and Periwinkle, at the very least, didn’t slow him down.
She held his pincushion and thread for him first, trying pointlessly not to stare at the careful angles of his wrists while he stitched the purple cloak to its collar.
Next, she held a basket of birch-bark curls while he shaped them into a tiered gown on another dress form, then picked out the sparkliest blue jewels from a box of tiny gems for him to stitch across the gown’s papery white surface.
Periwinkle talked as he worked, frosting and re-frosting his glass of tea, blushing when he finally laughed out loud at one of her jokes.
And when Weaver mentioned his head ached and he fell asleep for a few minutes on his workbench, Periwinkle sat with her elbows propped on her knees and watched the breeze slipping in from under the door play with his hair.
She couldn’t believe she’d finally gotten to touch his hair.
She’d kissed him, and it had been sweet and terrifying and thrilling. It had been a kind of magic she’d never felt before.
As Periwinkle watched over Weaver’s sleep, tiny wisps of dream—some peridot and rose and aquamarine, some light gray or mauve—appeared like a crown around his head.
She wished she could see what he was dreaming.
Periwinkle startled, though, when Weaver made a noise of frustration. Thinking he might be waking up, she reached for the cup of tea she’d made him, ready to hand it over. But he only made another vague, unhappy sound, stretching for something without actually moving.
When Weaver let out a groan, Legs leapt from his shoulder to capture one of the dusty purple dreams haloing his hair and carry it away.
It looked much lighter than Periwinkle’s nightmares always did. But as she watched the spider’s eight legs wrap it in a ball of spider silk, Periwinkle couldn’t help putting a hand to her heart. She crouched to the spider’s eye level and stroked his back as he finished his strange little cocoon.
“Oh, Legs,” she said softly. Because she knew what he’d done.
Legs had protected Weaver. And he’d done it by trapping his nightmare.