Chapter 19
Weaver read the dream journal again and again, and he was so obviously comforted by it that Periwinkle tried to be comforted, herself. But it felt wrong to be in the workshop with its glitter so dimmed, and once the fear left her body, Periwinkle felt completely drained.
She and Weaver had come to this place to get the spindle, and they’d found it, and more. But then she’d made a mistake. She couldn’t stop looking at the shaft entrance, where she’d brought everything crashing down.
Periwinkle didn’t know if they’d make it out of the workshop in time. She didn’t know if they’d make it out at all.
While she drifted around, feeling lost, Weaver found a bolt of soft woven gold propped against a wall and made two pallets as far as possible from the collapsed shaft.
Legs hopped out of his pocket and up onto the wall beside them, his glow brightening their corner of the room just a little as Weaver darkened all but one of the starcatchers.
“We’ll light them again tomorrow while we find our way out,” he said as he lay down across from her. “Floss is going to have a fit when I don’t show up in the morning.”
Like it would be so easy to get out. Like being late to Floss’s was really their biggest worry. Despite Legs’s dream light, the dark felt heavy around them as Periwinkle tucked in her wings and curled up on her side.
“This is all my fault,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“None of this is your fault,” Weaver said firmly. “We both heard things moving underground before we got started, and I should’ve realized what all those sounds meant. This place was already ready to fall apart when we got here—”
“And yet somehow it was still standing until I showed up!” Periwinkle rolled to face him, fists clenched in frustration.
“I broke this place. And even if we make it back with the spindle in time…” A feeling welled up in her chest, heavy as the melted ice in the border river, so acidic and ugly she hardly recognized it.
It was doubt.
Periwinkle had told Weaver a few days earlier she didn’t know they had cynics in Pixie Hollow. She’d felt so confident then that she could cure him of it altogether.
“We’ve got this plan,” Periwinkle said slowly.
“But what if my dreams aren’t enough? My nightmares are dark, and I have seen things in them.
And I’m afraid that I—” She broke off, forcing her eyes shut, forcing herself to take a deep breath.
“Is this how you feel all the time?” she asked.
“Afraid to hope for anything? Or so done with trying to trust that you refuse even to let yourself hope?”
“I used to,” he said quietly. Periwinkle bit her lip and let her eyes fall closed. Slowly, Weaver lifted a hand to her cheek.
“Listen to me. We have the tools we need. I am going to spin your dreams as soon as we are back home—and we are going to get home,” he said firmly, raising a hand to cut off the interruption she’d just opened her mouth to make.
He paused then, swallowing hard. “Then, tomorrow night during the First Frost Ball, once we’ve seen Lord Milori is there and he’s occupied, we’re going to take your dream-thread to the Pixie Dust Root and heal it.
Everything is going to be fine. You don’t have to—agh.
” Weaver winced, pressing his fingers to his temples.
Periwinkle frowned. “I thought you were seeing a healer for your headaches,” she said. “Is it not helping?”
Weaver gritted his teeth, shaking his head. “Dougal’s done his best, and it’s helped a little. But he thinks my headaches are from not using my real talent often enough. I told him about me,” he added.
Periwinkle blinked at him, surprised. “Dougal is your healer?” she asked. Then an awful realization struck her. “Did you know Selene?”
“I did. She was a good friend to me,” he said, and for a moment, Weaver looked like he was somewhere else.
“She was a fast-flier—the fastest. Completely fearless. She thought fast, acted fast. But in her friendships, she never left anyone behind.” He gave her a taut smile then, seeming to come back to himself.
“I wish I’d appreciated her more before we lost her. ”
“You never told me you were friends.”
He shrugged. “You never asked.”
Weaver almost sounded apologetic—but it was Periwinkle who felt horribly guilty. She lay back down on her pallet then, stiff and uncertain, feeling the distance between them. “I’m sorry,” she said.
Just how many fairies had Periwinkle failed to properly get to know? And how much else was she missing about the ones she claimed were her friends?
“What’s wrong?” Weaver asked. Periwinkle’s voice was very quiet when she answered.
“When we met, you thought I was this selfish popular girl, and I thought you were being incredibly harsh and unfair. I was convinced I had all these things to show you. How to open up. How to have fun. How to believe in magic.” Periwinkle swallowed miserably, fighting the crack in her voice.
“And instead all I’ve done is find doubt all on my own and prove to you that I’m just as self-centered as you thought I was.
All while you were grieving a friend, and I had no idea. ”
“You’re wrong,” Weaver said.
“I wish I were.” She hadn’t meant to let the tears into her voice, but there they were.
“So many winter fairies know me, and I can’t even be bothered to remember their names.
And you—Weaver, one of your friends died.
And we’ve spent the whole week together, and we’ve… ” Periwinkle’s voice trailed off.
“Kissed?” Weaver supplied helpfully.
“Yes!” she burst out. “We’ve kissed. And I didn’t even know this terrible thing had happened to someone you cared about. To you.”
Weaver’s eyes softened. “You need to sleep,” he said, brushing the hair off her forehead. “Everything looks worse when you’re tired. Trust me, I would know. Try to get some rest.”
If he wanted her to rest, touching her skin was hardly the answer. Goose bumps rose over Periwinkle’s arms. “I can’t.”
“Now,” he said. “Sleep. Go to sleep.”
“You can’t just boss me around to sleep.” She sniffled. “Why can’t you be nice to me?”
“If you wanted nice, you should’ve stuck with Fletcher.”
Periwinkle gave a startled, damp laugh. Her cheek was wet and sort of sticking to her pallet. But she didn’t want to move.
“See?” Weaver raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want nice. Fletcher was nice to everyone. How could you have actually known if he really liked you?”
Periwinkle’s eyes sank shut. “I think it was the fourth time he asked me out that finally clued me in.”
“You let that poor sparrow man ask you out four times?”
“More than that, I think, if you want to get technical,” Periwinkle said sleepily. Weaver gave a long, low whistle.
“I take it back,” he said. “It’s not that you don’t want nice, Sparkles. It’s just that no one nice would survive you.” He paused, looking grim. “Not that I’m going to, either,” he seemed to say.
But Periwinkle couldn’t be sure. With Weaver’s hand stroking her hair away from her forehead, she was finally drifting off to sleep.