8
A ll week, Clarion could focus on little else but the sun inching gradually westward. In the daylight, life continued as normal. But as the afternoon frittered away to evening, dread gathered over Pixie Hollow like a storm cloud. Even Clarion found herself flinching at every distant cry of an animal. Today, she was even more painfully aware of the lengthening shadows. Because once the sun dipped below the horizon, the week Milori had offered her would be gone.
Impatience lodged itself like a splinter in her mind. Her duties had consumed her every spare minute lately, and today was no exception. During the council meeting, she stared at Rowan’s empty chair as representatives from the scouts and healers presented their updates on the Nightmares. The only words she truly absorbed were no trace and no cure . It only further confirmed what she suspected: there was nothing the warm seasons alone could do.
She needed to speak to Milori.
Her schedule was mercifully clear after this, but Artemis would no doubt prove to be an obstacle. In the wake of Elvina’s decree, she’d been particularly attentive . Any click of a lock or creak of a door, and Clarion felt the weight of the scout’s eyes like the tip of a blade pressed to her spine. If she couldn’t sneak past her, she would have to try a different tactic: asking permission. Clarion might not have known Artemis as well as she knew Petra, but she knew her values. More importantly, she knew her heart. If anyone could understand the burden of wanting to keep Pixie Hollow safe, it was her.
As soon as the meeting adjourned, Clarion determinedly ignored Elvina’s assessing stare and hurried back to her room. She unlatched her balcony doors and stepped out into the late-afternoon warmth. Artemis, predictably, was perched in the forked branches of a moss-covered tree limb, her polished wooden sword resting in the crook of her neck and shoulder. Her arms draped lazily over the knee she’d drawn into her chest. The angle of the sunlight cast half her face in shadow and set the shades of blue in her dark hair alight.
Absently, Clarion noted that the Pixie Dust Tree had sprouted a single Neverberry just above the scout’s head, as though offering her hospitality while she kept her lonely watch. Every now and again, it took notice of its inhabitants and their moods. Once, after a particularly difficult day, the branches just outside her window had blossomed riotously with golden butterfly magnolias.
“Your Highness,” Artemis said by way of greeting, her voice as coolly deferential as ever.
Clarion rested her elbows on the balcony railing, doing her very best to appear casual. It occurred to her that she so rarely did such a thing—what a concept, appearing casual —and had little idea what to do with her hands or face.
“I have a free afternoon,” she said. “I was hoping to go out.”
Artemis eyed her warily. “Where do you want to go?”
“The border of Spring and Winter?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced. She’d meant to sound confident, but it came out as more of a question.
Artemis grimaced. “I don’t think Her Majesty would like that very much.”
“No, I don’t think she would.”
Artemis seemed relieved. “Then we’re agreed.”
“ If ,” Clarion added brightly, “she knew that I went.”
Artemis straightened up, now catching on to Clarion’s game. She laid her sword across her lap and turned to her with a look on her face that could only be described as incredulous. “You want me to lie to Her Majesty for you.”
Well, that was much easier to broach than she’d expected. “If you want to put it like that…yes.”
“Surely—” As if on cue, the branch of the tree bearing the fruit drooped onto Artemis’s shoulder. Bewildered, she plucked it and stared down at it. “What is this?”
Clarion bit down on a smile. “A bribe, I think. Did it work?”
Artemis did not look impressed, nor did she dignify their antics with a reply. “Surely there’s somewhere else you might like to go.” After a moment, with a touch of hopefulness in her voice, she added: “Perhaps Tinker’s Nook?”
Clarion met her gaze with all the conviction burning bright within her. “Nowhere else would suit me better than the border.”
Artemis, clearly sensing that Clarion would not be moved with good sense, sighed deeply. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Of course.”
Artemis stood and, with a flutter of her wings, came to land gracefully on the banister. The leaves cast dappled shadows over her face. “Your Highness, my orders are to keep you safe . Given the circumstances—and frankly, knowing you—the border is the very last place I should allow you to go.”
Clarion had expected that answer. Artemis, after all, was the most duty-bound fairy she knew—and far more devoted to her than Clarion deserved. As much as it frustrated her, it touched her. Artemis would not be so strict if she didn’t care. “I wouldn’t insist if it weren’t important. Trust me.”
Artemis hesitated. Whatever she saw in Clarion’s expression must have softened her, because she sat so that they were nearly eye level again. She took a bite of the fruit and chewed thoughtfully. “What’s at the border that you want to see so badly?”
“The Warden of the Winter Woods.”
Shock flickered in Artemis’s eyes, as subtle a change as shadows passing over the moon. Warily, she asked, “Why would you want to meet with them?”
“I think he knows how to defeat the Nightmares.” Clarion frowned. “Cutting Winter off from the rest of Pixie Hollow isn’t an option. If I can save more fairies, then I have to try.”
Artemis looked more conflicted than Clarion had ever seen her. With unmistakable fondness, she said, “You always have been so stubborn.”
Hope sparked within her. “Then you’ll let me go?”
“I shouldn’t—for your own good. I am no stranger to what happens when someone leads with their heart over their head.” Artemis smiled ruefully, as if lost in some reverie. “Queen Elvina and Commander Nightshade gave me a second chance by appointing me the royal guard. If any harm befell you, I don’t know what it would cost me.”
It surprised Clarion, both Artemis’s vulnerability and her confession. Artemis had been such a steady presence, it shocked her to realize that she’d had a life before Clarion even arrived. There were things about her she did not know—and might never know. “I can’t imagine you ever leading with your heart.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Artemis.
When she looked up at Clarion again, her stoic facade was back in place. But just for a moment, Clarion had truly seen her. It all but confirmed what Clarion had long suspected. Artemis had not chosen this: the cosseted life of a queen-in-training’s personal guard. How many times had Clarion caught her staring longingly after patrols? How many times had she caught her whittling her already-sharp blade for a battle that would never come? Indeed, the most alive Clarion had ever seen her was when she shoved her out of the way of that beast.
Maybe she could imagine a reckless version of Artemis, after all. She was not the sort of fairy who could let others risk their lives—especially not if she could take on the risk herself.
“No harm will befall me,” Clarion said softly. “I swear, I would never do anything intentionally to jeopardize your position.”
Artemis raked a hand through her hair and blew out a long sigh. “If you truly believe this is the better path forward, then I trust you.”
I trust you. How long she’d yearned to hear those words. She could hardly believe them, now that she had.
“I do,” Clarion said hastily, if only to keep the emotion out of her voice.
Artemis already looked as though she regretted it. “Go, then. If Her Majesty comes looking for you, I will give your excuses.”
Clarion grabbed her free hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”
Artemis stared down at their hands with an oddly flustered expression. Then, she extricated herself and rearranged her features back into a mask of professionalism. “Just be back before full dark.”
With only a few minutes until sunset, Clarion waited on the bridge that spanned Winter and Spring. She sat on the damp moss that carpeted the root, letting her feet dangle over the water. Her reflection stared up at her, haloed by the soft aura of her wings in the gloaming. Here, despite the danger the night promised, she felt almost at peace. With the quiet burbling of the river below her and the steady snowfall on the other side of the border, it was—
“You came.”
Clarion gasped, nearly toppling into the water.
When she recovered, she looked up to find Milori standing a few feet away from her. When had he gotten there? It was as though he’d appeared out of the snow itself. She opened her mouth to speak, but something about the soft surprise on his face stole away her words. She did not know if it offended her or endeared him to her. Then again, she supposed she’d given him no reason to expect her.
It occurred to her a moment too late that she was half-sprawled on the ground, staring slack-jawed up at him. It did not help matters that he looked almost pretty in the evening light. Snowflakes had gathered on his eyelashes and sparkled against his white hair so that he seemed to be gilded with frost. Clarion sincerely hoped the heat rising in her neck did not reach her face. To be caught so undignified…it would not do.
With a flutter of her wings, Clarion straightened to her full height and hovered off the ground. Primly, she dusted the grass off her skirts. “I did,” she said. Then, more gently: “It took longer than I thought it would. I had to find out how to make it here again.”
“Of course,” he said. “You did mention your obligations the last time we spoke.”
That wry edge returned to his voice. Clarion very much resented the implication. Whatever notions he had of Pixie Hollow’s royalty, she really was quite busy. “It hasn’t been easy. I’ve been kept under lock and key, and our new curfew complicates things.”
His expression softened with concern. “A curfew?”
“Yes. We were attacked.” It felt too insufficient of an explanation for what had happened. The memory of it made her stomach curdle with dread—and guilt. If only she’d been able to stop it. “Eleven fairies have fallen into some sort of slumber. Our healers are working on reviving them, but…”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded as though he meant it. Worse, he sounded as though he believed it was his fault. “A number of winter fairies have met the same fate. We haven’t been able to develop an antidote, either.”
A terrible somberness fell over him, and Clarion had to fight back the impulse to…what, exactly? She had no comfort to offer him. But if nothing else, she could understand him. There was little worse, she thought, than being helpless when others depended on you.
Clarion smiled ruefully. “Do you still think I can help you?”
“I do.” He hesitated. “I just didn’t think you would come back. Why did you?”
“Because I want to hear your plan.” She crossed her arms to ward off the chill that emanated from the border—and from the news she had to share. “Since no one knows how to destroy the monsters, Elvina intends to trap them in Winter. She’s going to sever the bridges that bind Winter to the other seasons. You’ll still have your supply of pixie dust, but…”
Milori went as pale as the snowbanks. It felt less isolating, she thought, to see someone react with the same horror she felt. A hundred emotions and thoughts passed over his face, but in the end, all he said was “You disagree with her?”
“Of course I do. I saw the monster myself.” When she closed her eyes, she could still see the Nightmare, like an afterimage seared into her mind. She might not have been plunged into sleep, but it still tormented her dreams. “I won’t leave you to deal with them alone. I wasn’t strong enough to protect anyone, but when my magic struck it…I don’t know what happened, exactly. It seemed almost afraid. Elvina forbade me from getting involved, but I refuse to let her go through with this if I’m capable of destroying them.”
“No one in Winter has been able to drive them back,” he said, almost wonderingly. “You really could be the key.”
The key. He would not say that if he knew just how little she’d mastered of governing-talent magic.
“I don’t know about that.” She glanced away. “The only other thing I can offer is that they’re called Nightmares. Elvina at least told me that much. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “I know what they are.”
Your predecessor has not been forthcoming with you, he’d told her.
No, she certainly had not been.
Clearly mistaking her silence for betrayal, he added, “My knowledge is incomplete, but I believe the Queens of Pixie Hollow have information that I don’t. But when I realized you knew even less than I do…” He frowned, as if searching for the right words to make her understand. “There has not been much goodwill between our realms. I feared you wouldn’t trust me unless you heard it from Queen Elvina herself.”
“I understand,” she said quietly. He wasn’t wrong, she supposed. His shoulders slackened with relief. “How did you find out about them?”
“There is a frozen lake deep in the Winter Woods that has long been used to contain Nightmares.” As Clarion studied his face, she noticed just how exhausted he looked. The shadows feathered beneath his eyes suggested that he had not slept well in days. How long had he lain awake, worrying about his own subjects? “They’ve finally escaped.”
“Like a prison,” she murmured. Suddenly, the realization struck her. “Then you—”
“Yes,” he said wearily. “That’s why I’m called the Warden of the Winter Woods.”
What a heavy burden, she thought. No wonder now that he’d seemed so guilty. Did he truly believe this was his fault? Some part of her longed to reach out to smooth away the tension in his brow—to lay a reassuring hand on his arm. This was no longer his problem to shoulder alone. But she resisted the urge and instead, with a gentleness that surprised her, said, “I want to help you. Tell me how.”
A small measure of relief softened the worst of his despair. “There is a place called the Hall of Winter, where a copy of every text in Pixie Hollow is stored. It’s presided over by a fairy known as the Keeper of Fairy Knowledge. There’s a book in his collection that neither he nor I am able to read. He believes that only governing-talent magic can unlock it.”
Every text in Pixie Hollow? How spectacular. Clarion would never want for answers again. But the suggestion of her magic being the key cut through her excitement. With the little scrap of power she could summon, she was a governing-talent in name only. When it truly mattered, she would let him down. But there was no sense telling him that now.
“Easy enough.” She forced a smile. “Will you bring it to me?”
“It’s too heavy to carry. Besides, the Keeper is…” Milori grimaced, which told her far more than words ever would. He must have been a fearsome sparrow man, indeed, to inspire such deference in the Warden of the Winter Woods. “I do not know what he would do if it were exposed to the elements. It’s a very old book.”
Well, that would certainly pose challenges. “What do you suggest, then?”
Without hesitation, he replied, “You’ll need to come to Winter with me.”
Her first thought was absolutely not —and her first instinct was to laugh—but at least her training in queenly disinterest had proven effective enough to conceal her reaction. He wanted her to go to Winter with him ? It was entirely out of the question, assuming it was even possible. She could not keep the incredulity out of her voice when she said, “And how do you propose I do that?”
“The Keeper has told me that warm fairies used to cross to Winter,” Milori said uncertainly, as though he had a hard time believing it himself.
If they had, it certainly wasn’t in Elvina’s lifetime. Milori was not exaggerating when he said the Hall of Winter contained all of fairy knowledge, then. The idea that others had crossed sent a thrill through her. All the times she had wondered about the bridges’ existence and admired the carvings of Winter’s insignia throughout the palace…It made sense. Perhaps their realms truly did belong together.
“If you can find a way to protect your wings from the cold,” he said, “you should be able to cross for a brief period of time.”
Theoretically, that was true. As long as her wings remained insulated, they wouldn’t freeze. Clarion blew out a long, steadying breath. She could not believe she was even considering such a dangerous plan after the promise she had made to Artemis. But if it would protect her subjects—both in Winter and the warm seasons—she had no other choice.
“All right. I don’t know how I’ll manage it yet, but…” Before she even finished her sentence, the solution came to her. Petra. If there was one fairy she could count on to devise a clever invention, it was her.
Anticipation kindled Milori’s gray eyes. “You have an idea.”
“Yes,” she said reluctantly. It would only involve conscripting the most risk-averse fairy in the entirety of Pixie Hollow into perhaps the most ill-advised scheme Clarion had ever concocted. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask. Thank you.”
He spoke so sincerely, so hopefully , that it made her feel almost flustered. His gratitude—and the knowledge that someone was counting on her so deeply—felt like a precious thing, indeed. She wanted to hold it close. “Of course.”
He, too, must have felt the weightiness of the silence. He glanced away before breaking it. “I suppose we don’t have any way to contact each other in the meantime. If you’d like, I can continue waiting for you here at sunset.”
“Every night?” Clarion raised an eyebrow “Does no one miss you?”
He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“No one keeps track of you?” she prompted. Heat spread across her cheeks as she realized what exactly she’d said. “I mean…no one minds that you come to haunt the border of Spring like a ghost?”
“Ah.” If he was offended, it did not show. If anything, he seemed to enjoy this rapport they’d fallen into. “If the winter fairies knew that I was—what did you say, haunting the border?—then they might not be pleased. But it’s spring now, so things are quiet. Besides, who is there, really, to mind what I do? No one is above me in station but you.”
No one but you.
Her heart tripped over itself as she turned over those words. It felt as though he’d woven some spell, one that made the world narrow to this: the snow settling gently over the earth and the steadiness of his gaze on her.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—and refrained from reminding him again that she was not yet queen. She found herself hungry for more details of how exactly things worked in Winter, if only to shake off this… flutteriness . “Was there a Warden of the Winter Woods who trained you?”
He shook his head. “He left behind his notes. That’s all I had.”
“Oh.” Clarion could not imagine how difficult it would be to have to cobble things together from what someone else had left behind—and to do it entirely alone. The Seasonal Ministers in the warm seasons were the same: one faded before another arrived, the two never overlapping. But the queen served as a guiding light and a steady rock, there to help a new arrival to their feet. Here was yet another way they’d left Winter to fend for itself. Guilt sat heavy in her stomach.
Milori, clearly sensing the dark turn of her thoughts, offered her a small smile. “They were very thorough notes, rest assured.”
That startled a laugh out of her. The mental image of a newly arrived Milori, harried and riffling through a centuries-old tome to find the answers, had cut through her gloom like the abruptness of a summer rain.
“Well,” she said, “I hope they were well organized.”
“By topic,” he replied solemnly.
“Good.” Clarion hesitated, suddenly reluctant to leave. “Well, I shouldn’t linger. My guard will be beside herself if I don’t return by full dark.”
He glanced up. “You should hurry, then.”
Indeed, she should. The moon had shimmered into view overhead, a thin waxing crescent, like an eye cracking open. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
“Take care, Clarion.”
The sound of her name sent warmth flooding through her. But it was short-lived. When she blinked, he had gone again. He’d left behind only a swirl of snow glittering in the scant moonlight.