10
A fter three agonizingly long days of waiting, Petra sent her an update. It happened while Clarion was lying in bed, once again awake before the sun had fully risen.
The sky outside her window was a velvet swatch of purple stippled with fading stars. Even from here, she could see the barest sliver of white-capped mountains, peering in at her. A small torment, when all she could think about was how soon she would stand beneath their shadow—and how soon she and Milori would exist on the same side of the border. Maybe then, she could convince herself that all of this was truly real.
There came a soft rapping on her balcony doors.
Clarion shot bolt upright as panic doused her like a sudden rainstorm. This early, someone on her doorstep portended nothing good. Another attack, or—
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, all the fear bled out of her. Something between annoyance and sheer relief took its place when she noticed Artemis standing there. Her guard stood on the balcony, her silhouette traced by her own glow. Clarion dug the heels of her palms into her bleary eyes. What could she possibly want this early?
Artemis knocked again, more pointedly this time.
Clarion threw off the covers and crossed the room. She cracked open the door, letting in a sigh of cool air and the faint sound of the dust-keepers’ chatter as they prepared to distribute morning rations. She did her best to glare at Artemis, although she imagined its effect was somewhat diminished by her dishabille. She was still wearing her nightgown, and her hair hung unbound down to her mid-back. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Artemis replied dutifully. “Sorry to disturb you at this hour, but I thought you might want this.”
She held a thin roll of parchment tied off with green twine. Clarion accepted it from her outstretched hand and unfurled the note. Immediately, she recognized Petra’s handwriting, as well as the telltale stains of soot and grease and something she sincerely hoped was not blood. Sewing could not be that dangerous, even to someone unpracticed, could it? The message itself, however, was uncharacteristically short—and unsigned.
All it said was It’s done.
Clarion’s heart skipped a beat, and she hugged the parchment to her chest. The giddy anticipation that had been building for days seized upon her. After so many years of staring out at it, after so many years of wondering, she could be going to Winter as soon as tonight . It took a great deal of restraint to keep herself from twirling through her room. Artemis would hardly know what to do with her.
She settled for beaming up at her—only to find Artemis looking at her with a peculiarly soft expression. When Artemis realized Clarion had noticed, she rearranged her features into the very picture of composure. “Something good?”
“We can pick up my coat.”
“Ah.” Artemis grimaced, clearly still not thrilled about the prospect of letting her charge wander into Winter. “Good news, indeed.”
After a moment, something occurred to Clarion. She considered the letter in her hands. “Where did you get this?”
The faintest flush crept up from beneath Artemis’s collar. “The tinker gave it to me.”
“I didn’t realize you spent so much time around Tinker’s Nook,” Clarion said, trying for a conversational tone. Artemis and Petra had known each other for years through Clarion, but as far as she knew—much to her dismay, considering how obvious it was Petra fancied her—they’d never spent any time together without her. This was a new development, indeed.
“We only ran into each other,” she replied hastily. “That is, I found myself nearby.”
“Oh?” Clarion pressed, unable to keep the interest out of her voice now. “What for?”
“Before I go home, I do my own sweep for Nightmares.”
Clarion nodded. “Did you find any in her house?”
“No, I…” Artemis looked flustered now. She raked a hand through her roughly shorn hair. “I suppose I was curious about what she was making. It’s something that would make scouts’ jobs much easier.”
Satisfied, Clarion smiled innocently and folded up the letter. “I see. Well, we can take another look later today.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” She gave her a sour look, which nearly made Clarion laugh. Perhaps she should tease her more often. She was far too easy a target. “We can go after your meeting with the Minister of Spring, which is in an hour, in case you’ve forgotten.”
She groaned. She had nearly forgotten. Hopefully, Iris would not keep her for too long. Only she stood between Clarion and Winter.
When Clarion had gotten ready, she and Artemis made their way to Spring Valley. Although she always felt the most at home in Summer, Spring never failed to delight her. It was the domain of Pixie Hollow’s garden-talents, fairies capable of making flowers bloom. Clarion could see their handiwork everywhere she looked: trees dripping with citrus fruits, golden forsythia, delicate sprays of wisteria, wild strawberries ripening in warm patches of sunlight. As they flitted through the woods, Clarion caught glimpses of their houses cradled in the branches, all of them with roofs of fuchsia and trumpet flowers.
They arrived in Springtime Square, the heart of Spring Valley. At this early hour, gauzy skeins of fog drifted off the Never Sea and filled the clearing. Two massive cherry trees framed a view of the water—and a moss-covered stone from which a single flower bloomed: the Evergreen. Its soft white petals were folded around itself like a slumbering fairy’s wings. It bloomed only on the spring equinox, when spring was due to arrive on the Mainland. Each year, every fairy poured into this clearing for the queen’s final review of Spring’s preparations. Despite the long days of work ahead, some stayed up until dawn to watch its petals unfurl with the sunrise.
One day, Clarion hoped to see it herself.
Iris waited for them beside the Evergreen, limned in the sunlight. Today, she wore a gown of crocuses, with long bell-like sleeves that enveloped all but the tips of her fingers. Her hair flowed down her back like a sheet of dark water. Her face—uncharacteristically pensive—brightened upon seeing them.
After the three of them exchanged pleasantries, Iris sighed. “I’d hoped to have more to show you today. Thank you for coming anyway.”
Clarion frowned. “What do you mean?”
Iris’s lips parted in surprise. “Did Her Majesty not tell you?”
Clarion’s heart sank. “Tell me what?”
Iris hesitated. “It might be easier to show you. Come see.”
With a flutter of her wings and a shower of pixie dust, Iris took flight. She led them deeper into Spring Valley until they came to an open field. What Clarion saw made a shiver of horror run through her. A line of decay carved through the meadow—and headed straight toward Winter. Or perhaps more accurately: from Winter. Whatever had passed through here seemed to have drained the very color from the foliage. Wilting, desiccated blooms and the shattered remains of what looked to be a trellis were scattered among the trampled grass. The faint scent of rot reached her even from here.
“By the second star,” Clarion muttered.
“The scouts came by this morning to assess the damage.” Iris wrung her hands together fretfully. “No one was hurt. No one besides the flowers, anyway.”
Clarion could tell even the flowers’ deaths pained her. Most spring fairies, after all, could commune with them. She glanced at Artemis and hoped her meaning was clear: Did you know about this?
Artemis shook her head.
Yet another thing Elvina hadn’t seen fit to inform her of. And yet another reminder how urgently she and Milori needed to figure out how to destroy the Nightmares.
“I’m very relieved to hear that no one was hurt,” Clarion said softly. “I’m sorry about the field.”
“You’re very sweet to say that, Your Highness,” Iris said, clearly trying to sound more chipper than she felt. “ I’m sorry that some of the work we did for your coronation was ruined. But Her Majesty will take care of the Nightmares, and we’ll have everything fixed in no time. In the meantime, let me show you what my water-talents have been up to. You’re going to love it.”
Clarion scarcely had time to reply before Iris shot off in another direction. Clarion followed as quickly as she could. If only she had so much energy at this hour.
Iris guided her a short distance before diving back through the canopy. They landed on the banks of a river just as a group of dragonflies darted by in a flash of iridescent wings. When Clarion regained her bearings, she drank in the sound of the water-talents’ domain: burbling water, the croak of frog-song and the drone of insects, and her subjects’ laughter, as sparkling as a brook flowing over stones.
Clarion had always loved to watch the water-talents at work. Some of them drifted on the current on boats made of birch bark and lily pads, encouraging the golden fish drifting just beneath them. Others lounged on half-submerged logs, shrouded by curtains of cattail and fern. Others still skipped across the surface, leaving the barest ripples in their wake. It made Clarion’s breath catch with equal measures of wonder and nerves. As a rule, fairies could not swim; waterlogged wings were too heavy. But the water-talents were fearless and joyous—and perfectly at ease.
At least, until they noticed her. When she passed by, they fell abruptly silent. Clarion was torn between the impulse to smile encouragingly and look away so that they didn’t feel scrutinized.
“Here we are,” Iris said brightly.
It took a moment for Clarion to register what she was looking at. They stood before a vast spiderweb strung on a frame of branches. It was beaded with more dewdrops than Clarion could fathom, each of them stained with dye. It was, she realized, a mosaic—one fashioned to look like her. When the sun struck it, the water refracted the light and scattered multicolored patterns on the forest floor.
“What do you think?” Iris asked.
“It’s spectacular,” Clarion said quietly, and she meant it. To see herself represented with such care stirred within her a feeling she could not entirely place.
Clarion would have sworn she felt more than heard the collective sigh of relief behind her. As though the entire clearing had been holding its breath, the sound of splashing and chatter resumed.
Iris clapped her hands together. “Oh, good! Your coronation is going to be incredible, Your Highness. Just wait until…”
The sound of Iris’s voice faded to a drone as Clarion stared up at her own likeness, a version of herself more queenly and poised than she knew herself to be. She could hardly bring herself to focus on any of the beautiful things Iris was describing for her. Her coronation somehow felt entirely insignificant in the face of the threat against Pixie Hollow. As much as she longed to enjoy the talents of her subjects, as much as she wished she could believe in Elvina, all she could think about was how precarious everything felt. All she could think about was the winter coat waiting for her in Tinker’s Nook—and how tonight, she would cross into Winter.
“Your Highness?”
Clarion startled. Iris was frowning at her with a look of genuine concern on her face—and also disappointment. Clarion felt guilty to have gone somewhere else so obviously. Clearly, this mattered a great deal to Iris.
“I’m so sorry, Minister,” Clarion said. “Did you ask me something?”
Iris folded her arms and fixed her with an appraising look. “Is there something on your mind?”
“A few things,” Clarion said sheepishly. “There’s so much to prepare for the coronation. Sometimes, I don’t feel ready.”
Surprise flickered across Iris’s face before she smiled. “Your Highness, are you nervous ?”
Clarion winced. “A little.”
“Really?” Iris sounded genuinely shocked, if not somewhat delighted. “I never would have guessed. You always seem so composed.”
“It’s a careful illusion,” Clarion said wanly.
“It’s normal to be nervous.” Iris tapped her chin. “But you really do look exhausted. Are you sleeping enough?”
She almost certainly was not. “Well, I—”
“I know just the thing.” Iris brightened. “I’ll send you home with some skullcap tea.”
Both her exuberance and generosity caught Clarion off guard. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re so welcome,” said Iris. “Tea fixes almost everything. But if you’ll listen to some advice, think about it like this. You’re like a bulb flower.”
That…did not sound like a compliment. Clarion wrinkled her nose. “Oh?”
With a casual curl of Iris’s finger, a flower bulb in miniature appeared in her hand, glimmering with pixie dust. “In Pixie Hollow, of course, flowers bloom whenever we ask them to. But on the Mainland, these types of flowers are planted in autumn, just before the soil freezes. You’d think that would kill them, but they lie dormant all through winter. Then, as soon as spring arrives…”
Hyacinths sprung from the earth all around them in shades of white and vibrant pink and soft purple. They gave off a damp, green scent, as ethereal as spring itself.
“Spring is all about renewal,” Iris said serenely. “When things seem impossibly dark, bulb flowers are sparks of hope. It takes time for things to bloom. You just have to be patient and nurturing.” After a considering pause, she jabbed a finger at Clarion. “So be nice to yourself. You’ll grow into it, I promise.”
For a moment, Clarion felt too stunned to reply. “Thank you, Minister. Truly.”
“Anytime,” she said sweetly. “Now, about those floral arrangements…”
By midafternoon, Clarion and Artemis had made it to Petra’s lonely stone cottage. Predictably, she did not answer when they knocked, but Clarion could see the faint orange glow of the forge through the dew-streaked windows.
She nudged the door open and called, “I’m here.”
As always, Petra’s projects cluttered every surface—and most of the floor. But strangely, her metalworking tools lay still and inert, catching faint glimmers of the firelight. Today, Petra’s workshop looked like it belonged to a sewing-talent—if that sewing-talent had emptied their entire ration of pixie dust over their workspace. As Clarion made her way deeper into the room, she had to dodge airborne needles and shears. She touched a spool of thread, watching as it sailed lazily across the room, unraveling as it went. Everywhere she turned, it was a riot of colorful fabrics and buttons.
Petra stood in the eye of the storm she had created, fussing with a coat she’d wrapped around the metal shoulders of a dress form. She looked about as well rested as Clarion did, which was to say: not at all. She wouldn’t be surprised if Petra hadn’t slept since she began this project. To say she was single-minded was a gross understatement.
“Are you all right?” Clarion asked tentatively.
“It took days to make a pattern that was even remotely usable,” Petra said, her tone almost trancelike, “and several hours of harvesting spider-silk to convince Patch to teach me basic stitches. But after three prototypes, I’ve done it. Finally.”
Clarion peered over her shoulder and could not help her soft sound of surprise. The coat was far beyond remotely usable . She should have known that Petra was incapable of making anything less than spectacular. It was a spill of thick golden fabric, glittering faintly with pixie dust. A fringe of white fur lined the hood and the cuffs of its sleeves.
“It’s beautiful,” Clarion said.
“It’ll do.” As dismissive as she sounded, Petra looked proud. “Try it on.”
Petra removed the coat from the dress form and held it out. Clarion slipped her arms into the sleeves, drew it around her shoulders, and immediately fought to hold in her laughter. It was enormous . She was all but drowning in fabric, but at least her wings fit comfortably.
Petra looked at her fretfully and tugged at the lapels. “The fit is dreadful. I realized too late I never took any measurements.”
Clarion snorted. “It’s warm. That’s all I need.”
“Maybe if I—”
“It’s perfect.” Clarion took her hands to still her. “Thank you. Truly.”
“Don’t mention it,” Petra said gruffly.
“I have to take it off immediately, though. It’s always so hot in here.”
“It’s not that hot,” Petra protested. “Oh! I have other things for you.”
As Clarion shrugged out of the coat and folded it over her arm, Petra rummaged around on her worktable. A whittling knife fell off and hit the ground with a metallic ping. After a few moments, Petra foisted a pair of mittens and boots on her, as well as a strange set of what looked to be badminton rackets. Clarion let the latter dangle from her fingertips by the leather straps attached to them. “What are these for? To play games?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. They go on your feet.”
Clarion inspected them more closely. Skeptically, she said, “I think you’re the one being ridiculous.”
“They’re snowshoes,” Petra said wearily. “They harness the properties of flotation by distributing your weight over a greater surface area so that…Actually, it doesn’t matter! The point is that they’ll make it easier for you to walk on the snow.”
“Incredible,” Clarion murmured. “I never would have thought of that.”
“I know.” Petra flashed a smile at her, clearly pleased by her praise. After a moment, it faded. “Just…be careful, will you?”
“Don’t fret,” said Clarion. “When have I not been careful?”
Petra gave her a speaking look. “You know I love you.”
Clarion did not like where this was going. “Of course I do.”
“You’re my oldest friend.” Clarion could hear plainly what Petra left unsaid: my only friend. “For the longest time, you were the only one who would talk to me.”
Clarion grinned at her. “I seem to remember that you were afraid of me.”
“Well, you’re intimidating,” Petra replied. “And you’ve never backed down from what scares you. You used to drag me into so many things I would’ve rather avoided.”
Clarion remembered those days fondly: two inseparable outcasts, running wild through Pixie Hollow. Yes, she supposed she had dragged Petra into quite a bit of trouble over the years. There was the time they took the two fastest, most willful mice from the tinkers’ stable and rode them through the fields at a gallop. Or the time they’d gotten lost in a rabbit warren after Clarion suggested they go spelunking. Or the time she’d convinced Petra to fashion a hummingbird-drawn carriage, which was—unsurprisingly, in retrospect—a disaster.
But Petra didn’t seem to be in the mood for reminiscing. In fact, she seemed to be working herself up to something. “Where are you going with this?” Clarion asked.
“Now that I’ve done this for you, I need you to leave me out of it. Don’t tell me what you’re doing. Every time I think about it, I…” Petra paused for a moment to collect herself. “It’s better for both of us if I pretend that you’re not going anywhere near Winter.”
“Right.” It made sense. And yet, it stung. It felt…isolating, to know that she could not talk to her about something so important. “I can do that.”
“Good.” Petra frowned. “You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?”
When Clarion closed her eyes, she saw the ruined fields of Spring burned on the backs of her eyes. Her subjects falling out of the sky, struck unconscious by a single drop of the Nightmare’s venom. Clarion had only a vague and terrible sense of what she was up against, and an even vaguer idea of Milori’s plan. But if it meant protecting Winter—if it meant proving herself capable—then she had to keep moving forward.
Clarion smiled as encouragingly as she could. If she had to lie to Petra going forward, she might as well practice. “Of course I do. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”