Chapter 21
The wind cut through the Winter Woods as sharply as a knife. The storm was coming, and it was coming soon.
But in the bits of moonlight that peeked now and again through the clouds, the Hall of Winter looked like it was made of silver and ice and diamonds. Periwinkle, with her magnificent gown and her fluttering heart, felt like she was made to match.
She’d found it in her porch chair just that afternoon. A dress unlike any she’d ever seen.
She couldn’t wait to show the whole Winter Woods.
The purpose of the Hall of Winter was to keep the Keeper’s work, and it was nearly as familiar to Periwinkle as her own home.
But that night, she thought even her comfortable blue stacks had a sense of mystery and glamour.
The shelves had been pushed toward the wall to create room for the party in the atrium, and the ones facing the dance floor and tables had been draped with intricate tapestries.
More hangings had been put up in the arched doorways and on the mezzanine railings and on the walls above, and matching tablecloths covered the banquet tables in the center of the hall.
The tables, of course, held a feast—on the dessert table alone were fruitcake, spice cake, jelly doughnuts, gingerbread, mince pies, and a massive chocolate roll, served with jugs of iced winterberry juice.
Musicians played from a frosted evergreen branch suspended by pixie dust near the snowflake platform, which floated just above the ground to act as the dance floor.
A light flurry fell from the ceiling, and twelve-pointed lightcatchers encrusted with silver and gems hung in the air, illuminating masks and gowns and robes in a hundred shades of winter—holly berry red, forest green, icicle white, frost blue, midnight blue, and more, embroidered with silver and gold and embellished with feathers and crystals and frost. Periwinkle recognized one as the snowdrop dress she’d seen at the night market.
But there was no dress at the ball like Periwinkle’s.
When Periwinkle had opened the box Weaver had left on her porch, she’d known she had never seen anything more exquisite. The snowdrop gown at the night market, as lovely as it was, didn’t even come close to Weaver’s workmanship.
Her gown was made of ultrafine spider silk, gauzy material that flowed through her fingers like melted ice.
The wide, scooped neckline was covered in crystals, ending in a button that fastened at her nape, above the keyhole in the back that allowed her wings to move freely.
The gown itself was opaque, but its individual layers were sheer, woven in shifting shades of pink and blue and green—emerald and peridot and sage, blush and rose and sapphire and sky blue and turquoise.
The gown wasn’t made of dreams, but Weaver had captured the look and the feel of them through pure talent.
Tiny crystal beads in the same glowing colors radiated out from the bodice in a frost pattern, and a pink, blue, and green mask was covered with crystals in a matching design.
Periwinkle had only ever worked with actual frost, but she thought the delicate beadwork alone must have taken hours.
The dress was tailored to perfection, every measurement correct; it didn’t constrict her or hang loose. And though the gauzy, iridescent gown was fit for any queen of Never Land, full and delicate and glittering, it was impossibly soft against her skin.
This was what Weaver had been so secretive about in the workshop: He had made her a gown the color of reverie. It was perfect. A perfect gown for a magical ball.
A perfect gown for the night Periwinkle’s dreams and Weaver’s talent would save Pixie Hollow.
She was aware of the way the dancing slowly came to a stop as she fluttered inside the Hall of Winter, of the other fairies’ gasps and stares, of the way the dress’s fabric glowed and its crystals twinkled beneath the light of the starcatchers.
But for once, Periwinkle couldn’t bask in their attention.
She should’ve been searching for Lord Milori, confirming he was there and distracted, wondering how long they would have to wait before they could sneak out to the Pixie Dust Root.
But Periwinkle was just looking for Weaver.
Even hours later, the memory of him in last night’s dream took her breath away.
The confidence and strength of his hands as he’d spun her dreams into a magic strong enough to save the Pixie Dust Root.
He’d been so calm, so certain as the two of them had wrapped the root in thread, bringing it to life from death.
He was a wonder. She’d never met anyone like him.
As the music and dancing started again a moment later, Periwinkle kept looking for Weaver in the crowd.
She couldn’t seem to stop running her hands over the fabric as she flittered through the room, admiring the colors that were just like her dreams and the frost pattern that sparkled in the light.
A sparkling dress, for the fairy he’d called Sparkles.
Then, like magic, she heard his voice.
“Periwinkle.”
She turned, holding out her skirts, the joke already on her lips in case he didn’t make it himself. But when she saw him, she couldn’t say it anymore. Weaver’s dark eyes were very, very still behind his mask.
She was used to seeing Weaver in black—plain black spider-silk gloves, plain black raven feathers, as grim as he’d been the first night they’d met. Tonight, though, he glittered.
His clothes were black like always, stark against his lean, pale arms and face.
But woven through the raven feathers he always wore were twinkling points of light: gold and silver embroidery, opal and pearl and crystal embellishments in what looked like a floral pattern.
There were snowflakes in his black hair.
He looked like a fallen star. All the shimmer and sparkle he’d teased her for—he wore it now, on his own beautifully made clothes.
“Periwinkle,” he said again, softly. But for a long moment, she didn’t know how to speak, either.
“You did a good job,” she finally said, holding out her skirt, letting the crystals play in the light. She wanted to chatter; her wings were fluttering without her permission. “I think I look nice.”
“No.” He shook his head, throat working as he slowly moved closer. “You look like a dream.”
Had anyone ever seen her like this? Caught a glimpse of her true heart, and still believed she deserved something so truly exquisite?
Periwinkle didn’t even have to guess. It was the most beautiful she had ever felt.
“I have something for you,” Weaver said.
Periwinkle bit back a grin, gesturing to her dress. “Something else, you mean?” But Weaver only beckoned her nearer, dark eyes glinting, and reached into his breast pocket.
The bracelet that he drew out had been made with the pink flax from the Lattice’s Bakery box, the one he’d used to measure her wrist. Now, though, it had the same iridescent sheen as her dress.
Periwinkle held her wrist out to him, and Weaver carefully tied the aurora-colored length of flax into a bow.
When he took her hand and pressed a kiss to the pale, soft skin at her pulse, a shiver ran all the way up her arm.
Periwinkle could feel every point where their palms and fingers touched. She was burning, freezing, nervous, dazzled.
“Dance with me,” Weaver said quietly.
And Periwinkle said yes.
Out on the snowflake platform, the fairies formed lines, and the music-talents struck up a sweeping, glittering tune.
She and Weaver danced opposite each other, fluttering in time with their neighbors, twirling on the spot with their arms raised.
She caught glimpses of richness and sparkle and frost and moonlight and color every time she turned, and Periwinkle thought of Weaver at his loom, the back-and-forth winding of beautifully dyed thread.
The fairies’ dance was just as intricate, just as delicate.
They fluttered and spun, this way and that way, she and Weaver never more than brushing hands or wings as the rows of dancers threaded around one another and back.
Occasionally, their lines shifted, and Periwinkle would find herself opposite Spangle, or Flare, or one of the baking-talents from Lattice’s, or—but the next fairy was wearing a large mask covered in glittering gray stones, and she was gone before Periwinkle could recall where she’d seen her.
Then the music turned again, and so did their lines, like the shuttle through the warp on a loom. And as the two rows of dancers finally met, Periwinkle found herself in Weaver’s arms.
It wasn’t the closest they had ever been.
He’d kissed her until her head spun the other night at Floss’s, and again in the mine the night before.
But there was an intent to their proximity, there in the middle of the hall’s atrium, a beauty to the night that was concentrated between them and swelled with every step and sweep of their wings.
She wished the two of them could stay there like that, his hand on her waist and her free hand in his, like they were two figures spinning in a snow globe.
Weaver bent close to her ear. When he spoke, his voice was thick. “Periwinkle, whatever happens after tonight, I need you to know that this week has meant everything,” he said. “Whatever happens…”
Periwinkle looked up. She forced Weaver to meet her gaze, though she knew he would see the stars in her eyes, that he would know they all burned for him.
“Our plan will work,” she said. “It will.”
Periwinkle hadn’t forgotten her dream from the night before. Her fear was strong. But she hoped that her hope was stronger.
Periwinkle’s throat tightened as Weaver drew her closer, bringing their joined hands to her cheek. His throat moved, eyes roving over her face, and when Periwinkle saw his gaze move to her lips, awareness lit inside her like a sunrise.
Weaver leaned toward her, and she sighed, already melting like snow in summer.
But then he stilled.
Weaver was staring at something over Periwinkle’s shoulder, somewhere out in the crowd of dancing fairies or maybe on the mezzanine above.
Though his feet and his wings still carried him along, his expression was as frozen as a snow sculpture’s.
Periwinkle turned to look where Weaver had, but she couldn’t see what could’ve distracted him. “What is it?”
“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Did you see someone?” she asked, then lowered her voice. “Did you see Lord Milori? Is it time yet?”
“Yes—no,” he corrected himself. “Listen, Periwinkle. When I say it’s time to go, you have to trust me. Our window tonight is small.” She knew how serious their plans were, but the vehemence in his voice surprised her.
“Okay,” she agreed, startled.
“Promise.”
“I promise. I promise,” she said, feeling almost shaken.
Of course she would listen. Saving the Pixie Dust Root meant everything. But as Weaver left Periwinkle on the dance floor, the music shifted the rows of dancers again unexpectedly and moved her away, and Periwinkle had the terrible feeling she’d missed something.
Still. Down the line went Periwinkle, and up again came all her dance partners.
Flare with her pale braids, Spangle with her glasses, and again that fairy in the mask with all the sparkling dark gray stones.
Her dark hair was cut sharply along her cheekbones, and she wore a plain, dark cloak, undecorated except for a few fallen snowflakes. Periwinkle racked her memory.
“Icaria!” she exclaimed. The new winter fairy, the one she’d met in Mistletoe Terrace, where Periwinkle had knocked over her snow lantern. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you as well.” Icaria nodded as she and Periwinkle circled each other. “Your gown’s fantastic.”
“Thank you,” Periwinkle said, unable to stop her enormous smile. Then she studied Icaria’s outfit. “Did you cut your hair?”
The other fairy nodded. “I did. I usually wear it like this; it had just been a while since I’d cut it.”
“I keep my hair short, too,” Periwinkle said. “I like it out of my eyes while I look for found things.”
“Found things?” Icaria frowned behind her mask as they both raised their arms to twirl. “That sounds like scout work. But you’re a frost-talent.” Her voice was serious, almost jarring in their casual conversation.
“Well, yes. I am. But I also just seem to…find things,” Periwinkle said, feeling caught off guard. “No one’s just one thing.”
She thought of Weaver then, with his dream-talent alongside his spinning and sewing and weaving.
One was his particular magic; the other was a craft that he loved and had worked to develop.
Pixie Hollow had given Periwinkle the ability to frost the land.
But a piece of Periwinkle’s heart was also just always looking for something.
She’d done a lot of looking lately, and a lot of finding. The dream journal. The spindle and scissors. The dream magic.
Weaver.
Fairies in the two lines joined hands then, and Periwinkle noticed Icaria had been quiet for a long time. “Are you all right?” she asked kindly.
Icaria nodded, frowning. “I’m just thinking of what you said. Of doing more—being more—than just your talent.”
Periwinkle didn’t answer, but she watched Icaria, wishing she could understand the thoughts inside her head and beneath her mask. She wondered if Icaria was beginning to understand something new about her own talent, as well.
Maybe she could get to know Icaria better, later. Maybe this was another way Periwinkle’s life could change, and she could keep becoming—more.
“I think I need some fresh air,” Icaria finally said. “I’ve never been to the First Frost Ball before and didn’t realize how crowded it would be.”
“Me either,” Periwinkle said, nodding at the door. “Go stretch your wings.” Icaria gave her a weak smile. As she left the dance floor, the starlight and moonlight catching on her mask, she cut through the crowd toward the night outside quicker than Periwinkle would’ve thought possible.