Chapter 22
No sooner had Icaria slipped away than Periwinkle’s friends swooped in to drag her back to the banquet tables and exclaim over her gown.
She was glad to see them—Mitsy, Flare, Spangle, Lattice, Alpine, and so many others—and she was happy to hear them admire Weaver’s work.
She even thought she spotted Anise, whose cardinal-feather gown she’d modeled (badly) for Spangle.
But she knew the ball would last only so long, and she and Weaver had only so much time.
Where was he? More to the point, where was Lord Milori?
The night was still young. But Periwinkle was beginning to wonder how important it really was that Lord Milori be distracted before they left to heal the Pixie Dust Root.
Surely, the most important part was getting the dreams there.
Lord Milori couldn’t be that upset that they’d kept secrets from him, and if he had questions, they’d be answered when he saw the rot had been healed.
Still, she and Weaver had a plan, so she waited.
The first mince pie Periwinkle ate while she hovered anxiously beside the banquet table and watched the room was delicious, sweet and spicy, filled with diced currants and raisins and apples. The second and third were almost as good.
But when Weaver still hadn’t come back after she’d downed a fourth pie and the music-talents had taken a break, Periwinkle began to feel more than a little unwell.
So when she saw Lord Milori in a mallard-feather robe and his usual cloak of owl feathers, watching the ball from up on the mezzanine, she decided it was time to act.
Periwinkle flew upstairs and took a spot beside him at the balcony railing.
“Good evening, Lord Milori. How are you enjoying the ball?”
“Good evening, Periwinkle. I’m having a very nice time, thank you,” he said, though his expression stayed as stoic as always. Periwinkle wondered how it was possible to be enjoying yourself and still look like you had a stomachache. “And you?”
“It’s my first First Frost Ball,” she said. “I’m just taking everything in.”
“And I see you’ve taken full advantage of your new connections to Floss’s workshop,” Lord Milori said wryly.
“Your gown is exceptionally well-made. I wish I knew what that color reminded me of.” Periwinkle’s heart jolted as he frowned like he was trying to remember something, then shook his head. “How have you found helping Floss?”
Periwinkle waved at her dress. “Advantageous,” she said. Lord Milori gave something that might have been a smile.
“Have you had a difficult week apart from your friends?” he asked.
“I have missed them,” she admitted. “But I’ve been busy. And I’ve taken the chance to widen my circle a bit. Make some more friends.”
“You have seemed different,” Lord Milori said thoughtfully. He paused then, keen eyes studying her. “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to talk about?”
Periwinkle wrung her hands.
Truly, how much time did they have left in the evening? Could she afford to trust Lord Milori?
Could she afford not to?
But as Periwinkle was deciding how exactly and how much to explain, she finally spotted Weaver downstairs.
Her heart surged. “Good night, Lord Milori,” she said. “I hope you enjoy the rest of the ball.” Then she fluttered downstairs and slipped through the crowd to Weaver, leaving Lord Milori standing alone.
At first, Periwinkle was afraid she’d lost him again.
Fairies milled in and out of the Hall of Winter, laughing, eating, admiring one another’s outfits, showing up late or leaving early by the light of the snow lanterns from the competition, which had been moved just outside the hall to light Juniper Glade.
She searched for him there around the doorway and out in the courtyard, but when Periwinkle finally found Weaver, he was farther inside, around the corner from the entrance.
His hands worked busily with the spindle as he stood in the shadows between a bookshelf and the wall, a frown lining his face.
It was time, then. She was ready.
Periwinkle approached him, heart and wings trembling. But as she drew nearer, she realized that Weaver wasn’t alone.
Hidden behind the bookshelf, Weaver was talking to Dougal, the healer. His healer, Periwinkle remembered he’d told her the night before.
Did he have a headache again? Was that why he was with Dougal?
But then—why was he using the dream spindle so openly?
“Weaver.” Periwinkle flew to join them and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“He is,” Dougal said, glancing at her with interest. A mask hung around his neck by a string, and though his clothes were neater than usual, he looked more exhausted than ever. Unease shivered up between Periwinkle’s wings.
She glanced at Weaver again, hoping for an explanation. But he wouldn’t look at her.
“It’s time,” Dougal said, and now, he sounded impatient. “Has one week been enough to make you forget?”
“Of course it hasn’t.” Weaver bit the words out, frustrated.
“Weaver?” Periwinkle frowned. “The root. We need to go.”
But again, Weaver didn’t answer. His dark eyes were as hollow as pits as he finished the last of his spinning and handed it to Dougal.
For the first time, Periwinkle noticed that both sparrow men were wearing gloves.
And by the soft light of the starcatchers, she could suddenly see that the thread Weaver had given his healer didn’t glow the color of good dreams.
Everything began to happen very quickly.
Before Periwinkle could ask Weaver anything, Dougal flew past her, out of the shadows and into the winter fairies’ company. Periwinkle and Weaver hurried after him toward a snowflake carving at the base of a nearby arched doorway.
“What are you doing?” she croaked. But too quietly. Not quickly enough.
Dougal adjusted his spider-silk gloves and began tying the thread to the carving, knotting and looping it through the branches of the snowflake till it was secure.
Then he moved along the atrium’s perimeter to the next doorway, and tied the thread to the next carving just the same way.
One archway at a time, Dougal made a complete lap of the room, like he was circling a target on a map.
In the full light of the ballroom, the thread was an oily black-purple, a repulsive, slimy-looking thing.
For a moment, she’d frozen; her world had stopped turning. But the truth flooded over Periwinkle then like a wave of melted ice, shocking her wings and her thoughts.
“Weaver,” she whispered. Tears gathered in her eyes. “What have you done?” Weaver stared back at her, looking like he’d fallen and had the wind knocked out of him.
But he couldn’t say anything. Periwinkle knew. They could both see the dark thread in Dougal’s hands, and nothing Weaver said could explain away its existence.
Weaver hadn’t been spinning Periwinkle’s dreams.
He’d been spinning her nightmares.