Page 50 of Wings of Starlight

Clarion could not keep the frustration out of her voice. “I’m so tired of being told things are too dangerous.”

“But theyare. I know it’s never been a concern for you, but some of us are happy tucked away in our nooks.”

“Petra…”

“No. Don’t use your queen voice on me,” she said, almost pleadingly. “I won’t do it. I can’t watch you come home like this again. I’m a tinker, not a healer. I can patch up your coat, but notyou.”

For a moment, they remained in brittle silence, staring at each other across the darkness of Petra’s workshop. Clarion felt monstrous, indeed. Was this really what Petra thought of her? That she was some kind of reckless instigator who had ignored her discomfort all these years?

Artemis, clearly sensing they needed space, wordlessly slipped out through the door. When it clicked shut behind her, Clarion found her voice again. She had to fight to keep the hurt out of it. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. There’s no one else I can rely on.”

Petra sighed fretfully. “Both you and Elvina are depending on me for your schemes to work. Being in this position isn’t easy for me.”

“I know.” Guilt plucked at Clarion. “But her plan is misguided. It’s the duty of the queen to ensure the well-being of her subjects—not to leave an entire realm to fend for itself.”

Petra frowned and absently picked up a pair of sewing shears, the conflict clear on her face.

“I’m sorry that I’ve put you in this position,” Clarion continued, “and I’ll be as careful as I can. But I can’t walk away from this. I won’t, whether I have your support or not, because for the first time, I feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Petra groaned: a telltale sign that her surrender was nigh. “Fine.Fine.Consider it my coronation gift. But if it comes back to me in tatters again—”

“It won’t,” Clarion cut in breathlessly. “Thank you, Petra.”

“Keep your gratitude.” She turned back to her worktable and began rearranging her tools. “Just live.”

Clarion’s breath caught in her throat. “I will.”

“Your Highness?”

Clarion startled awake—and found herself rather undignifiedly slumped over her writing desk. At least she managed to avoid falling out of her chair in surprise. She turned toward the door, where a harried-looking sewing-talent hovered over the threshold. Artemis loomed just behind her, wearing an apologetic expression that seemed to say,I tried to stop her.

“Hello,” Clarion said blearily.

Her fingertips tingled with numbness from her pillowing her head on her forearm. Late-afternoon sunlight poured through the window, a fact Clarion felt a small measure of dismay about. She’d been asleep for hours, and she could hardly recall when, exactly, she had drifted off. She certainly hadn’t intended to take a nap.

Hazily, she retraced her steps. After her spat with Petra this morning, she’d arrived late to the weekly council meeting, where she proceeded to spill the contents of her teacup all over her notes as well as the Minister of Spring’s new gown. When she returned to her room, still hot with embarrassment, she’d attempted to decipher the swirl of tea and ink in her notebook….

That must have done it. Clearly, staying up late and waking up early were not agreeing with her.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the sewing-talent said delicately. “But you have a dress fitting.”

She had entirely forgotten that she had a dress fitting today. Patch, the royal seamstress, would no doubt be displeased at her lateness. She’d already made a gown for her coronation, but Clarion would need a new one for the ball.

“Thank you.” Clarion dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Shall we go?”

The sewing-talent led her to Patch’s studio. Helper-talents—including dusting-talents and polishing-talents—bustled through the corridors and trailed after organizer-talents. Clarion had taken to calling the latter Elvina’s Trusted Circle of Decorators. They flitted through the palace, barking orders at their assistants and appraising every detail of others’ work. She noted that her sewing-talent guide conspicuously—and expertly—avoided them.

When they at last arrived, they were greeted with an abrupt “There you are!”

Patch floated in the center of her studio. She was of narrow frame, angular features, and a birch-white complexion, as though she had not seen the sun in some time. Her dark brown hair was woven into a neat braid that lay neatly against her elegant cloak of black calla lily. A length of tailor’s tape was draped around her neck like a serpent.

While Patch styled herself in dark garments, there were bolts of fabric in every imaginable shade piled on the shelves that lined the room. Half-finished garments covered the dress forms scattered throughout the space, and the whole studio seemed to glow in the sunlight, which reflected off the mirror sitting in its ornate frame—and glimmered on the skeins upon skeins of spiderweb Patch had gathered in baskets. Just outside the window, a vast web stretched between the branches of the Pixie Dust Tree, each strand like a thread of gold in the afternoon light. This was where Patch sourced the silk for her spectacular embroidery and lace. No doubt, Fil—her orb weaver companion—was basking in the center of her web.

But what struck Clarion when she entered the room was the Minister of Summer. Aurelia sat in an armchair, drowsing in the wash of sunlight with one elegant hand propping up her chin. She wore a gown of sunflower petals; their vibrant gold contrasted with her deep black skin. As always, she looked as radiant and luminous as summer itself.

“Minister,” Clarion said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

Aurelia’s golden eyes rested on her curiously. “I missed you earlier.”