Page 61 of Wings of Starlight

“Well,” she said, “the feeling is mutual.”

Too late, she registered that she had not withdrawn from him—that she had not wanted to, despite the distance she knew very well she should hold between them. It would be a simple thing, to rise onto her toes and kiss him as she had the other night, to thread her fingers into his snow-white hair.

His gaze trailed down her face and lingered, just for a moment, on her lips. He was right that he had never exactly been subtle; Clarion knew, down to the stardust in her bones, that he would let her. And yet, he stood as still as a sparrow man carved from ice.

“You’re going to get cold if you stay much longer,” he murmured.

Before she could think better of it, she said, “I’ve been told it suits me.”

It took only a moment for him to realize that she had turned his own words back on him. A glimmer of bittersweet yearning lit his eyes, and Clarion knew then and there that she had crossed a line she might never recover from. Perhaps it would have been better not knowing what she was missing.

Perhaps it would have been better to pine than to mourn.

Since they had sealed the prison, no Nightmares had descended on Pixie Hollow as they slept. No one had awoken to find their work destroyed. No one else had fallen prey to their terrible spell.

No one had stirred from their Nightmarish slumber, either.

When Clarion had visited the clinic, the eerie silence of the room settled over her. Staring out at the sleeping fairies, she’d gone numb with uncomprehending shock. But the devastation that followed was like an icy wind, slicing through her and hollowing her out. She did not understand. They’d sealed the prison, so why hadn’t it worked as it had in the past?

Perhaps she should have known better than to put so much faith in stories. She and Milori might have prevented any more monsters from escaping, but until they found a cure for their spell, this nightmare was far from over. And now they had only one week to end it.

At the very least, Pixie Hollow had finally, tentatively, let down its guard. Although the new development clearly confounded Elvina, she had announced the curfew would be lifted for tonight’s Coronation Ball.

Clarion, however, did not feel much like celebrating. She could not content herself with what she’d achieved until she made sure that this was well and truly over—until she saw Rowan and the others awaken and autumn arrive on the Mainland with no delay. There had to be some way to free them.

But how?

Clarion turned over the question as she dressed for the ball, alone and melancholy in her quarters. It still did not feel entirely real that in one week’s time, the crown would be hers. Perhaps it never would until she’d proven herself worthy of the title.

Her balcony doors were ajar, letting in a cool wash of evening air. The delicate, grassy scents of lady’s mantle and freesia reached her faintly. Purple and yellow flowers waved on the branches, as if trying to catch her eye. The Pixie Dust Tree had put out new growth over the last few days; in the language of flowers, it said,I am here for you. Clarion marveled at how attentive it was being lately. She could not help wondering if it knew she was trying to protect it.

She stood in front of her mirror, feeling utterly ridiculous—and decidedly unqueenly. She had stepped into her gown after severely overestimating her ability to do up all the tiny buttons that ran along her spine. The fabric gaped open on the back and threatened to slide off her shoulders.

As if on cue, two sharp knocks sounded on the door. Relief flooded through her. Someone had come to rescue her at last. “Who is it?”

“Artemis, Your Highness.”

“Oh, good,” she replied. “Come in.”

The door swung open. Artemis stood on the threshold, dressed in her full scout’s regalia. Clarion admired her jacket, all tailored lines and black fabric and gleaming golden buttons—and noted that her sword was not purely ceremonial. She wore the same blade she always carried at her hip, but she’d tucked it into a more ornate scabbard. It was filigreed in intricate whorls of gold in the shape of flowers. To Clarion’s great shock, she’d even done something about her hair. It shone like the polished shell of an acorn, slicked back and tucked neatly behind her ears.

Despite her immaculate uniform, she looked weary—and a little sad. Clarion supposed she understood. Tonight, there would be a knighting ceremony for scouts who had risked their lives on patrol over the past few weeks. It was the highest honor they could achieve, bestowed by the queen herself. Clarion did not need to ask to know it was something Artemis wanted—and something she deserved, after she had saved Clarion’s life.

Artemis took in the scene before her. Evidently moved by Clarion’s plight, she asked, “Do you need help?”

Clarion shot her a grateful look in the mirror. “Please.”

Artemis flitted over, then immediately set to work fastening the buttons with practiced, efficient ease. When she finished, she adjusted the train, letting it fan out like a spill of water. Now, Clarion could appreciate the full effect of the gown. The fabric glittered as bright as starlight, its brilliance casting a twinkling, ever-changing glow on the walls. Just minutes before, she’d plaited her hair. One of the garden-talents had left a garland of forsythia and daisy petals for her to weave into her braid. All that remained now was to apply her maquillage.

“You look lovely,” said Artemis.

“So do you.” Clarion warmed at the compliment, but she could not shake just how bittersweetlypensiveher guard looked. “How are you?”

Artemis seemed somewhat surprised but replied, “Fine.”

Clarion raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

There was a moment of silence as Artemis registered the question behind her question. Her mouth twisted into a moue of discomfort. “Ah.”