Page 34 of Wings of Reverie

Periwinkle frowned, going still. “What,” she said slowly, “about the Drift?”

Weaver straightened. “The Drift?” he demanded. “Sparkles,youwant to go wandering into the Drift?”

The Drift—the largest snowdrift in the Winter Woods—was one of the last uncharted corners of their season. Far to the northwest in Winter, it was a massive mound of snow that had built up year over year on top of…something. No one was quite sure what. But the few fairies who’d dared to get close had described an impossibly dense thicket underneath, hidden in an even thicker fog. Even Slush had warned Periwinkle away from it before he left, and Slush was the kind to think maybe hawks were just misunderstood.

“I mean, I don’t want to,” Periwinkle said. “Nobody knows what’s under there. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Unless the Bobbin Wood has been cut down, and I hope for Pixie Hollow’s sake it hasn’t, where else could something the size of a forest be hiding?”

“The Drift,” Weaver said again, the name almost a sigh, pressing his hands to his forehead. “I don’t want you to be right, but you might just be.”

Periwinkle bit her lip.

There was plenty to shock in Pixie Hollow, they’d agreed. Plenty to awe.

If the Drift didn’t awe Weaver, she wasn’t sure what would. The problem was that the idea of exploring it shocked her a little, too.

“You’re worrying, or pouting,” Weaver said. “Or maybe that’s just your face.”

Periwinkle couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Pouting, obviously.” She glanced over at him. “Admit it: you don’t believe I know how to worry. You think my head’s so full of party invitations, there’s not enough room.”

Weaver met her eyes, biting back a rueful smile. Like she’d caught him, and he didn’t know how to tell her so. “Party invitations and presents,” he said, cutting his eyes at her untouched pile of gifts. “Don’t forget presents.”

“How could I?” Periwinkle asked. There were enough books to keep her busy for four seasons, let alone one. Getting them inside would take forever. She yawned and rubbed her eyes.

“Read me something from the book,” she said to Weaver. “I want to think about something good before I go to sleep.” He paged through it,hmming to himself.

“Let’s start somewhere in the middle,” he said.

“Of course that’s what you want to do.” Periwinkle laughed, curling up more comfortably across from him. Weaver bopped the cotton puff on her shoe with a teasing grin, then moved to sit more casually like she had as he got started.

“‘Stella and’—ugh, the light on your porch is terrible.” Weaver twisted uselessly, trying to rotate the chair.

This time, when their knees bumped, neither of them immediately lurched away.

“‘Stella and the’—if I could turn us so the moonlight or asuncatcher would hit the page—” He put his feet down on the porch floor, still scrambling to turn them.

“Wow,” Periwinkle said. “This is relaxing.”

“Be quiet,” Weaver said, leaning over the book, trying not to get into his own light. “I’m reading ‘Stella and the Magic Drum.’”

He grinned up at her then, before he started to read. Periwinkle went still, feeling again like she’d taken a fall and lost her breath.

She didn’t get enough moonlight on her porch, it was true. But if they could’ve read by the light of Weaver’s smile just then, they wouldn’t have needed the suncatchers at all.

Reverie

Periwinkle stared around the stacks, knowing she was looking for something. She just wasn’t sure what.

The Hall of Winter was typically quiet. But at the moment it was noisy and crowded, the cool blue stacks full of fluttering wings and the trailing glow of fairies.

“Oops, excuse me.” Periwinkle fluttered over top of a fairy sitting cross-legged with a pile of maps. “Sorry, I just want to squeeze through.” Two music-talent fairies traded the books they were holding—identical books, she realized with a grin—and then stepped aside, letting her move between them.

“I need some light reading!” someone called from one aisle over.

“Try this!” said someone else. A burst of light shot toward the hall ceiling, then disappeared with the sound of pages slamming shut.

“Oh, very funny,” said the first voice. Periwinkle giggled.

Was she looking for the Keeper? Periwinkle slipped around an art-talent with a book on oil painting. No, she didn’t think so.