Page 36 of Wings of Reverie

“Weaver,” Periwinkle said confusedly.

“Yes,” Floss said, also somewhat confusedly. “Yes, the weavers work on the looms.”

“Right,” Periwinkle said. But she didn’t meanweavers, plural, general. Just one specific Weaver.

Jingles.

Weaver hadn’t noticed her yet. But there he was, dark hair a mess and eyes bright as he wove thread side to side through the up-and-down strands on the loom, then pushed down what he’d done with a long wooden comb. His hands moved confidently back and forth, building up the material at the bottom of his loom with every pass he made.

Periwinkle didn’t know if he’d felt her staring, or if he’d just noticed other fairies abandoning their work to watch her. ButWeaver met Periwinkle’s eyes just as Floss realized who she was watching.

“Oh, you didn’t mean—you meanthim. Weaver.” Floss paused, looking surprised. “Wait, do you know Weaver?”

Weaver looked back at Periwinkle, raising his eyebrows in what almost looked like a challenge.Well, he seemed to ask.Do you?

“Yes,” Periwinkle said. “We’re friends.” She might have been annoyed at him, but Periwinkle had spent the last two days with Weaver, and she wasn’t about to pretend to a room full of fairies that she didn’t know him.

Even if hehadditched her without saying goodbye. Again.

Still, Weaver’s eyes narrowed in surprise at her answer. Only a hint of a smirk showed that he was at least a little pleased by it, too. But as Floss and the other craft-talents glanced between the two of them, Weaver’s face went blank again, and he turned his back on the room.

“Well, that’s great. I’m sure we canallagree we’re glad to have your help,” Floss said diplomatically. “So, first task. Can you help me organize these orders?”

“Sounds flitterific,” Periwinkle said. “Let’s do it.”

Periwinkle wasn’t incredibly organized, herself. But a group of sewing-talents eagerly made room for her at their workbench, so she took the heap of papers and clothes Floss handed her and began to sort it out—this pile of clothes in need of mending, this pile of clothes in need of retrimming, that stack of papers for new orders of gowns or cloaks or gloves. With Floss’s help, Periwinklehanded out clothes to be refurbished or repaired, as well as dozens of orders for new things.

Periwinkle had known most of the other fairies in the workshop by sight—if not by name—when she arrived. But she’d meant what she’d said to Weaver the night before, and soon, there were no strangers there left to her. The craft-talents included Periwinkle happily in their conversations as they all worked, chatted with her as she flew back and forth to get things for them, eagerly showed off their newest project or favorite old technique while she sorted hailstone buttons and crystal trim.

But Weaver ignored everyone. Fairies who squeezed past him in the crowded workshop bent themselves into impossible shapes trying not to bump into him at his loom. When a fulling-talent needed to move a bucket of melted ice over to her sink, she circled halfway around the first floor to avoid having to carry the thing past him. He was so focused on his work that a sewing fairy who asked to borrow a pattern from him had to tap him on the shoulder three times just to get his attention. “Here,” he said briefly, though not unkindly, passing her the eucalyptus-leaf pattern before turning right back to his loom. And when a spinning-talent upstairs dropped a bobbin from the second level onto his head, he didn’t even stop weaving. Periwinkle wasn’t actually sure he’d noticed.

It explained why Floss had been genuinely surprised at Periwinkle’s saying they were friends. It was because Weaver avoided absolutely everyone else.

Yet all along, as Periwinkle sifted through papers or passed outdresses or peered over the shoulders of the fullers and dyers and sewists, she could sense Weaver watching her. Aware of her, like everyone else in the room was, except he was pretending not to notice her at all.

So she let him avoid her. Periwinkle concentrated on carrying baskets of yarn for the spinning fairies, or organizing boxes of thread by color for the sewists. She spent half the afternoon being a mannequin for Spangle, a sewing fairy who needed a model.

“The skirt just doesn’t drape the same with a dress form,” she said through a mouthful of pins. Periwinkle fervently hoped she wouldn’t swallow one. Spangle, dark-skinned with two fluffy black topknots and large ice-lens glasses covering half her face, did not seem nearly worried enough about this possibility.

“Oh, no,” Spangle suddenly wailed, and Periwinkle jumped. How many pins had Spangle had in her mouth? She couldn’t remember. “I ran out of cardinal feathers!”

Periwinkle looked down, relieved but confused. She thought there were plenty of feathers on her body—probably enough for two or three of her, in fact. But the sewist cocked a suspicious eyebrow, dark eyes narrowing behind her huge glasses. “Periwinkle, are you taller than Anise?” she demanded.

“Who’s Anise?” Periwinkle asked.

“Yes. I think you’re taller than she is. That’s why I ran out of feathers. I made the skirt too long.” The sewing-talent jumped up, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I have to go check the upstairs closet. Alder, will you double-check Periwinkle’s measurements?”

“Sure.” Alder, a freckled and brown-haired sewing-talent, brightened. “Hi, Periwinkle. I’m—”

“It’s fine, Alder. I’ve got it.”

Periwinkle turned. Half the workshop turned.

Alder wrinkled his forehead, looking ready to argue. But Weaver was already at Periwinkle’s side, sliding the measuring tape from around the collar of his waistcoat.

Alder went quiet, and he and everyone else went back to their work.

“Surprised to see you here, Sparkles,” Weaver said under his breath. “You look like a cupcake.”