Page 40 of Wings of Reverie

“I’m sure they think they’re nice,” he said. “But they’re not.”

“What does that mean?” she asked. “How can someone think they’re nice, and not be?”

“The same way you can smile and pretend to be happy even when you’re not,” Weaver retorted. “The way you give people exactly the version of Periwinkle they want, and all you have to do is lie without ever saying a word.”

Periwinkle gawked at him. “Oh, so you’retelling the truthby being a grouch to everyone?” she asked. “Do you really think you’re being more sincere than the rest of us because you make your bad attitude everyone else’s problem?”

“No. But I think friends are honest with each other. And while you’re lying about how you feel, you’re also lying to everyone by letting them believe they’re your friends. By fake-smiling and pretending to be the keeper of all silver linings.”

“I’m not pretending!” Periwinkle snapped. Again, Weaver drew up short, and so did she.

“You forget I’ve been alone with you in the dark,” he said, edging closer to her, eyes narrowed, expression unbending. “And I know you’re faking all this”—Weaver gestured up and down at her—“for everyone else. You’ve been in pain. You’ve been afraid.”

“And I’ve been alone withyou, and you are not nearly as miserable a person as you’d prefer everyone else to think,” she said, seething. “Yes, I’ve been worried. But no, I’m not going to let one fear or feeling define me. We don’t have any control over our dreams or our impulses or our feelings; they’re just things happening inside our heads, and they don’t make us what we are—”

“The dark’s the only place people are honest!” Weaver interrupted. “We’re fairies who dream, we know better than anyone that what’s inside our head defines—”

But Periwinkle kept talking. “No. They don’t. Ourchoicesdo. And you’rechoosingto shut out people who have shown you kindness.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” she said forcefully. “You think the dark shows who people are. But the inside of someone’s head is only half the picture. That’s just what they want, or what they’re afraid of. It’s not the final say on who they are. Or who they could be.” Periwinkle looked away, unsettled. When she looked back at Weaver, his eyes were as intent on her as if he’d never seen her before.

For a moment, Periwinkle struggled to catch her breath.

“Maybe you’re right,” she finally said. “Maybe everyone’s only pretending to care about anyone else. Maybe in the dark, in secret,inside their own heads, everyone’s selfish and unkind. But I believe that goodness is real, and all of us can choose it if we want. But none of us can go through this world without it touching us, any more than we can avoid the dark.”

“And we can’t avoid the dark,” he said.

“I know, Weaver.” The dark—inside her head, out in the world—it was unavoidable. Periwinkle wasn’t naive.

But even in the worst of her nightmares, there was always that hand reaching out for hers. That spark of—something. Too firmly planted for even the harshest wind to move. Too bright for even the darkest night to smother.

With their conversation repeating itself in her head, Periwinkle wasn’t really thinking about what she was doing as she drifted over to a nearby oak tree. She didn’t even think to stop herself before she scraped a handful of snow off a branch, shaped it into a snowball, and threw it at Weaver’s back, smacking him right between his wings.

Weaver stopped dead in the air. When he turned to face her, his expression said Periwinkle might as well have grown a second head and pitchedthatat him.

“What was that?” he spluttered.

“A snowball,” she said helpfully. “I feel like you’ve probably encountered them bef—oof!”

It had happened in a jingle. Quick as quick, Weaver had rushed to a nearby rock pile, made a snowball of his own, and lobbed it at her face.

“You!” she bleated, spitting snow out of her mouth. And then they were off.

It wasn’t quite the snowball fight the rest of the fairies were holding for the Frost Festival; it was just the two of them. No teams, no forts, no strategies. They dashed around trees, hid behind leaves, caught each other and then tore away on the wind.

Periwinkle wasn’t sure who broke first. But tension had been building between them all afternoon, in the workshop and after they’d left. It eased, just a little, when Periwinkle surprised Weaver with a snowball to the side of the face and he burst into gasping laughter, stopping to catch his breath with his hands on his knees.

Periwinkle watched his smile, small but unguarded, and didn’t say a word.

“Tell me this,” he finally panted. “You can be brave for everyone else. You can be fake-sweet and friendly toward all of them. But at least be honest with yourself, Periwinkle, when the feelings aren’t so pretty.” He paused, dragging a hand through his hair. “And be honest with me.” Weaver’s shoulders shook with the effort of his breathing, eyes glittering like black stars. His lashes were thick enough to cast a shadow in the moonlight.

Periwinkle sighed, feeling suddenly tired. Not wrung out, but like she’d eaten a large meal and read a long book and was ready for a nap. It was a deep, contented feeling.

“Okay,” she finally said. Then they turned toward home.

That night, when Weaver followed Periwinkle inside, he knew where to set his things. His cot was neat, just as he’d left it. While Periwinkle flopped face-first onto her bed, Weaver poured her a cup of the tea she’d left frost-brewing all day and put together a winter salad for dinner.