Page 47 of Wings of Reverie

Besides the suncatcher, it was pitch black beneath the Drift. All around them were naked birches covered in ivy and thorns, wisps and wreaths of fog hovering high up in their branches. Periwinkle noticed that not one of the trees was properly frosted, because no one, frost-talent or otherwise, seemed to have visited the Drift in a very long time.

But they’d found a forest there beneath the snow, and that wasn’t nothing. Periwinkle barely blinked as she watched the woods around them, feeling her heart thump, knowing her eyes must look like plates.

But there was nothing to see. Not a cardinal, not a rabbit, not a badger or a ferret—and not a spark of a dream, not in any form she could recognize or imagine. Just themselves and the trees and the vines and the fog, as far as Periwinkle’s eyes could see. The air was stuffy and still, the flutter of their wings the only breath of wind she felt.

“Chase the dreams,”Periwinkle mumbled under her breath. But what was there to chase? What had the Keeper’s note even meant? “Does it meanourdreams?”

“Maybe.” Weaver frowned, pressing a hand to his temple and wincing. Periwinkle racked her brain.

“I’ve dreamed about…night markets. And being on the Mainland. Other things. But mostly I’ve dreamed about the storm and the Pixie Dust Tree and the root. But how do we chase that?” She threw up her hands. “Going toward those places would take us south andawayfrom the forest.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with our dreams about the Pixie Dust Tree,” Weaver said dismissively. Periwinkle crossed her arms (awkward, with the suncatcher) and looked at him expectantly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that,” he said quickly, wincing again. “I’ve got a headache. They always put me in a bad mood.”

“I wondered why you were always making faces and rubbing your forehead,” Periwinkle said. “Is that why? A headache? I’ve never heard of one.”

Weaver nodded. “I get them sometimes. Be glad you don’t.” Then he sighed. “To your point, I guess the clue could be to do with our specific dreams. I just don’t see how those would point us toward the workshop.”

“You’re probably right,” Periwinkle admitted. “But then, what are we supposed to make ofchase the dreams?”

But then she caught a glimpse of something again, there in her periphery. Movement, and light. Periwinkle stopped and squinted, holding her lightcatcher up at the overhead canopy. Then she set her jaw, and pointed herself upward.

“Hey!” Weaver called, hurrying after her. “What are you doing?”

“I saw something.”

“Yeah, a lot of thick fog, where you might get lost and turned around.”

“No. It was something else,” she insisted. “I—” But then they reached the canopy, and both of them drew up short.

“It’s not fog,” Weaver said wonderingly. “It’s—it’s cobwebs.”

“Cobwebs?” Periwinkle asked. “But it’s too cold for bugs in Winter.”

And yet, there they were. Spiderwebs were everywhere, woven so thick they lay like blankets or clouds in the treetops, spider silk threaded around and over and between the naked birch branches.

“Didn’t”—Weaver hesitated, touching a single strand of it woundaround a twig. “Didn’t the Keeper’s notes call this place the Bobbin Wood?” Periwinkle nodded, laying her hand against the tree’s silver bark, cold and papery smooth beneath her hand.

There was something here that she couldn’t understand. That she wouldhaveto understand, to find the magic scissors and save the Pixie Dust Tree.

Looking at this forest, lost to time but utterly at peace—the farthest thing possible from the chaos and destruction in her dreams—she couldn’t help the bolt of worry that pricked her heart.

In the dark and windless forest, the closest spiderweb began to stir.

“Periwinkle.” Weaver spoke her name quietly, as if he were afraid to raise his voice.

“I know,” she whispered back. Because she could already see what he saw.

A tiny iridescent spider, no bigger than Periwinkle’s pinky nail, descended slowly from the nearest web on a fine line of spider silk. It was as fuzzy as a baby bunny, with large liquid eyes and eight banded legs, the color of the aurora and Periwinkle’s good dreams.

It looked just like Legs.

Periwinkle gave a soft gasp.

She held out her hand for the little spider, curling her fingers a bit as its tiny body dropped into her palm. To Periwinkle’s surprise, Legs crawled out from Weaver’s pocket then and jumped into her hand, too.

The two little spiders slowly approached each other, circling and bumping their heads together as if they were old friends.

“What does it mean?” Weaver asked. Periwinkle thought she’d never seen him look so uncertain—so soft. Legs and the other spider looked up at him, their large, innocent eyes gleaming in the light of the suncatcher.