Page 68 of Wings of Reverie

“There used to be more of us,” he said again. “And we could do all kinds of things. Not just…” He trailed off, voice getting damp. “Look at this. They kept leaving notes for each other. They had private jokes and running bets and ideas to help each other get better.”

And hearing the emotion in his voice, Periwinkle suddenly remembered two things.

She thought first of Weaver moving around the Bobbin Wood workshop, obviously amazed by everything. But though he’d been thrilled at finding the scissors, she’d thought he was looking for something else even as they were leaving.

The second thing she remembered was a conversation they’d had a couple nights earlier. Weaver had asked her about the Keeper’s sources—whatever he’d referenced for his notes in thedream-talent book. Obviously, Dewey had been getting his information somewhere, and Weaver had had so many questions about what those other books were, none of them practical. Periwinkle had been confused, almost irritated; they couldn’t ask Dewey about the original records, and they didn’t have time to go look for them on their own. She couldn’t figure out why Weaver would want to waste time hunting down more reading material for them to work through when the Keeper’s neatly written notes were (mostly) clear, short, and right in front of them.

But this was why. The look on Weaver’s face now was why.

Periwinkle was one of so many frost-talents. It had never occurred to her how isolated he must have felt all that time, separated from the other fairies by his incredible talent and his secrets. He’d needed to hold the journals of other dream-talent fairies, read their words, consider their ideas and their work, and know he wasn’t alone.

She was so glad to be there with him. To watch Weaver coming to see the world for the very first time as she’d always seen it. Even with tired violet circles under his eyes, he was lit from within like Periwinkle had never seen him before.

She lifted a hand to his cheek, heart aching at the raw amazement in every line of him.

Suddenly, though, Weaver straightened, trying to collect himself. “Do you hear that?” he asked. He moved toward the far end of the workshop, staring at the ceiling.

“Hear what?” she asked. Periwinkle followed him, poking herhead out into the tunnel. They waited in the doorway together, listening hard, but everything was quiet.

“Nothing, I guess,” Weaver said. But still, he didn’t move. Periwinkle looked down at the spindle, its surface cool in her shaking hands.

She didn’t know who had made it, or how long it been here, hidden, waiting. But the dream magic had shown them where to find it. And soon, Weaver would use it to make thread out of Periwinkle’s dreams.

And from the look of the sky they’d watched that afternoon, they had no time to waste.

Periwinkle nodded toward the mine shaft again. “We should get back,” she said. But just then, several things happened.

First, Periwinkle lost her grip on the spindle. She’d been turning it this way and that in the starlight when it flew out of her fingers and she lurched for it, catching it just before it hit the pebbled floor, knocking hard into the tunnel wall as she did.

Gripping the spindle tightly, she held it up to Weaver, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s okay,” she reassured him. But then came the sound of trickling dust again.

Periwinkle looked up, and Weaver’s eyes followed hers.

As quickly as Periwinkle had bolted toward the falling spindle, Weaver reached out and grabbed her hand, yanking her out of the hall and through the workshop doorway just as the shaft ceiling caved in with a sound like thunder. Rocks collapsed and dust flewand Periwinkle cried out, clutching the spindle in one hand and the front of Weaver’s shirt in the other.

When everything had gone quiet, the two of them were standing just inside the workshop door, Periwinkle shaking from wingtip to toe.

“It’s okay,” she said, voice trembling, holding up the spindle. “It’s okay. I didn’t drop it. I didn’t—”

“I don’t care.” Weaver took the spindle and set it on the nearest workbench with a dull thud. When he pulled her into his arms, Periwinkle felt he was shaking, too.

“I’m fine,” she said. “You really don’t—”

“No.” His voice was sharp. Weaver drew back to look at her, putting a hand to her cheek when he saw he’d startled her. “You promised, Periwinkle,” he said more softly. “You promised you wouldn’t fake it. Don’t pretend you’re fine, because you aren’t.”

She nodded shakily, hiding her face in his collar and breathing in the scent of resin, the feel of raven feathers. “You pulled me back,” she said, voice muffled by his waistcoat.You pulled me back toward you.

Weaver just nodded, burying his face in her hair. His fingers were callused where they gripped her shoulders, the evidence of his needlework and spinning and weaving, of all the beautiful things he’d made. His heart was crashing like an avalanche in his chest, so hard Periwinkle could feel it against her own. It made her feel breathless.

He hadn’t even hesitated. And he hadn’t even looked at the spindle when she’d checked that it was undamaged.

Suddenly, Periwinkle looked up. “Where’s Legs?”

“Right over there.” Weaver nodded at a table halfway across the workshop. Hearing his name, Legs jumped down and crossed the room to them, hopping first onto Weaver’s wrist, then to Periwinkle’s, then back to Weaver’s, looping their wrists together with a gossamer spider-silk bracelet.

“I think he wants us to keep an eye on each other,” Weaver said, and Periwinkle nodded against his shoulder. For a moment, the two of them just looked down at their wrists.

When the dust finally cleared, Weaver lifted their hands to his lips and kissed Periwinkle’s knuckles, and Legs’s bracelet broke, falling into torn threads on the ground. Weaver steered Periwinkle behind himself and moved toward the hallway to see what he could.