Page 88 of Wings of Reverie

The night had gone so wrong.

As his head pulsed again, Weaver thought back to the day he’d first staggered into the apothecary for help. The first time he’d met Dougal, his first friend in the Winter Woods.

The fairies out in Snowlight Square that day had stared at him in curiosity, some even in disdain. But when Weaver had pushed inside the apothecary, clutching his throbbing temples, Selene and Dougal had rushed to help him. No one had asked what was wrong with him before that.

Selene, of course, had become his second friend.

Weaver had been lost from the day of his Arrival. He hadn’t understood why none of the talent symbols had really responded to him during his talent-choosing ceremony—why he didn’t fit anywhere in this place, and why he dreamed when no one else did. But he’d been able to trust Dougal and Selene with the truth about his talent just days after he’d met them.

After that, there had been no secrets among the three of them. He’d moved near the apothecary in Snowlight Square so they could all be closer, and even then they’d suggested he just move into one of the rooms above the apothecary.

They’d been his best friends. But when Selene had died, she’d taken the best of Dougal with her. Weaver had told himself he’d do anything to get even one of the two of them back, but he’d been wrong.

Becauseanythinghad gone farther than he’d ever intended. And anyway, the old Dougal still hadn’t come back.

Weaver sat back onto his heels and scooped up the ugly little pile of nightmare-thread snippets. Then he put his hands together andpushed.

With the thread between his palms, with everything he had, Weaver did his best to crush the nightmare-thread into nothing. If he could, maybe it would destroy the nightmares slithering through the hall.

But nothing happened.

As the fairies slept on, their cries puncturing the night like needles, Weaver thought of the night Selene hadn’t come home. Of the guilt that had threatened to break his heart, because he’d known she had gone away for him.

It had been terrible. But this? This was no better.

The whole night, he thought again—it had all gone so, so wrong.

Dougal had told him how their plan would work weeks ago, how they would trap the winter fairies with Periwinkle’s nightmares. And since all of this was really Weaver’s fault, he’d told himself that was how it had to be.

People had to understand how Dougal had suffered. If they did, maybe he could finally start to heal.

They’d all deserved it, anyway. Or at least—he’d thought so. Then Periwinkle had challenged him, and he’d been forced to consider that maybe he really did push other people’s kindness away. Just as she’d forced him to really see the Keeper and Lord Milori tonight. All their regrets, all their efforts.

Maybe they weren’t enough for Dougal. Maybe they weren’t enough, period. But it didn’t sound like they didn’t care about Selene. It sounded like they cared a lot.

It sounded like Dougal and Weaver weren’t the only ones with limitations, and that for a long time, he’d been choosing resentment and shame because it was easier than reckoning with the truth.

And it meant that they’d gone too far, trying to make everyone understand.

It was agony. Missing Selene, who was gone forever. Feeling guilty, knowing it was in part because of him. Getting better as the fairy flu left him, while Dougal got worse.

They’d both completely failed to see that the winter fairies’ suffering wouldn’t undo their own. Because the fairies’ being trapped in nightmares wouldn’t bring Selene back.

Worst of all, Weaver would never forgive himself for the pain he’d caused Periwinkle. He’d burn with the shame of what he’d done forever. It was why he’d held Dougal back, just for a moment, while she’d cut the nightmare-thread—only to reveal that their plan had spiraled completely out of control.

And now, Weaver was getting nowhere. He cried out in painagain, dropping the snarled pile of thread onto the floor, hands shaking and sizzling with icy heat.

He knew this was pointless, just as he’d known that he’d wrecked things with Periwinkle once and for all when she’d flown away. But he had to try to undo the damage he’d done.

Weaver was a dream-talent. If he couldn’t end the winter fairies’ nightmares, then no one could.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he put his still-burning palms against the heap of nightmare-thread again. A scream tore through his gritted teeth, but he didn’t pull away.

Just then, a shout—not his own—came from the doorway. Weaver turned, shoulders heaving, tears in his eyes as he crouched on the ice.

It couldn’t be her. But—it was her.

“Periwinkle?” He could hardly believe it. He could hardly speak.