Page 98 of Wings of Reverie

Periwinkle hadn’t gone to the Mainland this year to bring winter and rest to the human world. But as she and Weaver let go of the tapestry and watched it flutter down slowly like a blanket over the nightmares and the nearest sleeping fairies, Periwinkle could feel peace begin to return to the Hall of Winter. Even with the weaving blocking her view of what was happening underneath it, she could sense the air growing clearer, and she knew the nightmare fibers were being destroyed.

And as the shadows faded from the room, the sleeping fairies began to wake.

“Weaver,” she whispered. His eyes met hers, hopeful, and the two of them swooped toward the floor.

The fairies roused slowly, one and then another and then dozens and scores more, their confused murmurs rising into loud talk and questioning. Some rubbed their eyes and stared around; others seemed calm but drowsy; a few sat up gasping in fear, clutching at their neighbors. Nearly all of them began pulling their friends upright or helping them flutter weakly to their feet as they stared around the hall, clearly waiting for someone to explain what had happened. Periwinkle and Weaver hurried through the crowd, urging them out into the fresh air.

“Weaver,” Periwinkle called, working her way toward him. “There must be hundreds of fairies in here, and they’re going to need to be looked after. What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” Weaver said. Neither of them had thought much about what would happen after they’d woken everyone up.

Periwinkle hadn’t thought about how welcome a familiar voice would sound, either.

“Periwinkle!” Lord Milori’s voice cut through the clamor. His eyes were red, as if he’d been fighting hard to stay awake before the nightmares had taken him. Beside him, the Keeper hobbled toward the hall doors, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Periwinkle, what happened?”

“Dewey! Lord Milori!” Periwinkle surged toward them, grateful to find them upright. “Are you both all right?” she asked.

“Yumpin’ Yetis,” the Keeper mumbled. “I’d rather not go through that again, but yes, I’m all right.” Relieved, Periwinkle hugged him, then surprised Lord Milori by flinging her arms around him, as well. After that, she explained everything as briefly as she could.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you were keeping the danger to the Pixie Dust Root a secret, but it was Dougal. He had a plan to trap all the winter fairies in a nightmare,” she finished.

“Oh, Periwinkle.” Lord Milori shook his head. “I saw the blight near the well and recognized it as a dark magic from long ago, but I wasn’t sure how it had returned. And so I kept the truth to myself.” He grimaced. “I should’ve listened to my suspicions and taken you to the Mainland myself as soon as your wings were dry. Not that your friends do much to keep you out of trouble.”

“Milori.” Dewey gave him a sidelong glance and a sidelong elbow.

“My apologies.” Lord Milori cleared his throat and met Periwinkle’s eyes, his own thoughtful—humble, even. “Perhaps I, myself, should have been more open.”

Weaver crossed to Periwinkle’s side, steeling himself as he took in the two sparrow men. “It wasn’t just Dougal’s plan,” he said. “But I want to make things right. I need to talk to both of you. I—” But Weaver broke off as a voice cut across Juniper Glade.

It was Dougal’s.

“You,”the healer snarled, pointing at Weaver—and then at Lord Milori. His eyes were burning, his face carved in miserable lines, fixed in a mask of exhausted, hopeless anger.

He looked like something captured in ice, Periwinkle thought. Frozen, unable to change, with no room to move or expand. Trapped in one place forever, forever reliving one terrible experience.

And then, before anyone knew what was happening, he was in front of the hall.

Shouts went up all around the courtyard as Dougal threw himself at Lord Milori, his swings wild, his elbows and fists everywhere. Almost as soon as the fight had begun, though, it was over. Lord Milori watched Dougal with an expression of severity and sadness as two other fairies gripped the healer’s wrists.

“You,” Dougal howled, “are never going to understand.” He glared at Weaver, nearly weeping in his fury and betrayal.

Weaver winced. But Periwinkle squeezed his hand, giving him an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

“I understand more than you think,” Lord Milori said. He held a hand to his jaw; at least one of the healer’s punches had landed. “I know how much you have lost. But your life is not over. Selene would not have—”

Dougal exploded. He wrenched away from the fairies restraining him. “Don’t talk to me about what Selene would’ve wanted,” he said, raging, swinging again for Lord Milori even as tears began to fill his eyes.

“Stop!” Another shout came from across the glade, carried on the wind along with a familiar howl. “Dougal, stop!”

The speaker was still hidden in the juniper trees, close to where Dougal himself had called out to them all. But the healer suddenly paled, knuckles white, knees giving way.

“Dougal, you have to stop this,” said the voice again—familiar to Periwinkle, she suddenly realized, and growing closer by the second.

With a bark, Harlow crashed through the nearest snowdrift, not dancing or dawdling but running at full tilt ahead of the sled she’d pulled up Snow Globe Mountain. Holding the reins was Icaria, the newly arrived fairy Periwinkle had seen at the ball that night, the one she’d met at the snow-lantern competition.

Murmurs filled the glade as she steered the sled close to the hall doors, driving with more strength and grace than either Periwinkle or Weaver had managed that night. Beside Periwinkle, Weaver gasped, his face going as white as Dougal’s.

“What?” She frowned, putting a hand on his shoulder. Legs nestled against Weaver’s neck, all eight dark eyes wide and worried for his friend. But Weaver only shook his head.