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“She said you’re quite the eloquent bloke.”

My eyelashes flap. His testimonial gives me and my brothers newfangled pause.

Puck draws out, “Juniper would never say that.”

“Oh?” her father inquires. “What would she say?”

At last, I hear perception lift Puck’s frown into a sideways grin, which reshapes his voice. “My, my, my. Like father, like scholar.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“She would call me a cunning scoundrel.”

The man’s interest is piqued. I recognize the challenge as well. It is a quiz.

Puck audibly folds the tree stumps of his arms and waits for the rest.

The man deliberates. “What’s her favorite word?”

“Book.”

“Least favorite story?”

“Anything with smut, unfortunately.”

“Cooking or baking?”

“Baking with a shitload of spice.”

“How does she take her coffee?”

“She doesn’t. Juniper drinks tea—sweetened with berry syrup, though she won’t admit it.”

“Quirks?”

“She glowers when she’s wrong about something. She hates being interrupted. She talks in her sleep—”

“I’d rather not discover how you know that,” the father grumbles.

“Sorry, luv. It’s the satyr in me.” A long, deep smirk fills Puck’s tenor. “And her proudest memory is you teaching her to read.”

That stumps the man, his reply teeming with the same emotions I feel for my lady. “Well,” he mumbles gruffly. “Well.”

“To the former, you must have meant Lark,” Cerulean discloses. “I’m the eloquent bloke.”

“And though you have not asked,” I finish, “Cove would fondly say I’m the brooding viper.”

The darkness alters. Black puddles shift from sooty to inky colors. I have described these signs to Cove. Along with my senses, different hues of black help me to perceive some of what’s occurring around me.

The father is mobile. His head is straying from Puck, to Cerulean, to me. “Sit. Down.”

I lower myself to the ground. Rustling linens shoot past my ears as Puck lobs a set of clothing to Cerulean, who catches the lot with a single hand.

“Figured you’d need these,” Puck says, then seats himself. Instead of the usual cavalier sprawl, his exhalations tell me he’s upright, one leg pitched and the other bent underneath.

Water sloshes. Cerulean vacates the basin, droplets sprinkling from his body and onto the tiles. A torrent rains from his wings as he shuffles into the pants but forgoes the shirt Puck must have brought. Unable to retract the plumes makes it impossible for Cerulean to sheathe his torso. The wings splat onto the floor and lag behind while he returns to a seated position.

From his end of the whirlpool, the mortal says, “My girls say they love you.”