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Lark lurches from the bench, twists toward the fire, and spits out her wine. The chalice’s contents spritz the flames, whiffs of blackthorns and grapes scattering into the air.

Her smarmy laughter soars to the firmament. “Hot damn. Between the lot of us, now I can’t decide whose story will have spicier content.”

“Oh, that will always be me and my woman,” Puck advocates.

Thorne coughs. “Father, sitting right here,” he reminds us. “As much as I’m willing to give my daughters my blessing, I don’t need the details. You three—,” he warns me and my brothers, “—are still on trial.”

“Gladly,” Cerulean responds on our behalf, which is better than me or Puck opening our mouths.

Beside me, Cove’s skin heats in a manner that testifies to a rather expansive blush. I glance her way and find pink brushstrokes floating up her cheeks. “Um moreover, Fables don’t have—” she flaps her fingers, “—explicit scenes.”

“Well, my and Cerulean’s story sure as shit does,” Lark objects.

“Guilty,” Puck adds, then clears his throat. “Apologies, Thorne. I promise, it’s not all smut. There’s also angst, redemption, and tears.”

My eyebrows snap into a bridge. “Fables are less than three pages long.”

“Yeah, and whichever imbecile made up that rule doesn’t impress me.”

Juniper sighs. “In one of my stories, I may have…added my own…romantic paragraphs, too.”

“You?” everyone but Puck asks.

The female crinkles her nose. “Well. You don’t have to make it sound like that.”

“It’s sexy,” Puck upholds. “I read it before we got here.”

“Tease,” Lark accuses.

I’ll bet that is not the only thing my brother and Juniper did before they arrived disheveled. According to Cove, their clothes had been in disarray. Puck’s leathers and Juniper’s blouse had been drenched in the scent of sex.

Matter of fact, so had Cerulean’s and Lark’s clothing. Not that either of them had been wearing much when Cove and I had knocked on The Fauna Tower’s door hours ago. My brother’s mate had sidetracked him to the point where they’d been fucking so intensely, they had forgotten the time of our gathering.

Aside from that, we’d heard them. It was hard not to.

I cannot blame either pair. For I have been keeping Cove busy in numerous places throughout The Deep and in a variety of positions. There has been much to celebrate. Aside from rebuilding the underground river, my greatest task of late has been to ply Cove with orgasms. That alone is a privilege.

As eventide soaks the land in darkness and lightness, a breeze carries native sounds from the wildlife park. The small boar who gave Puck grief with the Evermore Blossom has made its way here. But most vividly, a wolverine and a ram call out, then a falcon rasps. The surviving fauna drift among handfuls of the restored ones, including those who raised Cerulean, his wild family having taken a liking to this area.

Earlier, Sylvan and Lotus had retreated into the park to explore. Meanwhile, Tímien belts through the sky with the nightingale, the raven, and his kin. A dozen hoots from The Parliament of Owls project like metallic horns across the Solitary wild.

At last, Juniper shuts the journal with a satisfied breath. “It’s done. For now, at least.”

“And?” Lark insists.

“And you’ll just have to read the whole thing for yourself.”

“Really? No appraisal? That’s a first.”

“I’ve learned some things don’t need to be perfect. Nobody’s story is.”

“There’s my tree of knowledge,” Thorne beams.

It is true. The journal has been passed from Juniper to her sisters, then from Fae to Fae. Each page has been claimed by a different contributor, everyone playing the role of scribe and telling their own story. It has turned into a Journal of Fables…and poems…and memoirs…and tales. It is a vignette of all who’ve lived here.

With the pages filled, the wild has repaired itself, the fauna restored, and our lifeline stitched back together.

Anyone who cares to read the collection may do so, be they Fae or human. Anyone who wishes to contribute to the anthology in the future will also have that right.