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I jolt in realization, glimpsing the compact dell and its fruit trees anew. “The Seeds that Give.”

Puck’s silence is enough. This is the place he had spoken about, the place where woodland Faeries are born from seeds. This is where he began.

He kisses my nape. “I wish I could see where you came from.”

“I was a foundling,” I remind him.

“That’s how you started, luv. That’s not how you ended.”

The gap in his tone is unmistakable, the bereavement of it. The notion of being born from a seed might sound romantic and whimsical, but it isn’t. Not to him.

If he knows how to interpret my expressions, I know my way around his words. So that’s what he’d meant during our talk in The Heart of Willows, when he’d called the mountain and river Folk lucky for their ability to reproduce, however seldom.

I scoot around, catching Puck’s expression before he has time to conceal it. On the other hand, he doesn’t fight to hide the signs.

I lean on my elbow, my breasts about to spill from the drooping camisole. “You said you deny nothing. You said you plant your secrets and let them grow for the world to view. Number one, that negates the definition of a secret. Number two, trees have roots.”

Roots that no one can see unless a person searches deeply enough.

Puck’s face twitches. “Smart woman.”

“Know-it-all,” I correct. “Puck?”

“Yeah?”

“More than anything, who do you want to be?”

“Someone’s son.” The answer comes out slowly. “Someone’s father.” The satyr grins, the humor failing to reach his eyes. “Hell, at least I’ve never been told to do my chores or morphed into some starchy, overprotective parent.”

All this time, he’s lived as an archetypal satyr of folklore. All the while, he’s compensated in the roguish, flippant way expected of his kind, indulging himself in harems and orgies. When, in fact, he wants something more. Something I had managed to find with Papa Throne, Cove, and Lark.

Satyrs may not need love. But that doesn’t mean they don’t want to be part of a family.

Puck flits his digits. “It’s not as dire as it sounds. As for the rest, Cerulean and Elixir are my brothers-in-arms, Sylvan is my sister, Cypress is my best friend, and everyone is my lover. I fancy sex as much as the next Fae and get plenty of attention. There, you see? I keep myself merrily busy.”

“And what am I?” I ask.

His eyes consume me. “Minn ó feijleiji,” he whispers. “My weakness.”

“Minn ó stürjur,” he adds. “My strength.”

The answer enfolds me like a blanket. And then he says, “I was going to manipulate the rules, to give you extra time. Only as a precaution, in case you didn’t come up with anything at the feast. Though, I’d wagered you would. That was a precious fucking bargain, luv.” He peers at me. “Is there really another way to preserve our land?”

A question tucked within a question. I encode his meaning. What am I leaving out of this bargain? What am I not saying?

A breeze sneaks through the trees, rustling the shingles of leaves.

I want to tell him but can’t. I can’t because the bargain has been made; it’s set and binding. He knows this, just as he patently suspects I had disguised my words while making that deal.

He’s correct. Although I can’t outright confide this to him, there’s no harm in alluding to it. Is there a second way to save his world? One that doesn’t involve sacrificing my people?

“The book says there is,” I answer.

Puck absorbs my reply, converting it to its true meaning. “Such foxiness.”

Yes, there’s another way. The Book of Fables just doesn’t give specifics. Precisely what this alternative option is, well, that’s yet to be figured out. In the meantime, I had only promised to show the Solitaries the trail I’d found.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” I say.