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We slow to a canter and emerge into a glade of oak trees. They resemble the giant standing vigil at The Faerie Triad, as well as the arcade from when I’d first arrived in this realm.

In a neighboring field where acorns carpet the ground, a dozen silhouettes graze. Their antlers crank outward, the racks and crowns blooming wisteria, cascading with water droplets, and simmering with flames.

I soak in the pastoral view. The last time I’d seen these beauties, the hunt had been about to begin.

The largest oak stands in the center, its branches sprawling with candles. The trunk carves through the roof of a log cabin nestled at the base—a circular, two-story structure that wraps around the tree’s neck. One would think the house and oak have grown together, germinating from the same seed.

“What is this place?” I ask.

“The Herd of Deer,” Puck says. “My home.”

28

His home. The Herd of Deer is his home.

The great oak hovers above the log cabin, a vast umbrella of branches fanning over and beyond the residence, the roof dripping with broadleaves. Bucks, does, and hinds forage amidst the trees, the creatures’ spindle legs carrying them from one patch to the next.

Puck speaks over my shoulder. “There hasn’t been a safe time to show off my humble abode, but with all our researching and fucking, I figured now was our best bet for a palate cleanser. I know it’s a trifle size for a ruler, but then I’ve never fancied myself, ahem, the fancy type. I told you I was hands-on.” He clears his throat. “Don’t keep me in suspense, luv. Do…do you like it?”

“Like it…,” I trail off.

Once upon a time, I had assumed his kin lived indulgently. But similar to the other Faeries’ homes, Puck’s cabin is unassuming and rustic, picturesque in an unrefined way.

In all this time, why haven’t I thought to ask where he lives?

I twist to find him awaiting my reaction. Candlelight trickles through the glade, dusting the grass and embossing his hair in red-gold.

“It’s wonderful,” I tell him.

Satisfaction dances across his face. “Then come inside with me.”

I drop my forehead against his jaw, a sigh whooshing from me. I hadn’t realized I’d needed this—we both need this escape. But can we truly indulge, even for a few hours? How long will it last before this game catches up with us again?

“What are we going to do?” I mumble.

Puck slides his mouth across my temple. “We’re going to step inside, then you’re going to let me cook for you, then we’re going to sleep.”

The answer pricks my chest. Being here and seeing this place, I think about a normal life filled with simple things—breakfasts with steaming coffee, productive afternoons planting a garden, intimate nights reading and talking…and not reading or talking. I think about preparing a meal together while reflecting on our day and sharing news. I think about keeping animals here—ones that need our help, if any. I think about a life divided equally, allocated between time spent in his world and in mine, between his kin and my family. I think about that life, wild yet peaceful.

I adore and resent him for this brief sample. But no matter what, I’ll take it. If we don’t know what will happen tomorrow, I’ll take as much of it as I can have. I’ll take it until the last second, until the last drop of time when I have to resume this game.

Puck hops down and offers me his hand. We dismount Sylvan, who leaves to join the herd. The satyr welds our fingers together and leads me through the double doors.

Inside, oaken beams run across the low ceiling. The foyer tunnels to a living room with the oak’s trunk at its heart and a fireplace carving straight through the bark. Puck has outfitted the place with a masculine, robust flair. A supple leather sofa upholstered in warm sepia rings around the trunk, strewn with an abundance of plump evergreen cushions. Overgrown plants spill from pots lining the windowsills, the glass partitions interspersed by doorways leading to the kitchen, larder, dining room, bathroom, and closets.

Puck hooks my cloak, archery, and supply pack—with the book tucked inside—on to wall pegs, all in a row. He gives me a tour of every chamber except the bedroom loft, telling stories about the deer who meander outside these walls.

My attention falls on the panorama artwork affixed to the trunk and extending around its circumference over the fireplace. It’s a landscape painting of birches at dusk, coated in chunky swabs of green, blue, and saffron. “Who painted this?”

Puck brackets an elbow on the mantle. “Cypress.”

I startle. “He paints?”

“And bloody well, too. It’s a rendering of where we met.”

“The place where you and the faun…”

The satyr rumbles with mirth. “Yes, but there’s more to that memory. Cypress and I ended up lingering afterward, having our first chat. How swiftly we connected surprised us both. It was marvelous.” He considers the likeness. “The talented bugger was spot on with every aspect, down to the angles of light and specks of dust.”