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She stalls, her ears pricking. Rather than danger, she senses torment.

At least I hadn’t armed myself with the crossbow. At least, that.

Despite the past, and despite my tattoo, I want to rush back to the cabin. I want to tell Puck what’s happened, figure a way out of this. But I can’t just yet. I can’t because the news is still curdling in my belly.

I’m going to be sick. Whirling, I sprint into the trees. As I pump my arms and legs, acorn shells snap under my boots. I run blindly, my pulse hammering.

Opal eyes flash from an overhead bough. An unknown dweller rustles inside the womb of a shrub. Several leagues away, a marsupial hisses in my direction.

I’m weaponless. Thus, I’m being senseless.

An eternity later, the oaks vanish behind me. I must have crossed the dividing line into a new location, because these trees possess narrow, tubelike trunks and slender leaves that remind me of splinters. Likely, this species is native to Faerie.

I stagger in place. I just need a moment before figuring out what to do. I need this moment. I need to…to…

My body topples to the ground, where I hunch over and spew into the grass. The contents of my stomach splatter the neighboring plants. Flattening my palms on the ground, I empty myself.

Wheezes peal from my cracked lips. I think of Cove, who would rub my back and console me, urging me to breathe, breathe, breathe.

Another noise floods the atmosphere. From a distance, the faint hum of a cello glides into the forest. The music reverberates in my ears, stroking, tugging.

I wipe my mouth with my forearm and hobble to my feet. “Puck?”

I trail those notes through the foliage. The melody evades me like a mirage, out of reach no matter which way I swerve. An object squashes under my boot. At the same time, the cello music evaporates, swallowed by silence. Deceptive, eerie silence.

I halt in confusion. Then I see it—a ring of mushrooms.

The fungi surround me, but they aren’t the teal-and-white dotted toadstools I’d encountered beyond The Faerie Triad. A slimy film coats these caps, their arrangement far too orderly to be natural, their placement methodic rather than organic.

Of my entire family, I’m the only one who’s bothered to peruse the Fables’ appendices. Among the notations, several address the disparities of time between worlds. The hours run parallel but for one hiccup. If anyone steps into a Fae ring, time stalls. While trapped in the confines, the captive exists in a void where the seconds stagnate. Whereas outside of that ring, time will proceed, so that what seems like minutes is actually days. What feels like days is weeks, in reality.

A Fae ring steals time.

If I was sick before, it hits critical mass now. The woodland tilts, and a hazy sensation clouds my head. As I sink to the ground, my head lands in a pillow of vegetation.

Baffled, I replay the music in my psyche and realize the fraudulent tune hadn’t come from Puck. And while it had been a stringed instrument, it hadn’t been a cello.

From someplace nearby, laughter coils through the trees, mirth honed at the edges of filed teeth. I claw at the grass. I mumble and lick my lips. All the while, my audience titters.

When I recover, I will put a bolt through those chortling mouths. I will find my mark. But first, I’m so very tired, so very cozy. It’s time to rest…time…time…lots of time.

My eyes droop, but I smile and snuggle into the grass. So this is what it’s like, being glamoured. One really does learn something new every day.

30

I’m lying on my belly, concealed behind a bush and waiting for the animal to emerge from its hiding spot. I’m cocking my tiny finger over the crossbow’s trigger. I’m hoping, dreading, gulping.

The creature’s pelt will fetch a decent price. But its claws…those will secure a fortune, a month of meat, bread, and cheese. Perhaps a fresh pair of socks.

Inside my boot, my big toe wiggles through the gash in my stockings. New socks. Now that would be a luxury.

The men lurk behind me, scrutinizing my posture, my aim. If I get this wrong, I won’t live it down.

They won’t let me. They rarely do.

My knees quiver. I can’t take another round of name-calling, another bout of them yanking on my hair and barking into my face to get my act together, to suck it up, to learn. Why did they pluck me off the streets, if I’m useless to them?

I’d like to flee from this gang. I want to, but where would I go? What would I eat?