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Other memories surface—delivering animal parts to the highest bidder, to homes where fauna heads had decorated the halls, to manors where ligaments had been displayed in glass cases. Those people had shown no interest in meat or furs. They hadn’t paid us to reduce the overpopulation in forests, so that other species could share the wild.

Rather, they’d wanted decorations for their parlors and embellishments for their carriages. They had wanted to make fashion statements and show off their wealth. I had given that to them.

Puck’s hushed words reach my ears. “But then what happened? How does this story continue?”

“I left,” I say.

“And what happened after you left?”

I found a family, so I’d never be alone again. I learned to read and write, so I’d never starve again, never be desperate again. I studied the Fables, to ensure I never underestimated an enemy again, never felt inferior again. I saved animals, so that I’d never regret my actions again.

Never again.

The satyr thumbs my tears, and our foreheads meet. We stay like this, my breaths growing steadier as the seconds tick by.

By contrast, his grow haggard. “Fables and fuck. That’s why the forest chose this hunt. It knows your fear.”

It does. But now that I’ve drained myself of that fear, a new thought dawns on me. Magic got us in here, but it can’t get us out.

No. This is going to take human skill.

“If it knows my fear, the woodland also knows my strengths,” I conclude. To emphasize, my eyes click over to where the Faeries stand vigil.

Puck contemplates that. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“The odds are sound. I am a know-it-all.”

After a moment of silent communication, a grin slides across his face. “Sounds like a merry plan.”

32

Our heads jerk toward the best candidate with whom to engage. This whole time, Tinder has been stealing glances at us, his gaze torn between resentful and wounded. While spying on him and Puck by the elm trees, I’d noted that the youth had looked up to the satyr.

Taking the direction of Puck’s gaze into account, I know he has drawn the same conclusion. Across the tube trees, he catches Tinder’s eye. The satyr and youth had been close until now. Perhaps not as close as Puck and Cypress, but close enough that guilt pinches the young one’s face. He may not have liked the centaur, but I don’t think Tinder had wanted to hurt Cypress. I don’t think Tinder likes hurting Puck, either.

“Wait for it,” Puck says to me.

On cue, Tinder marches in our direction. As the Fae approaches, the satyr turns my way. “Let me speak first?”

I nod, recognizing the culpability in his voice. He cares about Tinder.

We swivel as the youth crouches in front of us, a froth of black curls framing his jaded features. Tinder’s the very picture of disillusioned hero worship. But because he maintains a righteous sneer that doesn’t match the fragility in his eyes, it’s hard to tell whether he wants an apology for Puck’s treachery, or if he wants to apologize for betraying Puck in turn.

“Ready to grovel yet?” Tinder asks.

“Come now, luv,” Puck says. “I’m hardly dressed for groveling.”

“Then what are you staring at?”

“A friend.”

The male sniffs in a belligerent, you’ll-have-to-do-better-than-that manner. “You’re only saying this because you want out of the ring.”

“Sure, that’d be nice. I do want out of this ring, but that’s not why I’m saying it. I don’t loan my longbow to just anyone.”

The youth winces, his eyes flashing with hurt. To bolster himself, he crosses his arms, not sparing me a glance. “Then why her? Why her over the rest of us?”

“Now who said anything about me taking sides? Can’t a satyr have his cake and eat it, too? Maybe I want both parties to win, and maybe this is the way to do it. But if you’re asking why I adore her in the first place, that’s a long Fable. Have you got time?”