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“What the hell?” She calms down, gaping at me like I’ve grown horns. “Him?”

“Yes. Him,” I say, giving her a sibling-worthy look.

As the meaning takes root, quiet permeates the weald. Finally, Lark’s countenance morphs into shock. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

I shake my head, because when have I ever not meant what I’ve said to her?

It takes my sister a while to get her bearings. She dumps her fists on her hips and regards me with adoration and bafflement. Then she scoffs at Puck. “Quit grinning like an asshole. Don’t go thinking this gets you off the hook. One word from Juniper, and I’ll make good on your nuts.”

“Believe me, luv,” Puck vows. “Your sister’s already got the monopoly on those merry nuts.”

“Be very careful.” In one hand, Cerulean twirls his javelin with deliberate slowness. “Call my mate ‘luv’ again, and I’ll help her string you up.”

“Such affection.” Puck winks at his brother. “Enough pleasantries. Tell me how much you’ve missed me.”

Cerulean’s javelin halts midrotation. He huffs with mirth and responds in Faeish, whatever he says widening Puck’s smirk.

Lark pinches my elbow. “You’ve got explaining to do, hussy.”

That’s going to be a long story. I nudge my head toward the masculine source of my sister’s own indiscretion. “That makes two of us.”

Her face knits, transforming from irate to sheepish.

Cerulean’s wings have retracted and disappeared. He steps nearer, a tall specimen in loose linen clothing and a long coat that buffets the wind. His hair and lips are the color of a midnight sky, and despite the Fae’s shorter shag of layers, a single braid dangles longer, falling into the plunging V of his neckline. Lastly, a set of golden plume caps adorn the tips of his ears.

I’ll grant, it’s no wonder Lark went rogue with him. Cerulean’s just her type—male and pretty.

It strikes me that he hadn’t moved to stop Lark from charging at the satyr. He’d simply stood by while she took the initiative, as if he’d known better. Or rather, because he knows Lark’s choices are her own, and he’s not about to change that, especially since they’d both suspected Puck of treachery.

Lark’s mate speaks to me with an eloquent slope to his accent. “We haven’t been introduced. Call me Cerulean.”

“Juniper,” I return before my sister can rectify the situation.

“A sharp tree, indeed,” he interprets. “At some point, let’s get better acquainted, shall we? Say, when my glorious mate isn’t eager to castrate your lover?”

“Agreed.”

Although I’d like to start the conversation now, we have other pressing matters. And yes, my sister needs to calm down. Plus, I wager she’s hungry. She’s insufferably cranky when she’s hungry.

Puck swaggers up behind me, enveloping me in his warmth. A lump buds in my throat. Suddenly, appropriately, I’m overwhelmed. He must know, because his chest flanks my back, bolstering me as I lean into him.

He’s alive. Lark’s alive. They’re in one piece.

We all are, for the time being.

From the sidelines, Cypress averts his gaze and makes a show of harnessing his archery. I’m about to spring his way and startle him with a hug, but Lark’s mate cuts off the impulse.

“By the way, you’ll have to excuse our tardiness,” Cerulean says. “Brawls are so inconvenient, always occurring at random.”

“Speaking of which,” Puck interjects. “How did you know? I didn’t call out to you.”

I swing my head between them. “Then who did?”

“That was me,” a female voice chirps from her perch on a tree branch.

That scanty Fae with the papery moth wings sits among the fir needles and pinecones, her limbs swinging back and forth. Her topaz eyes sparkle, the vibrant hue matching the finely spun nest of hair piled atop her head. She wears a gauzy gown as pale as her complexion. For what it’s worth, the pint-sized female looks to be Tinder’s age or a bit younger.

“Ah, if it isn’t Moth of the Cantankerous Committee,” Puck says. “Charmed to see you.”