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I loop the skirt thread into the hole and press it through Sylvan’s fur. Puck continues whispering to her while I stitch the wound closed, blood smearing my fingers. Lastly, I use the edge of Cerulean’s javelin and cut the arm of my sweater. After wadding the material onto the stitches, I cinch everything in place with Lark’s whip. Then I join Puck, petting the deer and waiting.

And waiting. And waiting.

The crowd inches nearer, scarcely making a noise. At last, dawn burns through the canopy, soaking us in burnished hues of goldenrod. The wind filters through the trees while candle flames spring higher, drenching the clearing in additional light.

Sylvan stirs. Her breathing evens out, her pallor brightening to rich russet once more.

Impassioned sighs multiply through the area. The Faeries’ voices overlap, shaken and intermingling like a thousand leaves breaking from their stems.

Lark clamps on to my shoulder. “Hell yeah,” she utters in a choked voice. “You did it, woman.”

Tear streaks dry across my skin as I fixate on the deer. Tension leeches from my muscles, and a torrent of relief surges through me.

Puck’s eyes rove over Sylvan. When she nudges his hand again, he cradles the deer’s face. “Fables and fuck,” he sob-chuckles, then sweeps his attention to me and says with gruff affection, “Smart woman.”

A small, weepy laugh spurts from my throat. I rub Sylvan’s back, gazing at her until certain she won’t disappear.

She’s all right. She’s all right now.

But I’m not done yet. As if my actions have pried open a gate, additional thoughts swarm my consciousness. That long-ago discussion when Cypress gave me the scribe’s tome resurfaces. Before handing over the original manuscript, he’d asked me which is the wisest part of a tree. I’d said the sum of its parts.

That’s what knowledge is—the sum of experiences. That’s the knot, the heartwood.

I think about The Wicked Pines, where Puck had ordered me to tell a story, but I’d flubbed. I think about my notebook and Puck suggesting I write a book of my own. I think about trusting the value of my own words. I think about how often I’ve been wrong in this land and how I feel more knowledgeable because of it.

The second task had been to tell the Faeries a Fable about this animal—one they’ve never heard. I won’t find it in the Book of Fables, neither in the original nor my own volume. That story has to come from me.

All at once, I know how it goes and clear my throat.“Once in the dark forest, a Stag hunted a Doe.”I swap a definitive look with the satyr, then recall everything that’s happened since our reunion.“So she hunted him back.”

I speak from the pit of my stomach, infusing my fears and loves and hates and desires into it. I recite with experience and inexperience, with curiosity and humbleness. I narrate randomly and imperfectly, and somehow, the pieces string together.

The moral is this: Even a human has magic, worth, and strength. Even a human has a deep connection to nature. Even a human and an animal can heal each other. Even a Fae can recognize this. Even a human and Fae can share an unbreakable bond.

Sylvan. Puck. Me.

When I finish the tale—our tale—I complete the third task. To prove the story’s moral is true, the only necessary act is a gentle one, profound in its simplicity and sincerity.

I brush my lips against Sylvan’s forehead, and she nestles against my hip. Then I swipe the final tear from Puck’s face. And he reciprocates by taking my fingers and kissing them.

But like a typical Fae, the satyr pushes that gesture a step further and exceeds what my heart can bear.

Puck clutches my hand and then releases it. And he whispers tenderly, selflessly, “Go home, Juniper.”

35

It was always going to happen, always going to end this way. Winner or not, I was always going to lose him.

His words rob me of speech. That devilish smirk hasn’t lost its artifice, but it has gained a wistful slant.

Inside, I crack into brittle pieces. Outside, I go numb.

Yet somehow, I manage to nod. And somehow, he manages to grin.

What transpires over the next few hours requires concentration and perseverance. With the presence of my sister anchoring me, I manage to readapt.

Because I’ve won, I don’t need anyone’s blessing to leave. The only potential tragedy left is if Cove loses her game. Since there’s been no news of that, I’m free to go. I can leave with Lark or return to Papa. It’s my choice.

But not yet.