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I’ll wait until the coast is clear. I’ll be patient until the satyr has finished visiting with Sylvan, then I’ll take my turn.

In the meantime, Cerulean has gone with his brother, needing a private word. Lark and Moth huddle under a fir tree, talking in hushed tones. My sister hasn’t approached yet, having sensed I’d needed a precious moment alone.

Now that the scrimmage is over, several elks appear in the vicinity and graze among the firs. I sit beside a sparkling creek, where the water flops over stones, the surface reflecting midday. After washing my hands and removing my boots and socks, I dip my feet into the babbling stream, eternally marveling at its lukewarm temperature. It feels good, though I can’t wait for a bath.

A sack lands at my hip. I jolt to where my supply pack rests.

“Do not thank me, moppet.” A baritone voice fills the void, and a hulking figure looms beside me. “It was a trivial errand.”

Leveling my hand like a visor to blot out the sun, I gaze up at the centaur. Although the broad horn helmet shields half of his visage, the radiance of his dark complexion implies his wound is healing at an expedited rate. That same flush of exertion also certifies that he’s been busy, conveying Sylvan to The Herd of Deer and then fetching the pack from Puck’s cabin.

When I gesture to the ground, the centaur lowers himself next to me. For a while, we observe the marigold rays spearing through the needle leaves and pelting the water’s surface.

“The Book of Fables,” I begin. “I left it in Puck’s cabin, too.”

“I have retrieved it for my territory,” the equine replies. “It has served you well.” He shuffles as if uncomfortable, as though he’s hunkered atop a patch of loose gravel. “Do not go.”

My head swings toward him. “What?”

“I crossed paths with Puck when I was leaving Sylvan with the herd. He informed me of your plans to settle with your sister and her mate. I would ask you to reconsider this. Do not go. Stay here.”

“Why?” I blurt out. “My sister’s in the mountain, whereas I have nobody here.” My voice clangs steadily when I say this, even though I feel anything but stable. “I can be an ally to you and Puck from the safety of Cerulean’s tower. Puck and his brother talked with us about establishing a hub, a meeting place where the mountain and forest intersect. It’s settled.”

“It is not settled,” Cypress disputes, unleashing a huff that jostles his leather nose ring. “I would not beg this of you if I did not believe you truly wished for it. Am I wrong?”

He’s not wrong. I let my expression verify that, telling its own story for Cypress, knowing he’ll understand.

Satisfied, he forges ahead. “You would be safe in The Heart of Willows—or in Puck’s cabin with the herd. After what happened to Sylvan, my kin would not dare to penetrate that area. I vouch for this and shall guard you with my life, as will Puck. He will never push you, never press such a burden on you, so he keeps this to himself: He does not want you to go.”

“Puck told you that?”

“He did not have to. Do not leave him. Please…” Cypress swipes off his helmet and thrusts it to the ground, then shoves the words out. “Your feelings for one another are matched. You need each other.”

I swallow. “Why are you saying this?”

The centaur is quiet for a long time. He contemplates the water, his profile rigid, strung tight. Then like a band stretched too far, it releases. His voice tapers to a whisper. “I want him to be happy.”

I blink at this tremendous being hunched over, his mane cascading around his profile. That austere face carved from granite collapses, its scaffolding breaking down. His brows crinkle with protectiveness.

With heartache.

Realization pummels me in the chest, sympathy and shock colliding. Every previous interaction with the centaur takes on a new shape, gaining new clarity.

At the hunt’s onset, I’d hidden in the elms and eavesdropped on Cypress, Tinder, and Puck. The satyr had given his longbow to Tinder not only to foster trust, but to encourage the youth to leave, to keep him from registering my presence. Indeed, the centaur and satyr had known I was there but hadn’t exposed me.

Now I know why. Now I know the impetus behind their silent communication, that look between them while discussing my whereabouts after Tinder had departed. The pair had been checking to see if the other knew I was hiding nearby. Once they’d confirmed it, Cypress had wordlessly waited to see if Puck would take action. When the satyr hadn’t, the centaur understood that Puck didn’t want to reveal me. The game could have ended then, but Cypress had played along. He’d done that for Puck.

Before the bonfire, Cypress had warned me to be careful with Puck. He’d already known something was brimming between me and the satyr, and Cypress had sought to safeguard us from being discovered. That’s why he’d watched us carefully during the feast. He’d taken stock of our behavior, checking to make sure no one else noticed or suspected.

In The Roots that Take, Cypress had charged onto the scene with a vengeance, knowing Puck and I were in danger. And during the battle, he’d roared when a Fae had attempted to strike Puck down.

I recall each look that stoic face had aimed Puck’s way, including the reluctant grins Puck was able to inspire in him. I recall Cypress’s painting affixed to Puck’s living room wall, depicting the place where they’d met. I recall how Puck had stared at the rendering with fondness, but nothing more.

Puck is scarcely a clueless fop, yet… “He doesn’t know,” I say.

Cypress’s throat bobs. “I told you once. Amorous devotion confuses satyrs, and it is uncommon for them to feel that degree of ardor. Oftentimes, they are not equipped and cannot recognize that level of passion or fidelity in partners. Not unless the feeling is requited on the satyr’s part.” The equine drags his face to mine, the movement arduous, as if he’s breaking through a layer of plaster. “You are the exception, moppet. He is in love with you.”

“Cypress.” I trail off, because what can I say to comfort him? I’ve never excelled at soothing people like Cove has. Worse, guilt pinches me for being the one Puck wants. “Cypress, I’m sorry.”