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“I am not,” the centaur replies. “Long have I loved him, and I shall continue to love him, for that is my right. It ismyheart—my own,” he stresses. “He may not echo the sentiment but loving him is woven into my very marrow. It is a part of me that I am grateful to have. It is a privilege.”

I marvel how Faeries and humans are more alike than they’d care to admit. Both feel love and live with heartbreak. They can be violent and brutal, but they can also be selfless, affectionate, and loyal. Each world begets heroes, not just villains. If that’s possible on both sides, surely we can find a common ground.

I do what feels right and take the centaur’s hand. “I like you, Cypress of the willow trees.”

He startles, frowning at our clasped fingers as if it’s a foreign gesture. After a moment, a divot appears in the corner of his mouth. When he looks my way, his irises shimmer with something close to friendship. “And I like you, Juniper of Reverie Hollow.”

Peace washes over me. We sit together, studying our reflections in the water. His imploring request lingers in my head, that he wants me to stay.

That Puck wants me to stay.

36

Cerulean returns. He descends from the sky, the plumed mantels of his blue-black wings crimping and seeping into his back when he lands. Under normal circumstances, my curious mind would inquire about such a trick. Instead, I merely observe the spectacle that is my sister’s lover. Her mate.

Lithesome and statuesque, he possesses the type of frame that manages to be slender yet toned. Whereas his brother is cinched and sturdy, Cerulean is billowing and aerial. With the low V of his linen shirt exhibiting his chest to its best advantage, this Fae is the epitome of lazy elegance, appearing as though he’s just tumbled out of bed.

Moth and Lark break from their conversation. My sister rushes to Cerulean and frog-leaps into his arms, strapping herself around him like a knapsack. The Fae bands one arm around her waist and cups her scalp with his free hand, crushing her to him. Their mouths meet in a searing, unabashed kiss.

My brazen sibling has never been coy or discrete. It appears, neither is Cerulean. Her lips clamp over his blue ones, their tongues plaiting.

The occupants of this clearing—myself included—turn away, giving them privacy. Several emotions congeal in my gut. Relief to see my sister alive and presumably happy, jealousy over that happiness, and a certain sorrow I refuse to dwell on.

Well. If only one of us can be so lucky, I’m glad it’s my sister. Between us, I would have chosen that for her anyway.

Cerulean has recovered Lark’s whip, indicating Sylvan’s injuries must have received upgraded treatment. My sister, Cerulean, and Moth join Cypress and me by the creek.

As they settle across the water from us, a lanky surprise appears: Tinder has also returned from The Herd of Deer, materializing from thin air among the trees. The youth teeters like a pendulum, his orange eyes casting an uncertain glance at our small party.

Cerulean speaks to him in their language, his tone encouraging.

My sister pats the ground. “You gonna just stand there or keep us company?”

But Tinder isn’t paying attention to her. He’s busy studying Moth.

The sprite lances her gaze toward him, her papery wings beating with rigorous snaps. “What are you gawking at?” She bats her lashes and mock-simpers, “See anything you like?”

The youth scrunches his epicene features, his marten tail swatting the ground. “I prefer woodland Faeries, thank you very much.”

“Suit yourself.” Moth shrugs. “I don’t bother with forest dwellers, anyhow.”

Cypress angles his countenance toward the female. “Since when?”

To that, Moth’s wings slow to a flutter. She flits her eyes to the centaur, her topaz irises glowing like fireflies and daring him to invalidate her statement.

“Settle down, Miss High and Mighty,” my sister teases while snuggling into Cerulean’s chest.

“You settle down,” Moth jabs back, a half-smile tilting her face.

“See what I mean?” Lark swings her gaze my way. “She likes me.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Cerulean whispers into the cloud of Lark’s hair, a breezy chuckle filling his voice. He has the same accent as Puck, only less rugged. By comparison, Cerulean’s casual inflection is vaporous, a well-ventilated intonation that sweeps through the air like the wind itself.

Tinder catches my eye, then Cypress’s. As we nod and welcome him into our huddle, a ribbon of pink creeps across the youth’s cheeks. He lowers himself adjacent to the centaur.

It’s a picture I’ve never dreamed of taking part in. And only two faces are missing.

I feel Cove’s dainty, lace-edged absence in my chest. I feel the loss of Puck in too many places to count.