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Oh. That makes sense. If Puck knew Elixir had taken me, the satyr must have called out to Elixir, ordering him to let me go.

But that’s not the only enigma. The ruler of the river had registered my bracelet—its shape, at least. He’d sketched the leaves and stem without truly perceiving them. One would think my accessory had been shrouded, the vacancy in his eyes suggesting Elixir hadn’t known how to exercise those muscles. I’m about to inquire about that, but the memory of my bracelet brings to mind another precious object.

My fingers lurch open, my palms empty. During the skirmish, I’d clung to Cove’s necklace. In a frenzy, I pat myself down, rummaging in my skirt pockets and under my sweater. It’s gone. I’d had a piece of her, but it’s gone now.

Bereavement hardens my jaw. When I describe what happened, Puck deliberates. “You said he swiped at your hand before he took off?”

“Yes.” I blink, reconsidering Elixir’s errant gaze. “Can he see?”

Puck hedges. “His tactile abilities are stronger.”

Typical Fae response. But then, Cerulean had mentioned something about none being permitted to disclose his brother’s capabilities or limitations, that one may only witness it for oneself. If Elixir’s vision is impaired, perhaps he’d felt the jewelry in my grasp.

I speculate, “He must have taken the necklace.”

Puck nods. “Then she’s alive, luv.”

“How?” I plead. “How can you be sure?”

“If your sister loses her game, we’ll know. News doesn’t travel from a region until its game is over. Them’s the rules. Since we haven’t heard reports, she has to be alive. Besides, I might have interrogated the shithead point-blank, from my roots to his depths. That is, after I told him to get his fucking hands off my woman.”

I bleat, “What about her eyesight? If she looks upon him—”

Puck shakes his head. “It won’t go that far. As instinctive as Elixir is, he can control that effect, and he’d be a dumbfuck to impair the one who’s playing a game. But to be sure, I asked if Cove was in one piece. He spat two words: ‘She is.’ Elixir’s never been a chatty one, but you’ll be pleased to know that was a direct quote.”

As for how the pendant ended up in the grass or why Elixir stole it, both remain mysteries. And how does he rule the river if he can’t exist above the surface?

Or can he? Can Elixir breathe air?

I’d investigate further, but right now, all I care about is that Cove’s alive. To be “in one piece” can imply many things in Faerie, but I won’t allow myself to go there. Catastrophizing will accomplish nothing. No matter what, my older sister is living, breathing, and surviving. I need to keep faith in that.

My relief is fleeting, giving way to an awkward silence between Puck and me.

I’m exhausted, overwhelmed, and a mite sheepish. In the near future, the past few weeks will likely trigger a delayed bout of trauma. But that’s not all that consumes me. That’s not all I’ll continue to feel.

Plump clouds roll in, dragging a storm with them. Amidst an incoming tempest, the sight of Puck alleviates the harsh sensations, enabling me to register other feelings. Softer ones. Gentler ones. By some miraculous feat, these impulses reinvigorate me.

In the backdrop, one of the bears swats at its tapered, otherworldly ears. Its fur brightens to an incandescent green at the paws, which matches the swirl in the animal’s pupils, visible from this vantage point. Maybe it’s the same wandering bear we’d heard during our intermission in the pit.

The pit, when we’d been stuck together, when everything began to change.

Puck and I rise and stare at one another, his eyes roving down my sodden form. I must resemble a pale fish with spinach-green strands of hair. Yet he admires me as if I’m the tallest, broadest, strongest tree in the woods—monumental, unwavering, and resilient against the elements. Also, wild and able to grow on its own, to outlast the fiercest of tempests.

Including the one that falls from the sky. Rain cascades in a pattering shower, then surges into a full-fledged downpour. Sheets of water douse the foliage, the spruce trees glistening, the teal afternoon darkening.

In spite of the deluge, branch candles twitch with restless spurts of fire. The flaming wicks accentuate the cut of Puck’s jaw and the rich hue of his irises. Rivulets bind the breeches and vest to his form. The garments leave nothing to the imagination, defining the hard thighs and stacked abdomen beneath. Not far off that mark, my clothes are a sopping mess. The sweater and skirt hang off me like heavy drapes. That doesn’t stop my rakish satyr from mentally peeling off the fabric from where he stands. His features strain, his decadent thoughts on evident display.

That look jumpstarts my pulse. Desire blossoms low in my belly, paired with another devastating emotion—unconditional, unequivocal. It burrows into me, with no intention of vacating anytime soon. Like the rain, I welcome the onslaught.

I want him. I need him.

I love him.

Fables help me. This impish, swaggering Fae with the most scandalous mouth I’ve ever encountered has stolen my heart.

My judicious side rehashes why this won’t work. The renegade side I hadn’t known existed stands at a precipice, ready to leap off the edge. I can’t be without him another second.

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. I don’t know where we’ll go from here, nor do I care. Today, I just want to be happy.