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Puck’s nostrils twitch. His gaze darkens, accelerating my pulse.

Finally, he withdraws the envelope containing his welcome missive and exhibits it between his middle and index fingers. “I think you’ve gotten a hint of what I want.”

His lips crook into a devious grin. The sight plucks at a hot, sensitive place inside me—a place that yearns to tear him to shreds.

Perhaps he’s a mind reader, because he smiles. “Lovelies.”

A coterie of nymphs materializes outside the trunk. Curvy females and sinewy males, all half-dressed in flora confections and wearing laurel wreaths of yarrow, peonies, and other blossoms. The Faeries traipse from between the redwoods, including the nymph in that yellow petal dress, the hilt of a dagger protruding from an open case at her hip. She’s the one who’d whispered to Puck during the revels.

She and her clan linger, awaiting Puck’s instruction. He addresses them while keeping his eyes tacked to mine. “Make sure she’s ready for me.”

5

He vanishes before I can question his meaning. The nymphs chortle behind lips the colors of parakeet feathers and slink into my cell, whiffs of cardamom permeating their earthen garments as they fiddle with my hair. Next, they toy with my blouse collar while uttering “Pretty”and “Pitiful.”

Verdant green stains one female’s cheeks, the pigment suffusing as she appraises my body and pats my backside. One of my sisters would have tried to bite the Fae or stomp on the female’s toes, while the other sister would have gasped and recoiled. I react by not reacting at all. The nymph’s menacing giggle scrapes my ears as she grabs my chin and twists it so that I face forward.

To my relief, the unruly clan tinkers with the bark cords.

To my astonishment, the restraints take effort to unlock.

When the shackles loosen, I buckle with a pained grunt, my limbs as flimsy as strings. The nymphs catch me and pretend to dote in what I presume to be Faeish, cooing and simpering with mockery.

The coterie escorts me out of the glade and back to The Wicked Pines. When we arrive, all traces of Puck’s party are gone, including the stench of fornication and the nip of cloves and pine. The satyr’s thronelike chair has been carted away, too.

Only the natural environment remains, untainted and broader than I’d realized. The area is vast, a series of groves ringed in evergreens and connected by lanes. The nymphs usher me through the hub’s enclosure. On the way, I recall the profane scene I’d witnessed here and my subsequent humiliation.

We bypass several hollows before slipping between a curved fence of pine saplings. Stepping through the entrance, I frown in confusion. The trees encircle the perimeter, and candlelight drips gold across a central well burrowed into the ground. Extra flickering tapers outline the depression, its fluid contents glistening.

It appears to be a pool.

Make sure she’s ready for me.

The next thing I know, the gaggle of Faeries swarms me and begins peeling off my clothes, boots, and socks. I sputter and attempt to bat them away, which earns me a scolding and a lot of tut-tuts. At least, that’s what their tones suggest, since I can’t understand their language.

A set of fingers unties the low ponytail at my nape. My blouse flies from my head. My arms flounder to cover myself, but one of the females switches to the mortal tongue, lecturing me to behave. My skirt and leggings puddle to the floor, yanked off my hips by who knows which of them. My thighs pebble as I stand there in nothing but a thin shift, my bare soles pressing into the spongy earth.

“Wait.” I hop backward and slide off my gilded leaf bracelet. I raise the trinket, presenting it to their bright gazes. “Who wants it?”

The offering holds the Faeries at bay. They admire the bauble, their irises sparkling with greed. The one in the yellow petal dress—presumably the leader—lifts a jaunty eyebrow. “Rather generous, mortal. To what do we owe this gesture?”

“It has enough leaves for each of you,” I barter. “If you give me a moment of privacy, I can disrobe myself.”

To this, she rolls her eyes. “Is that all?”

“How quaint,” a snide male remarks.

“Not only plain but prude,” a female adds, disappointed. “Whatever does Puck find so marvelous about her?”

Envy laces another male’s words. “Ceremonious or not, he’s never asked us to bathe any of them before.”

“That’s because the others didn’t stink of purity,” their leader concludes. “Her starchy innocence is unmistakable, which makes her a challenge. Satyrs enjoy that, so it’s no wonder he wants to pamper this one first.”

“Do you want it or not?” I ask, jingling the bracelet.

Frankly, I don’t care what made Puck order my grooming. All I care about is whether they’ll accept my offer. It pains me to relinquish the bracelet, but whatever the price, I can’t let them strip off my undergarments.

The nymphs give me wry looks that ooze judgment. Fine, let them think me a puritan. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called a prissy spinster, and it’s best they don’t suspect I have other reasons.