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At last, the petal nymph mutters something in Faeish and snatches the bracelet. She tosses it to her companions, and they pick apart the embellishments as though the jewelry’s made of paper, distributing the ornamental leaves amongst themselves.

They keep their word and exit the clearing, giving me time to undress on my own. I wait an extra few minutes, then check the perimeter. I’ll have to trust my senses that no one’s spying. I discard the shift, my breasts toppling from the material. I make quick work of my drawers, telling myself I’d had no choice. It was either sacrifice a bauble, or they would spot my tattoo.

If the Faeries were to see it, they would tell him.

A lump swells in my throat, and my traitorous eyes sting. My sisters would have been the first ones to insist I do what it takes to keep the tattoo secret. All the same, Lark and Cove gave me that bracelet.

I suck up the despair. The loss belongs to me alone, not these hellions. I won’t allow them to trigger it.

Steam curls from the pool, bubbles squirting beneath the surface. These Solitaries wouldn’t go to the trouble of drowning me in a vortex or dunking me into a toxic pit. Not yet.

After folding my clothes and setting them on the grass, I dip a toe into the water. Ripples expand across the surface, reflecting the stars and candle flames. The temperature is overly warm, overly indulgent.

Resentment tightens my face. Back home, we have a bathing chamber. It’s called a creek. Although it runs through our property, the water’s icy in autumn, winter, and most of spring.

I’m grimy at present but hardly unsanitary, and I’d washed myself thoroughly at home this morning. Make sure I’m ready for him, indeed.

I submerge myself. I keep everything below my shoulders engulfed, the pool’s depth and my stunted height shielding me from prying eyes. My palms scoop water into my mouth. Like a fountain, I spit out the liquid, which is something Lark would do.

A melody strays into the hollow. The gentle tune hums from a distant instrument, a stringed one like the others. Except this instrument sounds bottomless, something grown from the earth. Though remote, the notes chart a path to this enclosure as if the instrument knows where to go. My body sighs, ligaments softening as the water laps against my clavicles.

Suddenly, the music goes silent, retreating like a wisp of smoke. An instant later, the nymphs return, having lost patience, the confiscated leaves of my bracelet nowhere in sight. Perhaps the Faeries had hoarded them.

They skip into the hollow and kneel around me. At the sight of the males, I stoop deeper into the bath. One of them scoffs at my modesty.

A tall phial and brush perch on the ground, the glass vessel containing a mint-hued liquid. A female uncorks the fluid and pours the contents onto the bristles, then proceeds to scour me clean. The warm piquancy of brown sugar curls into my nose. The Faeries massage my hair, suds frothing into the roots, then run their wet fingers over my arms.

Being naked, soaked, and touched constricts my lungs. Yet my joints unwind, my eyes flutter, and a sigh coils up my throat. I fasten my lips together, preventing the sound from escaping.

They tend to everything above water, brushing my fingernails and elbows. I take the opportunity to wash below the surface, depriving them of the chance to grope intimate places they have no business going near. Still, heat gushes into my face as I lave myself in their presence.

Years of hunting have strengthened my reflexes. Traveling with a particular faction of hunters as a child has taught me to move with stealth and without detection. I grab the towel the Faeries offer me and slosh out of the water, wrapping the cloth around my bust and hips before fully exiting the pool.

They sidle backward in a flurry, having failed to catch sight of my tattoo. One of them glides a comb through my hair, the teeth drying the strands instantaneously. From thin air, a male produces a suede dress the color of dark, ripe cherries. Aside from the material, the practical leather clasps, and the long sleeves, this frock has the sort of outlandish design one wears to mortal sacrifices or devil worships.

I scrutinize the square neckline. Most of all, I resent the shade. Only strumpets wear red.

Following my undergarments, the clique of Faeries wraps, binds, cinches, buckles, and hooks me into the dress. The material hugs my bust and flares below my waist, allowing my limbs to move freely.

The nymphs return my cloak to me, the garment also appearing from nowhere. After being forced to remove it at Puck’s behest earlier, the cloak’s presence is most welcome. But as for the rest of my original attire, the Faeries collect the items while ignoring my objections.

They pick the hawthorn berries from my skirt pocket—”Amusing,” one remarks—and toss the morsels to the ground. The nymphs crush the berries under their feet before I have a chance to protest. Although the kernels had failed to guard me against enchantment, I’d been hoping it was a fluke.

The second missive I’d received before entering Faerie rests in the other pocket. Recognizing it, they drop the envelope back into the skirt. Presumably, my clothes will end up in a pile beside my supply pack, wherever that is.

Well. If they can steal things from me, I can steal things from them.

Cove used to be a pickpocket before joining our family. While Lark and I taught her our own survival tricks, she taught us one of hers. Channeling those lessons, I exercise a sleight of hand while the nymphs primp me.

Since their leader has been so hospitable and friendly, I swipe the petal nymph’s dagger from its case at her hip. Without my crossbow, an alternative helps.

By the time the leader glances my way, I’ve got her blade—a serrated design—tucked into the folds of my skirt. It’s not ideal, but this frock lacks pockets, and I’m not as skilled as Cove, who can maneuver items anywhere on her person, with targets none the wiser. Not that she engages in such crimes any longer.

The Faeries provide fresh socks, along with my boots and cloak. While donning the footwear, I use the laces to affix the knife against my ankle.

The clique pushes me from the hollow in a fit of well wishes. I totter onto the lane flanked by pines. The mirth evaporates, and when I swerve around, the Solitaries are gone.

I wheel toward the vacant trail. What now?