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I phrase my reply with care. “You confiscated my possessions. How badly would you like to owe me?”

The satyr consumes the distance between us. He pauses when several inches remain and smiles, a crease digging into his cheek. “Smart girl.”

My favorite compliment. Yet I long to scrub it from his mouth before it corrodes into an insult.

“When do we start?” I ask with trepidation.

He smirks again, the question dangling at the end of a noose. Then Faeish unspools from his tongue.“Joman ánen mede feidimenninaer.”

The crystalline language threads through the boughs. Silhouettes crop up in the darkness, animal figures as statuesque as monuments. The herd of deer stands proud and tall—taller than animals should be capable of, as tall as the doe from earlier. The one called Sylvan.

They form a crescent around us, their antlers sprouting various symbols of nature. Wisteria blooms from one set, stems from another. Seedlings encrust a stag’s points. Atop the crown of a hind, a fountain of droplets spills from the tips. From the spiked rack of a buck, flames lick the air.

Pages from the Book of Fables flip through my mind, made manifest in this grove. Eyes cut from mineral rocks. Tails longer than those of mortal deer, several cascading to the ground.

At last, I’m no longer on the outside of a Fable. I’m inside, tucked within a living, breathing book.

This is real. This is anything but.

Sylvan idles in the center. Her gaze catches mine, stealing my breath. But then her image blurs, wet around the edges.

A finger dabs at a spot beneath my lower eyelids. I flinch, and the world solidifies once more. Puck ruins the trance, appearing in front of me and blocking the fauna from sight. He withdraws his hand from my face, pulling back to reveal a bead of saltwater trembling on his finger.

That tear belongs to me. Not to him. Never to him.

His eyes sketch the translucent globe, engrossed in the sight. He’s so absorbed, it takes him a while to speak. “I’d like to see more of these from you, luv.”

I won’t let that happen—ever. “I don’t cry.”

Puck’s attention flickers back to me. “Oh, but you will.” His voice tilts upward, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. “You excelled at weeping once. Didn’t you?”

My gaze snaps to his. The freckles skipping across his nose. The wily set of his chin. The biting scent of pine and the spice of cloves wafting from him. Most of all, his tonal voice—the familiarity of it.

I hear the implication, loud and clear. Yes, I may not cry. But yes, I know how. And yes, this satyr has seen me weep before. And yes, I was wrong to assume. He knows. Heknowswho I am.

He remembers me.

That’s not all. More figures step into the hollow. Faeries lean against trunks. Brownies pop from under bushes and bare their canines. The petal nymph and her clique drape themselves like scarves across low, looping branches. Leprechauns and dryads crowd in on us, armed with weapons both familiar and unfamiliar—bows, staffs, hammers, axes, sawlike blades, and throwing stars.

That young Fae who’d glamoured me earlier sneers, his marten tail swishing, orange eyes glittering.

Cypress stands abreast of him, archery hitched across his back, his face as stony as a cliffside.

Realization dawns. The nymphs. The bath. The primping. Puck’s reference to ceremony and his obsession with making every moment into an official occasion. His instructions to “Make sure she’s ready for me.”

After arguing with him about the dress, I had assumed the hunt would commence in the next few hours or at dawn. I had anticipated a specific juncture in the near future. But Puck grins without humor, implying I’m nothing but a silly mortal know-it-all who should have, well, known better.

The satyr cups his mouth and leans toward me. His mercenary breath caresses my ear, his voice as slitted as a paper cut. “Oh, luv. Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

A chalky taste fills my mouth. Viciousness aside, it’s even clearer why he’s doing this. A long time ago, I gave him a reason to.

Puck straightens. He catches a yew-wood longbow and quiver someone tosses his way, the arrows clattering like teeth. Harnessing the archery, he says, “Well, here I am, feeling generous and nostalgic.” The satyr draws out the last word, emphasizing it with a prolonged curl of his tongue. “Since I like the color red, you’ve earned a favor more valuable than your supplies.” He quirks an eyebrow. “We’ll give you a head start.”

His cult shuffles forward, eager looks brightening their miens.

My feet inch backward, heedful, careful. When encountering a predator, never turn and flee, for that will mark you as prey.

I suck in a breath—then swerve and run.