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Wrath flips my eyelids open. I choose the stupid route.

I grip the branch by its stem, target his shadow, and fling myself off the ledge. The ground careens toward me. The air buffets my cloak and skirt. Puck cranes his head skyward. Those cruel irises register what’s happening, dilating as I crash on top of him.

My teeth clatter on impact, and my knees thwack into his hips, the landing dragging him down with me. We smash to the ground. Our bodies roll several feet, granules of dirt coating my mouth. The satyr grunts, his limbs and torso tumbling with mine, his girth driving the oxygen from my lungs. My ribs and spine jostle out of alignment.

My legs flank Puck’s waist, carrying him across the underbrush. I flex my thighs around his hips and use the element of surprise to capsize the bastard. He thunks beneath me, his chest a hard plate of muscle that hits the dirt with a wallop.

By some miracle, I’ve maintained my grip on the branch. I wield the stem, aim at his fiery head, and use all my weight to jam the prongs against his antlers. The forked bough drives into the earth, pinning Puck’s crown to the floor and trapping him there.

I waste no time, hopping off him and staggering backward. I suspect his mortification will come later. For now, the satyr thrashes, his shock contorting into fury. “Motherfucker!” he growls. “You encyclopedic shrew!”

“What happened toluv?” I retort.

Also, I resent the implied defamation. Furthermore, I’ve never claimed to be knowledgeable about everything.

His shouts carry and alert the nearest Faeries. A dozen footfalls stampede in our direction, trampling the wild.

I spin on my heels and race through the forest. That makeshift snare won’t leash him for long. Because I hadn’t plunged it deeply enough, he’s sure to free himself before his kin arrive.

Bad Juniper. Foolish Juniper.

Risks have no business in this game. A few inches either way, and my fall could have ended differently. I could have been skewered on his antlers, or the serrations could have pared the flesh from my limbs, or he could have anticipated my actions and caught me.

But I hadn’t. And he hadn’t.

Thank Fables.

I pound through shags of foliage while restraining my grin. I wish that satyr could have seen his face, the way he’d flopped around like a fish.

Briers poke my toes. I leap over a ball of thorns, then dodge a pyramid of logs. Something slices my cheek, something else munches on my elbow.

The Faeries resume their howling. The sounds inundate the wilderness, grabbing the environment by its hide and shaking it—the trees shedding needles. The overlapping noises have lost their jovial tones, ferocity replacing levity.

The Solitary Forest is their playground and hunting ground. They’re the wolves. I’m the lamb, the meat of this game.

My eyes cast about, directionless. Not only do I need an escape route but a destination and my supplies.

But shouldn’t a bookish huntress be able to find what she needs without it being given to her?

That’s an ignoramus’s view of things, far too naive for either of us. Not every item contained within the pack is replaceable, and not everything I’d easily hunt down in the mortal world will be effortless to track in Faerie. It will be enough of a trial to find uncontaminated drinking water and harvest rations, without the added challenge of supplementing other essentials.

My waterskin. My spectacles. My notebook.

In The Wicked Pines, the Solitaries had dumped my possessions onto the ground, but what had happened to the supplies after Cypress had carted me away? What about the archery?

And now, who said the most desirable things aren’t here, within your reach? Don’t underestimate what’s right in front of you.

The most desirable things. Within my reach, right in front of me.

His Royal Slyness hadn’t been engaging in mockery. He’d been prompting me. If I hadn’t been vexed at the time, I might have picked up on the hint.

But why would he provide me with such a transparent clue?

Either way, I accelerate my pace and fly through the woods. Once I’ve traveled in a direction, I don’t forget it. I may not know how to navigate the rest of this realm, but I know a thing or two about retracing my steps.

Dry needles carpet the ground and cushion my footfalls as I vault back to the pine groves. Even Lark would say this is suicide, but if she and Cove were here, they would race by my side, no questions asked.

A familiar network of evergreens splits into circular hollows. They rise tall enough to blot out the branch candles and my compact form. At least in this condensed setting, I won’t be exposed with a target painted on my back. I shrink into crawl spaces, recapping the steps I’d taken here.