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Puck’s pointed ears seize on one word. “The moppet, huh?”

The centaur makes no reply. But Puck picks apart the nickname the way he’d pluck the eyelashes off a mortal—ruthlessly and for no fathomable reason.

“In any case, she is not in this vicinity,” Cypress maintains.

“I never said she was,” Puck says smoothly.

Once more, the centaur and satyr regard one another in silence, some exclusive form of correspondence passing between them.

After a moment, Puck straightens from the elm, kneels at its base, and cups the trunk. He angles his head as if listening, a tendril of red sliding over his cheek. He shuts his eyes, inhales, exhales.

Those fingers flex on the root, once, twice, as if the tree might have a pulse. My own heartbeat thunks as if matching the rhythm. And when it does, Puck’s eyelids flare open.

A tremendous russet form strides into the clearing, all beauty and grace. The creature’s antlers balance shamrocks as she enters the scene. I’d assumed Sylvan had already joined with him, but evidently that hadn’t been the case.

By touching the elm trunk, Puck must have called the doe to join him here. According to the Fables, it’s one of nature’s channels through which the woodland Folk communicate with the fauna. In the mountain, it happens through the wind. In the underground river, it occurs through the water. Here, it transpires through the earth.

Sylvan nudges Puck as he rises and strums his palm along her back. With the agility of a cat, he swings onto her back. While he whispers to her, Cypress tilts his head subtly over his shoulder, toward the bush where I hide.

My breath catches. That’s when Puck speaks up, cutting the centaur off from glimpsing for too long, turning too near in my direction.

“Indulge me, then,” the satyr prompts, the deer already swerving northeast. “Let’s see who’s right about thismoppet.”

They soar into the woods in a flurry of hooves. When the turbulence recedes, I count to one hundred before hopping from the bush.

If Cypress had known I’d been here the whole time, why hadn’t he said anything?

I don’t have the luxury of squandering time to dwell. I recap the exchanges among the three Faeries regarding my whereabouts. Puck had been right that I’d been heading north, but I can’t now. As it is, my pursuers haven’t afforded me a moment to figure out where to go, where I should hunt this mysterious animal.

Speaking of which, another thought strikes me. Puck had leant his weapon to Tinder.

My head banks between the secure route and the chancy route. I chew on my lower lip, then proceed in Tinder’s direction. It takes me an hour of pausing and squinting, using starlight, moonlight, and candlelight as guides to locate the breadcrumbs the male had left behind.

For a Fae, he isn’t adept at covering his tracks. Puck had implied that a thousand years is a fledgling age, so perhaps Tinder’s youth contributes to this.

At the final stretch, I crawl across the undergrowth and find him bending over a creek and splashing water on his face. It must be time for a respite because his boots stand a dozen paces off, idle beside the archery leaning against a rock. I had planned to knock him out and swipe the weaponry, but this will do much better.

With his back turned, his rear pitched high into the air, and all that splashing, I require less than three minutes to grab the contraband and scurry off. I travel on all fours, moving as I used to when I was six, seven, eight, and nine. With their heightened sensory perceptions, these Faeries pose a detrimental threat.

But how many of their mortal captives had made a living the way I have?

Once, I had poached animals. Now, I rescue them. Both call for stealth.

When I’ve covered enough acreage, I run.

I pass the spot where I’d spied on the trio, then clear another mile and stagger in place, gasps of exertion falling from my lips. Once I’ve recovered, I level my flat palm above my forehead, fashioning a visor and peering into the landscape.

I have no compass. As for the otherworldly stars, they’re useless, partially shrouded and wholly foreign as they are. Those winking astral lights might as well be the stuff of bedtime stories or the props of a magician.

Thus far, the sun has been my only source of navigation. I’ll have to rely on that.

As for the region where I’ll find my quarry, I don’t recall any Fable hinting of an animal that can’t be hunted, nor where any such creature might reside.

Is it a mammal? A marsupial? A reptile?

What manner of fauna can’t be hunted? Perhaps it’s one that isn’t fully an animal. Perhaps it’s one that’s half animal, half other. But that applies to any Fae with fauna traits, and I have misgivings that it’s one of the Folk. That’s too conspicuous.

What about the geography? The Book of Fables provides humans with information on how to deal with the Folk, how to survive amongst them. It offers slivers about their magic, their culture, their history, and their landscapes.