Page 31

If I can’t identify the creature yet, I ought to determine an ideal region in which to search. Without my notebook, I reconsider every Fable in my mental arsenal, as well as every entry I’ve penned in the journal—each story that either involves hunting, or uses it metaphorically, or includes it in the morals and lessons. A selection of those tales has taken place or alluded to the northwest. It’s a rudimentary guess, low-hanging fruit at best. However, it’s the surest option right now.

To start, I need a proper outlook in relation to where I’ve just come from, a clearer sense of my location and destination. I stash the longbow, quiver, and pack out of sight, wedging them in the belly of a shrub.

After tying the hem of my dress above my knees, I begin to climb. Thanks to Lark, I do so without incident, my sister’s tips preventing me from skinning my knees or fracturing bones.

I reach a sturdy branch in the upper story. From there, I peek through the leaves to gauge the woodland valley. Endless treetops carpet this world, their various heights and textures frothing beneath a dome of white, gold, and teal stars.

I marvel at the celestials. The Fables don’t mention them being different colors from my world.

A range of cliffs glimmers in the distance, its peaks ringed in halos of clouds. Some kind of tower looms atop one of the bluffs. Strange crossways extend from the crests or embed themselves into the jagged plates of rock—perhaps bridges and stairs. Blazing torches perch within the summits, illuminating a lone raptor slicing through the air.

The Solitary Mountain.

“Lark,” I whisper. My sister, who loves birds and wishes she could fly. She’s up there, somewhere.

Under my sleeve, I feel the bare place where my leaf bracelet had once coiled around my arm. A long time ago, my sisters and I had exchanged gold-plated talismans: a thigh cuff for Lark, a necklace for Cove, and the bracelet for me.

Are they still wearing their trinkets? Or have they lost them as quickly as I have?

I study the mountainous view until my chest caves in, then assess the valley. North. South. East. West. After checking the variations in elevation and the diversity of trees, I crawl down the trunk and unravel the dress’s hem.

Four days pass. I alternate between traveling at dawn and dusk, the hour at which I take shelter depending on the species of my neighbors. I dodge giant raccoons that hiss from the niches, their mystical vocal cords reverberating through the wild. I back away from a hulking silhouette that lumbers on all fours in the distance, fog puffing from its snout—a bear with Fae ears and incandescent green paws that correspond with its pupils.

I would snare rabbits—the ones who maintain their normal size—and use the nymph’s blade to skin them, but building a fire is out of the question.

Instead, I sustain myself based on what I’ve read. Inwardly, I consult my studies for which fruits and nuts to trust, and which to stay away from. Still, handfuls of Fae pomes and berries are foreign to my knowledge, so I avoid them altogether.

Vibrant worms, oversized snails, and metallic ground beetles residing in rotten wood allude to the additional threat of spiders. The branch candles enable me to peer closely at my campsites and check for webs.

Purrs and hums filter from the lush shadows, taunting and tantalizing. They attempt to lure me into recesses, the primal sounds tickling my nape. I clamp my palms over my ears until the noises dissipate.

Periodically, I hear the Folk sniffing for my scent and scouting for my prints. They sing racy, come-hither ballads about chaste mortals and hidden passions, magnifying their voices in case I’m near.

One time, Foxglove appears and joins in, her voice sickly sweet. “I know you took my dagger, mortal. Very impolite of you!”

“Enough of this horseshit. I tire of singing,” a young male broods, likely Tinder. “Another day without sighting our prey, and I’ll expire from boredom.”

“This hunt is about more than keeping you entertained,” Foxglove asserts.

He pays her no heed and throws a tantrum, kicking something on the ground. “Where the Fables is this bitch? This could be over if we just—”

“He ordered us not to use glamour,” a brawny leprechaun warns.

Foxglove scoffs. “Are you playing by the rules because you’re loyal to Puck? Or because, like everyone else in this forest, you’re itching to fuck him?”

“Leave me out of that,” Tinder expels, his tone a hybrid of offense and fealty. “And you’re wrong. Everybody’s loyal.”

“Which is why we’re not using glamour,” the leprechaun repeats.

An ominous, contemplative silence ensues. Foxglove’s lack of snide reply does little to console me.

I keep refuge in the bushes—shivering, listening. Based on what else I overhear, the Folk are prowling after me in batches and rotations, each group taking its turn. My body sags like a cloth when this lot finally departs.

Intermittently, I scale more trunks to check that I’m questing in the right direction, lest the environment contrives to hoodwink me. Presently, I happen upon an area that contains a Fae breed of trees with feathery leaves that fan out like dandelion puffs. In fact, those stems detach and float away at the faintest breeze.

These trees also prove tough to climb, offering few nodules on which to leverage myself. And it’s worse on the way down, especially since I’ve forgotten to gather and tie the skirt of my dress this time. I slip at intervals until my heels hit the forest floor. Then I pause and stare at the column, my ears tingling.

A shadow bleeds across the bark. A decisive click plays at the nape of my neck.