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I wish that were a quip, but his tone says it’s not. I stand up, brush the dust from my dress, and resort to pacing.

Is the cavalier satyr merely going to remain sprawled there? Yes, he is.

Also, he reads my mind. “You know, my head won’t work any differently if I’m off the ground or lounging on it.”

Very well. That is, until I notice him tracing the shape of my footfalls, the imprints, and the unbroken lines of my tracks. He’s archiving them for later.

I scuff the prints with the toe of my boot, but Puck just snorts. “Too late.”

Indeed. If he’d been standing, I would have done the same with his hoof prints.

To the matter at hand, Puck claims the roots will assist us only if we assist ourselves. Bracing my hands on my hips, I glance at the ceiling and then trace the roots netting through the walls. I peer and peer and peer, but my inspection yields no potential outlet.

Puck pats the ground. “Might as well sit your ass down and get some sleep. A rested mind is a wise mind.”

I click my head toward him.“If a Hare Confronts an Elf.”

“I recognized the tale when you parroted the first sentence in The Wicked Pines. Call me a hypocrite for doing what you do best. Or if I’ve started quoting others, maybe you’re having an influence on me. But I’m probably just too tired to be witty without help.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

Nonetheless, I lower myself to the floor and fish the waterskin from my pack. After a few gulps, I toss it to Puck, who catches it with one hand. When he looks at me quizzically, I say, “I owe you for the shoulder.”

He inclines his head. “Now you don’t.”

Those plush lips strap around the nozzle, his throat contorting as he tips back the liquid. I avert my gaze from his puckered mouth. All the same, the slosh of fluid leaks into my ears, followed by his thirst-quenched grunt.

Using the pack as a pillow, I curl up atop a patch of moss. The satyr uses additional water to bathe his hands of grime, a squeamish and coddling act that catches me off guard. Afterward, he loafs against the wall, crosses his hooves, and shuts his eyes.

Silence filters into the pit. A crochet of shadows weaves across the soil. Though I refuse to be the one who falls asleep first, I have a disconcerting hunch that Puck isn’t ready for slumber, despite what he’d said.

I recall that one and only time we spent together as children. The recollection coaxes my eyelids to sink. Sleep weighs me down yet calms my breathing—just like that memory always has.

13

Nine Years Ago

In the field at night, I stalk the rustle of leaves. It’s a hushed sound, a whisper of noise brushing the woods. My bare toes pick around the wild debris, fallen nut shells and shredded bark.

Also, molehills. Some people can’t tell what kinds of mounds they are, but I can. I know lots of things at my age.

I prowl across the terrain, vigilant of muck and careful not to get myself dirty. Nevertheless, it’s a challenge. It’s one thing to travel through the woods in hard boots and sturdy clothes like my woolen skirt and leggings. It’s another to scuttle in the dark wearing yards of frail cotton. The nightgown falls to my ankles, a fussy white film of material billowing from under my hooded cloak. The gown swishes around my feet, snagging on the occasional twig and collecting stains. My mantle wards off the stinging midnight chill, and my crossbow taps against my spine.

This outing had been an accident to begin with. My sisters and I had been engaged in an outdoor wildlife game. We’d been playing hide-and-seek while wearing our favorite animal masks. Lark had worn a bird visor. Cove had donned a serpent. I’d selected a deer mask and a headband of antlers.

Papa Thorne had told us not to venture out after dark unless the animals in our sanctuary required tending. They’re safe against the dangers of eventide because magical beings never harm them. Conversely, humans are fair game.

The Folk come out at night, the villagers say.

The Folk are vicious, the cottagers say.

Although there’s never been a report of Solitary Faeries harming children—I’m not a child, by the way—Papa insists that we keep our wits about us and stay inside when the sun drops below the horizon.

The game had been Lark’s idea because we hadn’t been able to sleep. We’d eavesdropped on Papa and his neighbors whispering on our porch. They were reflecting on what happened several nights ago when the villagers penetrated the border to the Solitary wild, exacting revenge on the Fae with a surprise attack.

For all intents and purposes, the townsfolk had laid siege to the Fae fauna, not the Faeries themselves. The Folk are too powerful for humans, but since they’ll fade from existence without their wildlife, this option had given my people an edge. It had been a viable alternative.

They’d called it The Trapping. Papa Thorne hadn’t condoned the plan, but it was him against our whole town.