Page 5

“What was that?” he queries. “Don’t be shy.”

“Unaccustomed is the proper word, according to the laws of grammar. As in, Cypress is unaccustomed to humans my size.”

Intrigue brightens his face, a field of white freckles dancing across the bridge of his nose, visible despite his skin tone. This close to him, the essence of cloves and the sweet bite of pine nips my nostrils.

“Hmm.” He leans back, ropes of bronze earrings dangling from his lobes, the chains outfitted in leaf charms that jingle with his movements. “I’ve always wanted a tutor. Do you school your lovers in bed, too? Instruct them on the proper way to moan?”

Guffaws resound, poking me from all sides. I stiffen, having forgotten the crowd of onlookers.

The satyr chuckles along with the rest of the Fae, his shoulders shaking. He waves his arm, fingers swatting the air. “Sorry, luv. It was a joke, though from that healthy scowl of yours, I gather you don’t fancy jokes. Here, let me educate you on how they work: I say something funny, and you laugh. Go on, try it.”

“I’m not a puppet,” I retort, then think wiser of my attitude. “Thank you very much.”

“Ah,” he exclaims. “She’s on a roll, correcting me for the second time. Do me a favor and gainsay me again, and do it slowly.”

My ears tingle, sifting through his words for a trick. A favor is the last thing I’m about to exchange with a Fae.

Although I fail to detect duplicitous loopholes—he wants my blush, not my compliance—I do catch the snide lilt. Even his ridicule sounds flirtatious, his sarcasm erotic. This is precisely the type of scornful teasing that chips away at the flesh, until all that’s left is shame.

I’d rather not dwell on how I know this.

“That reminds me,” he says. “We can’t summon our newest human to this realm without making introductions. I’m—”

“Puck,” I say. “Ruler of the woodland.”

“Why do humans always forget to include Seducer of Innocents and Ruiner of Morals? It’s not that hard to remember,” he complains, then flaps his hand in a rising motion. “Come on, then. Stand up so I can see you better.”

I don’t stand up. I’m dragged up by the centaur named Cypress, who snatches my shoulders and hauls me to my feet.

Puck takes his time, his eyes burning a trail up and down my form. My green hair is a nest of stems. My skirt is torn at the hem, gunk stains my cream blouse, and dirt crusts along my hairline.

Sometimes my sisters rib me about being fastidious, not to mention capricious, not a hair out of place. I have no idea why. A clean appearance is a clean mind.

Nonetheless, I’m grateful for my tarnished appearance. Tempting a satyr leads to doom, seduction, and a loss of one’s maidenhead. Although Faeries rarely trifle with mortals intimately—they would sooner bed slugs than lower themselves to the level of nonmagical beings—Puck’s rakish ilk have a habit of making exceptions.

If he doesn’t find me attractive, so much the better. Thankfully, that seems to be the case, his expression betraying not a hint of admiration. Rather, he appraises me with…a flash of consternation.

My joints tense. Does he know?

Please don’t let him know.

I keep my face neutral as Cypress releases me. At Puck’s dramatic nod, the centaur divests me of my archery while keeping vigilant of the iron bolt tips. He takes care to avoid touching them, then hands the crossbow and quiver to a dryad standing nearby.

At which point, Puck’s equine lackey seizes the pack and makes an example of my possessions. In front of everyone, Cypress empties the contents I’d curated for every contingency: a pouch of salt to ward off enchantment; piddling trinkets—such as a posey of dried bluebells and a twilled spool of ribbon—intended for negotiation; a cotton blouse; a knit sweater; spare leggings; undergarments; a pair of woolen socks; a waterskin; the hardwood case protecting my reading spectacles; and a few other items.

Most importantly, my pencil and prized notebook. The latter comprises years of scholarship about Faeries, Fables, and their fauna.

The centaur tosses each item to the ground, my privacy on display and at the mercy of the Faeries’ inspection. I fix my gaze ahead. I will not quail, I will not shrink, and I will not plead. That’s what they want.

Puck snatches my notebook off the ground, the tome bound in lambskin vellum. He scans the front cover, then scoffs and—how dare he!—chucks it to the dirt like so much rubbish.

My retinas kindle with heat. He notices my reaction, soaks it up like a washcloth, and draws some unspoken conclusion. “Do you like juniper berries?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Juniper berries. I think they’re dellllicious. What about parties? Do you like those? We’ve arranged this revel to welcome you, though seeing as you were late—bad, bad girl—,” he scolds, wagging his finger at me, “—we started without your blessing. I trust you don’t mind? Fuckery waits for no one.”

Against my better judgment, I wrinkle my nose. “In that respect, you appear to be thriving without my company. Don’t let me stand in the way. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”