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It has.

Such a deer would have wailed.

It has.

The sound would have ripped my heart out.

It has.

Surging to my feet, I grab the trap by its chain and dump it beside the nail hammered into the ground. Out of range. Out of thought. I plonk back onto the grass, draw my knees to my chest, and string my arms around my legs.

I really must leave, but I can’t just leave. I can’t leave anything that’s been bitten by those teeth.

Puck sobers. He stares at me, the humor dashing from his face. I care for that even less than his smile and clasp my limbs harder, folding myself in until I’m good and secure.

“Will they heal?” I ask, indicating the wounds.

“Eventually, and not a day sooner,” he says, deadpan.

I sigh. It’s hopeless trying to get a frank answer from him.

Nevertheless, the color’s returning to his visage, rosy petals blooming across the slopes of his cheeks. His leg relaxes, the blood drying. The fur had been bristling before; now, it appears soft to the touch.

Faeries must enjoy the perks of a swift recovery. Later, I will look that up in the Fables.

Or on second thought, I don’t want to look it up. I want to get answers directly from him. I want to ask this Fae a thousand questions. And perhaps I won’t mind if he juggles his replies. Parsing through the riddles of a Fae would be a brilliant exercise.

I expect this Puck character can handle an inquisition. His manner of speech is more elevated than any village boy. Sharper, too. Again, I wonder about his age and if his kind grow up with a loftier vocabulary. Either way, I like it.

Lark has dubbed my own speech as “fancy talk.” But she means it affectionately.

“What about you?” Puck asks, flapping his hand toward me. “Doesn’t it hurt to sit so…tightly?”

“No,” I profess. “I’m comfortable.”

“Are you sure?” Beneath that easy mien, anger festers. “Don’t get too comfortable and let me spoil your night. It’s a merry one for mortals. You must have so much to celebrate.”

No one’s celebrating The Trapping. They’re too scared.

Or rather, that’s not true. Some of my neighbors are indeed rejoicing in the square. I’ve heard the fiddles and drums.

Puck’s droll tone rekindles the reason he’s in this pickle, the reason I’m here with him.

I peek at his bandage, needing to be absolutely sure. “Who did this?”

“I didn’t do it to myself,” he responds.

That’s sufficient enough for me. “The townsfolk say you were trying to rescue the fauna.”

“Mind your mortal business,” he lashes out. “What were you doing out here? Hunting for fireflies? Wanting to see the spoils of your ambush, maybe? To watch our animals writhe in your cages? Hoping to catch one of us yourself?”

My lower back aches. I think about the tattoo inked there, the coal-dyed image marking its territory. “I wasn’t hunting Faeries or fauna. I was playing a game with my family.”

That calms him down. “I like games. Which one?”

“You shift moods faster than a toddler.”

A chuckle bursts from his mouth, his jubilant laughter pealing through the woods. The cheeky sound dances across my shoulders, making them stiffen with alarm. Not in cautious alarm, but some other kind that nudges the corners of my lips.