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“Wanna see what I can do?” Puck breaks the silence and swerves his flat palm over a tiny bud swaying from the ground. The plant’s leaves react, curling tenderly along his knuckles.

My lips part. “How…”

Puck withdraws his hand and lifts it, wiggling his digits. With the conspiratorial whisper of an illusionist, he confides, “Magic.”

It happens. A laugh pops from between my lips. The noise travels to his side of the recess, and he catches it, his own grin widening. “Now there’s a merry sound.”

Warmth pools in my belly. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s happening quickly, perilously.

I clear my throat, but my tone comes out whimsical and combative. “I can tell you the origin of each plant here.”

He plays along. “I can tell you the origin of those origins.”

This is wrong. It’s wrong to keep my sisters fretting. It’s wrong to have nursed this Fae. It’s wrong to talk to him. It’s wrong to break these rules.

I never break rules.

But it’s wrong to leave someone hurt. And it feels wrong to leave without knowing more, understanding more.

The thought scares me. Puck scares me in a foreign way. It’s a thrilling rush to the head, to the soles.

I swing my legs to the side, tucking them under me. It’s my favorite sitting position whenever Papa Thorne tells stories by the fire. “Tell me,” I invite.

And he does. And I tell him things back.

And because it takes Faeries a long time to heal from iron wounds, we keep telling each other things over the next thirteen days. I sneak out to visit the satyr every night, supplying him with food, water, a change of bandages, and conversation.

Puck confides how woodland Faeries attune themselves to nature, no matter which realm they hail from. My world. His world. Among animal traits, his kind are born with wind, soil, and water in their blood, ordaining them with a special connection to the land. I’d known this, but I hadn’t known it extended to mortal environments.

The satyr demonstrates, miming as though he’s playing an instrument. He says it’s a cello and describes the notes, likening them to the roots and layers of earth, so that I understand the sounds.

His arm slides to and fro, slicing the air while the opposite digits vibrate over invisible strings. The bushes sway, their leaves teetering. Tree roots crackle, their ancient bark stretching. He feigns playing a tune, making the weald dance around us.

The satyr shares his love of music. I share my love of reading.

He tells me the villagers had confiscated his longbow when they’d caught him. I waver, then speculate aloud where they might have taken it—the blacksmith’s forge in the village square.

He doesn’t express gratitude for this, nor repay me with a favor, which is fine. Having ties to a Fae could get me into even more trouble. These rendezvouses are enough, with their dancing foliage and clandestine whispers.

Magic doesn’t aggravate me like it does Lark. I find it practical like any tool.

I say I’m ten years old and ask about Puck’s age. He answers, “Young enough to match you in shape and size, but old enough not to answer the question.” To which I fling a stone at his antlers, and he laughs.

A satyr who wields a bow and plays a cello. A satyr who brings the wild to life, with irises as rich as the soil and a wavy bonfire of hair.

Can he see my own eye color? Or my hair, cinched into its ponytail? Can his elevated senses identify the shade of green?

He doesn’t speak of his family, whether he has one at all. Likewise, I don’t describe mine, not wanting to involve them in case these nights go awry.

On the thirteenth evening, the satyr asks more about my penchant for books. I tell him how it feels safe to see nouns, verbs, and adjectives on a page, an assembly of sentences and paragraphs that will never go away, revelations that will never abandon me. Chapters that can be counted upon, trusted and eternal.

My chest swells and unloads itself. I talk for so long, I lose track of time.

Papa Thorne has been teaching me and my sisters our letters. I’m a fast learner, so I’ve graduated to the Book of Fables. But since I’m not yet proficient—I will be—I’ve made Papa recite a handful of Fables until I memorized them.

One in particular. “The Stag Hunts a Doeis my favorite Fable,” I say.

Puck gives a start. “Mine, too.”