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A Fae kneels. His body shakes so violently, I see it from here. That strangled sound I’d been containing escapes, at which point, the Fae’s head lashes up. His eyes incinerate a path to my hiding spot, his expression spasming with grief.

And I can’t help it. Tears salt my eyes and leak down my face because I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry for my people and his. I’m sorry they hate each other. I’m sorry that nothing can be done.

I notice a handful of animals are still alive, fluttering and hopping and scurrying about. Foxes, swine, a bear cub, and a juvenile elk. Among them stands the deer, poised at Puck’s side.

The satyr came here to set them free, like the rest of his kin had tried to do. He succeeded with several, failed with the rest.

I’d helped him do it. Not only had I emancipated him, tended to his wound, and befriended him. I’d also shown the satyr how to unlock the trap. He’d watched me closely when I worked the iron teeth open, and I’d described the method during our argument that first night.

A bolt zips past me toward Puck. The two men must have deviated from the correct tracks before catching up, their shouts drowning out my scream. The glassblower fumbles to load the crossbow and fire, while the farmer hurls the pitchfork toward the doe and misses. The archery impales a branch, startling the animals.

Puck lunges upright, wobbly on his injured leg. He dives in front of the doe, catching the next bolt in his grip and tumbling across the ground. I see the moment he stops and recognizes the weapon.

His gaze snaps toward me, a newfangled emotion smudging his features. I’d known how to work the trap, the villagers are attacking with my weapon, and I don’t need a mirror to see the tears on my face.

I’m crying because I care, but he doesn’t realize this. For all he knows, fear or guilt are the culprits.

All Puck sees is a girl cowering while her people target his kin with her archery. A girl who’d been nice to him, who’d acted like a friend. A human girl who can lie.

Puck watches me through ferocious eyes. He thinks I flagged these men down. He thinks I led them here. And because of that, he thinks I’d contributed to The Trapping, had possibly assembled the snares.

We hover on opposite sides of the clearing. Surrounded by mauled Faeries and fauna, his livid gaze strikes true.

I falter, landing against the tree. I didn’t do this—not this time.

But I have done this. I’ve done it before. Perhaps that’s why I attempt to shriek again, to absolve myself, yet nothing comes out.

The men charge. The doe buckles on her forelimbs, allowing Puck to mount. The surviving fauna clamor, a wildlife stampede recovering from battle.

Astride the deer, Puck casts me one final glimpse. Mischief. Menace. Mayhem. That look is a promise of all three, should we ever cross paths again.

Deliberately, he steers the doe around and nudges her into motion, vaulting into the trees with a stream of fauna in his wake. They vanish without disturbing the overgrowth, as if they were never there. Meanwhile, the glassblower and farmer bellow for reinforcements and hasten after the pack.

Puck and his animal companions will outpace them. I know they will.

I wait until it’s quiet before taking a blind step forward. My foot lands in a deer print, my toes pressing into the demarcations. Through my tears, I stare at the vision.

That’s when I dry heave, an unleashed sob wadding in my gullet. I crumble beside the hoof print and stay there until dawn trickles over the horizon.

And then I clean up the mess.

14

In the days that had followed, the glassblower returned my crossbow, and I’d continued to play ignorant. I was out there being rebellious, staying up past my bedtime and pretending to hunt Fae monsters. I’d had no idea about the doe or satyr until happening upon the men. For whatever reason, my story had held firm.

Neither of the villagers had told Papa what happened. They’d been too preoccupied with their own lives to make the effort.

I’d kept my visits with the satyr to myself, even from my sisters. It had felt scandalous to do so, and I was particularly quiet whenever The Trapping came up at the supper table. I’d expected Lark and Cove to comment on my silence, yet they hadn’t. For some reason, they’d reacted with similar discretion, as if having nuggets to contribute but refusing to share them.

According to gossip in town, a Fae longbow had been pilfered from the blacksmith’s forge. Before the satyr had departed with his deer, he must have heeded my advice and sought the weapon.

Over the ensuing weeks, I’d ventured out each night to see if he’d come back. I’d wanted to explain, to tell him I hadn’t helped the villagers, hadn’t done anything wrong. But he never returned.

Not at first.

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