Page 6

The satyr’s eyebrows lurch into his forehead, a fresh thought animating his features. Instantly, I taste the bitterness of my error. The freedom to walk away is a luxury I no longer have. The moment I stepped into Faerie, I became his. I belong to this monster now, and I’ve just reminded him of that deadly fact.

Puck slumps into his chair, making himself comfortable. He licks his lips, contemplating a potential fetish, savoring it as one would a sugar cube. “Now who said anything about standing in the way? You’re in precisely the right spot, and what a fetching centerpiece you make.”

I tense. “What does that m—”

“It means take off the cloak.”

“What?”

Puck just stares at me, as do the rest of them. Dryads, brownies, leprechauns, nymphs, fauns, satyrs, and centaurs. All these beings of the weald, with their woodland complexions, fur, tails, ears, and claws. They crowd in, fencing off every escape outlet.

My stomach cramps. I’d heard his instruction, loud and clear. Truly, I should have expected it.

If I do what he says, will it stop there? And if it doesn’t…

Apparently, I’ve taken too long, because Puck sighs as though I’m being difficult and flutters his digits at Cypress. The centaur exits the premises, then returns a moment later, ushering a small figure into the circle. The boy thrashes and whimpers, his voice clotted with unshed tears, his black curls matted, and his blue eyes glistening with fear.

Ribbons of burlap hang from his malnourished frame, a tragic excuse for rags. My throat swells, and my knuckles curl. He can’t be more than nine—my age when I’d been a homeless foundling, in a similar state of disarray, hungry and skeletal.

Cypress thrusts the boy onto his knees. In my head, I scream for these knaves to let him go. Outwardly, I keep my face blank—until the centaur accepts my crossbow from the dryad, carefully loads it with a bolt while avoiding the iron tip and aims it at the boy’s nape.

My mouth opens, a shout ready to catapult off my tongue.

Puck’s casual voice intercepts me. “Take. Off. The. Cloak.”

Silence descends, frayed at the margins by the boy’s muffled weeping. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, attempting to stifle the sobs.

Fury shoots up my fingertips. Disobey, and I’ll condemn myself. Comply, and the satyr might require me to strip further.

My aloofness holds firm, embedded in my face. I move without preamble, seizing the tasseled closures of my cloak and pulling on the ends. The hooded mantle shivers off my shoulders, the short sleeves of my blouse revealing a gilded leaf bracelet entwined around my forearm.

Puck watches me fold the garment and set it upon the ground, his irises pinned to mine. “That’s the spirit.” He gestures to where I’m standing. “Now that you’ve made yourself at home, tell us a story.”

I frown, baffled. To say the least, I had anticipated something graphic next. This can’t possibly be his request. It’s rudimentary, and while forest Faeries are penned as flighty, neither are they known for being obtuse. How could they assume this is a challenge for someone with my vocabulary and diction? My wardrobe gives me away as a commoner, yet I hardly pass for uneducated.

The Faeries incline their heads, waiting for me to start. Very well, then.

I clasp my hands in front of me.“Once, a snowy hare confronted an Elf—”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Puck flaps his digit. “Tell us a story of your own.”

“I…beg your pardon?”

“I didn’t ask you to regurgitate a tale created by someone else. What I want—what we all want—is a tale of your own making. Compose a fable, if you must. Or a fairy tale will do, complete with horny princes, swooning maidens, or whatever tropes you like, so long as it comes from you alone.”

“Surely, there must be something else you’d rather have me do,” I stammer, my pulse thudding.

Puck makes a scandalized face. “Are you propositioning me? How bloody forward. We barely know each other.”

I shouldn’t have given him ideas. Nevertheless, I count off my fingers. “I can recite by heart every tale in the Book of Fables, among other narratives. I can deconstruct analytical theory. I can—”

“Your qualifications are not on trial,” Cypress snaps, his baritone so deep it could grow roots.

“That depends on her definition of qualifications,” Puck remarks to the centaur while examining me. “Quite the show-off, aren’t you?”

Why does everyone call me that?!

At home, it’s no different, but my family is allowed. They mean it affectionately, unlike the rest of the village mongrels who make fun of me yet can’t tell proper rhetoric from a belch.