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We release another set. Clods of muck collapse from the impact and fill the space with the aroma of damp earth.

Once more, I aim. “One. Two. Three.”

Puck looses his arrow, and I loose the bolt. Both stems plow through, the projections vanishing into an avalanche of dirt and dust. The gritty explosion forces us to retreat, our limbs jostling backward until the debris settles.

I swipe my hand in front of my face. A gash appears in the partition, coarse around the edges. Ahead, the pit extends into a trench. Several paces beyond the threshold, the ceiling opens to the night sky glistening above.

Puck and I pick around the mound and enter the passage. The entrenchment tapers into a pupil of darkness, but none of the trees aboveground display branches suitable for aiding our exit. The boughs are either too high to access or too slender to bear our weight. We’ll need to find one that suits our purpose or discover an aperture that leads to the surface.

As we journey down the trench, a series of adjacent channels appears, each depression bleeding into a void. More roots lace the walls. A few uncertain moments pass before one of the ligaments expands, then contracts, the others following suit.

I grip the crossbow. “What’s happening?”

Awareness sweeps across Puck’s face as he watches the roots. He bobs his flat palm at me. “Lower your weapon.”

“But—”

“Trust me. You’ll like this.”

Words I usually have the good sense to ignore. Yet after our talk, and after…after the intimacies he’d described to me in the pit…this intermission has unlatched something between us. I waver, then heed his advice and disarm.

The roots continue to bloat and condense. Except now, their cadence relaxes, easing into a sedate tempo. I marvel, shuffling forward until my arm bumps into Puck’s. “This isn’t recorded in the Fables.”

His profile breaks into a grin. “No. It’s not.”

The satyr takes my hand and guides me to the nearest wall. Calluses mar his fingertips, and warmth emanates from the basin of his palm. Darts of electricity scatter from the place where his digits curve around my knuckles, so that I’m too stumped to resist. Puck lifts my palm and flattens it against the roots, which flex under my skin, puffing with life.

“Now listen,” Puck says.

As I do, he watches me expectantly, waiting for me to figure it out. With each inflation and deflation, the roots eject a sighing noise.

Like lifelines. Like pumps. Like lungs.

I gasp. “They’re breathing.”

He leans into me, as if imparting a secret. “They favor you.”

“You think?”

“I know. Otherwise, the exhales wouldn’t be relaxed.”

Hubris loosens my tongue. “They must know a kindred spirit when they feel one.”

“Bragger,” he teases.

“I’m…” I chuckle. “Yes, I’m bragging. But wouldn’t you, if you found out a tree root liked you?”

“Now who said anything about ‘like’?” Puck taps one of the roots. “This one here? It fancies me. Satyrs have that charming effect.”

“And who’s the bragger this time?”

Our laughter ebbs. We stare at one another, his hand resting next to mine, our pinkies aligned over the breathing roots.

With each swell, the ground stirs. I envision layers of earth shifting and a river farther underground, a watercourse thrashing along the subterranean channels of The Solitary Deep and drowning everything in sight. I picture Cove down there, struggling to keep her teal head above water.

I sober and tug my hand free, the heat of his touch lingering. My companion does the same, white and black streaks creasing under his eyelashes. While stepping away from the roots, I catch him wiggling his digits as though I’d scalded him.

The roots go still. Silence congests the space between me and this satyr.