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“Foxes,” we whisper.

How had we missed this? These trenches are dens, sunken to accommodate foxes when the animals grow larger.

Puck shakes his head, chagrined. “The Skulk of Foxes. I should have known.”

“I thought Your Woodland Majesty didn’t recognize this area,” I contend.

“To the contrary, I’m a fan of foxes and their foxy ways. Henceforth, I stand corrected. I’ve cavorted here plenty, but not after being chased by wild pigs, hiding from a nomadic bear, and contending with a scholarly huntress. I’ve a headache that’s extended to my antlers and hadn’t realized which direction the passel had chased us. Let’s say I’m not operating on all fronts, so it’s a delayed, woozy reaction.”

Though the residents are nowhere in sight, this can change at any moment. An indulgent part of me hopes it does.

We continue into the network. At a fork, the prints veer toward what I suspect is my original trajectory, due northwest. Periodically, we assess the imprints and touch the foundation to check for signs of turbulence—tremors indicating we’re about to have company.

I appraise the fox impressions in the dirt. “Do Fae animals shift sizes randomly? Or is it a defense mechanism?”

The villagers of Reverie Hollow had prevented the latter by using iron weapons and cages. It had weakened the fauna from shifting, much like it stifled the magic of the avenging Faeries.

Puck jerks his arm my way. The warning gesture alerts me to a low-hanging root the size of a tree trunk, bulging from one upper wall to the other. We duck beneath it as he answers, “It’s both, depending on the animal.”

“Watch your antlers,” I caution, then repeat myself several times, with several more roots.

“Okay, listen. They’remyantlers,” he carps. “I know how to travel with them—fuck!” he hisses when one of the spokes hooks on to an overhead root.

It’s the first time I’ve witnessed a hypersensitive side of Puck. I compress my lips to keep from laughing.

Once we’re through, he pauses to rub his crown and catches my expression. “Go ahead. Say it.”

With pleasure. “I told you so.” I motion to the rack of spokes. “Do they feel pain?”

“Only when someone challenges my masculinity.” Puck gives me a saucy look and waggles his brows. “You know what they say about a satyr and his antlers.”

Oh, I give up. A chuckle falls from my lips, and he laughs, too.

Our mirth sneaks down the path and dissolves into another stretch of quiet. Walnuts crunch under us. Moonlight and starlight emboss the walls, dappling the corridor in splotches of light.

I glimpse Puck’s profile. His hair burns through the murk, the waves simmering around him.

“It’s impolite to stare,” he banters.

My gaze jumps to his eyes, but he continues to gaze ahead, amusement dimpling the incline of his cheek. “It’s also rude to condescend to someone.”

The crook smooths out. “Bloody right.”

“I’m always right.”

Puck sniggers. “Are you sure of that statement, or are you jesting?”

I’m not serious. Or perhaps I am. I don’t recognize my animated tone of voice, so it’s hard to tell what I was going for. My words have gotten away with themselves, as if someone has picked open a lock and let them run amok.

Had I been serious or joking?

“No,” I sigh. “Or yes. Or in fact, no.”

“How very Fae of you,” he quips.

“I’m human.” I snatch his elbow and tug until he faces me. “And proud of it.”

Puck goes quiet. He processes my statement without an ounce of mockery or shallow fascination. Rather than stare as if I’m something to be examined, curiosity unravels across his countenance, as if I’m someone to be understood.