Page 63

“Then let’s play a game,” the Fae suggests.

I release his elbow. “We’re already doing that.”

“Tell me about this mortal pride of yours, and I’ll tell you about my immortal pride.”

“That isn’t a game. That’s a discussion.”

“Yes, yes.” He flicks his digits. “Game. Discussion. Call it what you want.”

“I will.” I turn and stride ahead, saying over my shoulder, “I’ll call it a discussion.”

From behind, I sense Puck’s grin. He skips to catch up, his hooves landing beside my booted feet, and hip-bumps me. “What? No objection to my proposal?”

The hip-bump is something Lark would do. Normally, I would respond in kind. But that would require touching him again.

As we step around an outcropping of rocks, I ask, “Why would I object?”

“I just didn’t think you’d want your studious, preconceived notions challenged.”

“I echo that sentiment.”

“Fair enough.”

“And,” I add, “scholars like me believe in learning. That’s the whole point.”

Puck’s gait falters, the longbow knocking against his back. “Touché. But what happens if you learn something that isn’t to your liking?”

Now it’s my turn to falter. I’d rather not reply to that, but in truth, I’d like to know what makes him proud to be a Fae. Where’s the honor in being a deviant? A tormentor? A villain? In which case, I hope—beyond hope—his reply doesn’t involve the worst kinds of details. The ones chronicled in the Fables and every child’s nightmare.

We speak in low tones, our voices seeping into the walls. There are numerous reasons I’m proud to be a human. Yet as I glimpse the fox tracks, I limit myself to one Faeries have built their prejudice upon.

“Like I said before, I have a bond with nature just as you do,” I say. “I don’t have a tail or antlers, but I don’t need them in order to feel connected to animals.”

“Last time I checked, humans wouldn’t fade without their fauna,” Puck retaliates.

So precisely which part of The Trapping matters most to him? That question alone peppers my words. “Do you condemn us for hurting your kin or threatening your existence?”

Puck halts so quickly, I stumble in place beside him. “Don’t,” he says, lifting a finger and glancing askance at me. “Donotgo there.”

Offended shadows cleave his face. Moreover, hurt creeps to the surface, whether he wants it to or not. I’ve seen this expression before on him. The iron scars pulping across his calf remind me of the trap that had caught Puck that night, the reason he’d been there in the first place, and his haunted expression during the most gruesome part of that evening.

No, he doesn’t abhor mortals solely for threatening his individual existence. His fauna and Fae kin matter to him more than that.

Still, I won’t apologize. Not when he hasn’t repented for what Faeries have done to humans.

Yowls interrupt my thoughts, a hoarse sound vibrating from an adjacent chamber. We pivot in that direction. A grin replaces Puck’s frown, and he sets a finger to his lips, then nicks his head in the trench’s direction.

Excitement carries me down the passage with him. We hunch, taking care to keep our gaits light. At another junction, we crouch and peek around the corner.

My intakes stall. A family of foxes rests among a niche of roots. Vibrant red-orange pelts cover their forms, their frizzy tails tipped in black. They look as they do in my realm, apart from their formidable sizes. One of them grooms its adolescent offspring. Another balances its chin on its front paws, its ear flicking toward Puck and me.

We stoop lower and observe their habitat. Or rather, I gawk. They’re so stunning to behold, I could tarry here for days.

The scene acts as a buffer. Puck and I exchange appreciative glances, my lips tilting. For a long while, we’re content to admire them.

“You’re wrong,” I whisper at last. “Human lives are linked to the fauna. We need them for food and clothing. Some threaten our farms while others graze the land, ridding it of pests that ravage our crops. And they provide transport and—”

“So they’re efficient,” he interrupts.