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“They’re wondrous, too.” I watch one of the adult foxes sleep. “I won’t romanticize them, but sometimes a mortal and an animal establish a bond. Sometimes we befriend each other, become kindred.”

“That’s hardly news to Faeries,” Puck says. “The distinction is we have an intrinsic connection to the fauna, which you don’t. They’re sacred to us in a way they’re not with mortals. Your relationships to wildlife come with conditions. Ours don’t.”

“And who gets to define what makes something sacred?” I protest. “You? Nature?”

The satyr’s tongue stutters to a halt, quelling whatever he’d been about to say. I take advantage of his silence. “My sister, Lark, climbs into trees every night and whistles with the birds, crafting melodies with them. Whereas my other sister, Cove, is the only person who can get near a water serpent who lives in our pond. She’s the only one the creature places its confidence in.”

I count off my fingers. “Establishing mutual trust. Helping an animal recover from trauma. Interpreting what the creature needs or wants, based on its gestures or habits. Exercising kindness, patience, and generosity to the fauna. Who says those things aren’t as sacred to humans, too? No, we wouldn’t fade without them, not the way you would. No, we can’t correspond with them through the wind, roots, or water. And no, we don’t share magical or physical traits. But nowhere—not in history or in books—are bonds limited to only those abilities. There are countless ways a connection can be special, deep, ingrained.”

The satyr peers at me, his features perturbed and confounded. “So which animal have you bonded with?”

“What makes you think it’s only one?”

“Gimme a number, then.”

“Hundreds of them.”

Every single one that my sisters and I have rescued. Plus, the doe waiting at home for me.

Puck slants his head. “You’re a busy bee. Do tell.”

We study the fox family. Their furry muzzles and the marbles of their eyes. Their paw impressions in the soil. Their pinched faces. Not wishing to draw unwanted attention to ourselves, we back away and retrace our steps.

The satyr and I continue our sojourn, picking our way through uncharted, uneven terrain. I fold my hands in front of me while Puck threads his own behind his back. I waver, uncertain what’s safe to share. But then I glimpse his scars and recall what he did to get them, whom he was trying to save. My story tumbles out, my hushed voice unfurling into the passage, the way it once did in a forest, on a secret night when we were younger.

I tell him about the Fable Dusk Sanctuary. I tell him about the orphaned and foundling fauna my sisters and I have rescued from trade poachers. The injured ones we’ve nursed back to health. The ones who became our family, too.

All the while, a tattoo brands my lower back, reminding me of what I don’t tell Puck.

He makes inquiries, probing me about the particulars of the sanctuary. Nothing technical about managing or habilitating the animals, but about communing with them. Do we have rituals? What’s my happiest memory of the sanctuary? What’s my saddest one? Which animal do I remember the most?

In terms of rituals, my sisters and I say goodnight to our wild residents every evening, while dressed in our nightgowns and carrying lanterns.

My happiest memory is my very first rescue—a weasel native to Middle Country and prized by trade poachers for its pelt.

My saddest is a wounded dormouse, because the animal didn’t survive past the first night. When I lost him, I’d balled myself on the ground, unable to speak while my sisters rested their heads on my shoulders.

As for these days, I share tales about the sanctuary doe who’s my friend, who bucks her spindle limbs in excitement whenever I approach her pen. She’s listened to my regrets and hopes. In turn, I know what Fable to recite whenever she has trouble sleeping.

“The Wolf and the Sled,”I say. “Tales from the Northern Frosts work every time with her.”

When Puck makes no reply, I glimpse his troubled profile. It’s unlike me to say so much, him so little.

“Your turn,” I say, adjusting my pack and crossbow. “What makes you proud to be Fae?”

The satyr gives it an abundance of thought. “Now that’s a merry question,” he murmurs. Though, I can’t decide if he’s addressing me or himself.

If I’ve revealed myself, he must as well. I open my mouth to insist he play fair—but then halt. My fingers grab his vest, just as he tugs on my dress. Simultaneously, we pull one another to a standstill.

We glance at our hands. Buttery leather molds to his waist, yielding beneath my digits. I jerk away from him, whereas Puck uncurls his hand from the suede frock with a naughty flourish.

He points upward, but I already know. I’d seen the gap at the same time he had. The walls around us are bunched into thick clumps, caked to the ceiling, which must have sealed at some point. Regardless, another hole punches through the soil roof. The night sky peeks down at us through a single, sapphire eye laced in walnut tree branches.

The ideal bough hovers overhead, low and sturdy. Puck and I contemplate the gap, the projection, and its distance from the surface.

The Fae tsks. “That’s quite a feat for human limbs. What say you?”

I unhitch my weapon. “I say, watch and learn.”