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I think of how it’s not supposed to matter. I think of how it does.

I think of one question that keeps me from leaving. With a sigh, I turn on my heel and pad toward Cypress. The centaur regards me with skepticism as I approach. I can’t help feeling a reluctant camaraderie with that look, standoffish and surly. Those are qualities I understand, traits I can handle.

I kneel before the Fae. His astringent, olive eyes narrow on my crossbow, then on me. “Come to finish the task, moppet?”

“Not precisely,” I say. “But just in case…” I remove a bolt, balancing its stem on my thigh, where he can see it lest he get crafty. “Do all Faeries have a propensity for nicknames?”

Cypress snorts, the leather hoop in his nose jolting. “Nicknames,” he observes with disdain. “Centaurs do not bestow nicknames.”

“Then why do you call me ‘moppet’?”

“Because by contrast, true names are sacred to Faeries. Consequently, we give ourselves alternate monikers.”

My shoulders lift. “To know a Fae’s true name is to have power over Faeries, for in their true name resides their spirit.” When Cypress just stares at me—as horses do, I suppose—I say, “I’ve researched full volumes on the matter of magical names.”

“Bravo.” Despite his derision, Cypress’s tone converts to something less hostile. “As to your question, we do not utter true names flippantly. We wait until establishing a camaraderie born of trust. Otherwise, we would be pirating power from one another left and right.”

“But I’m not a Fae. Sooooo why ‘moppet’?”

“You are obsessed with analyzing the reasons for everything. It must be exhausting.”

“I don’t know which mortals you’ve been dealing with, but how I’m addressed matters to me.”

“I call you a moppet because that is what you are—a youngling compared with my age. It is purely a label, neither a nickname, nor a true name. In that way, it emphasizes your inferiority.”

That explains why Puck took note of the moniker when he conferenced with Cypress by the elm trees. “I would rather you didn’t call me that.”

“I am sure of it,” Cypress replies. “Be that as it may, that was not the question you came here to ask, with me at your mercy. Get on with it or leave before I disentangle myself from these brambles and make good on the hunt.”

I nod toward the bolt lodged in his body. “There’s one problem.”

“But it isn’t yours,” he grates, rivulets oozing down his flank. “Be assured, I shall not spare you.”

“Like you didn’t spare me days ago, when I was hiding near the elm trees?”

The centaur huffs. “It was too early in the chase for victory.”

He can’t lie, so he means what he says. Yet that’s not the whole story.

Come to think of it, what was Puck’s excuse for protecting my hiding spot instead of exposing it? What’s been his excuse for many things he’s done since this hunt began?

The behemoth creature next to me winces, his frame spasming in the thorny shrubs, the bolt digging a small crater into his coat. “Enough of this,” he hisses. “What do you want?”

I want one answer. “Why were you unarmed?”

The centaur could have targeted me past the veil, yet his longbow had been pacified. He must have been harnessing the weapon, whereas I’d confused it with the opposite.

“Centaurs do not kill in their territory,” Cypress says.

My fingers twitch around the bolt. “Territory?”

“You are in The Heart of Willows. It is neutral ground in The Solitary Forest and sacred to my kin. We do not spill blood beyond the veil, unless we are under attack.”

Eventide glazes the woodland, highlighting the details I hadn’t noticed. The knee-high emerald grasses and the incense of thyme, crisp and invigorating. The drooping trees and curtains of willow vines, also saturated in emerald from their roots to their crowns.

The Heart of Willows. This is his home.

“Is that why the Faeries didn’t enter?” I ask.