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By that time, the scribe was an elderly woman who’d wanted nothing more than to see the Book of Fables become as comprehensive as possible, whether or not humans ever read it. She lived among the centaurs, cultivated a rapport with them, and passed away here. The scribe died within this very land. At her behest, her ashes were sprinkled onto the soil, enriching the earth where the fauna graze.

Her accounts of Cypress’s kin were never drafted into the replicas, and now I understand why. The centaurs have protected their society from such circulation and, worse, from being distorted by humans. Other Faeries are too blithe and arrogant about mortals to care. Centaurs are not. Nevertheless, they didn’t object to one factual account existing, purely for the sake of it.

The scribe had bequeathed this book to the centaurs, the only Folk she’d trusted. Also, it was part of the bargain.

The centaurs had liked her, but they weren’t sentimental about her passing. She’d been an anomaly. Otherwise, Cypress’s kind believe as all Faeries do: that humans are the lesser beings.

I hold my tongue on the matter. The book’s weight in my lap is too momentous to spoil by getting into a centuries-old quarrel.

Although Faeries repay favors in excess, this is too much. I have to thank Cypress, despite what he thinks of gratitude.

The centaur must see my intention because he shakes his head, his olive mane falling over his shoulders. “Do not bother, moppet. You may read it, but it will not leave these borders. Your scribe entrusted it to us. Therefore, this gift is temporary—a loan.”

“Oh,” I stammer, my cheeks boiling. “Oh. Right.”

“Five days remain until the Middle Moon Feast. We will grant you sanctuary for the remainder, or until you discover the whereabouts of your quarry. When you finish the book, it will remain here.”

“Do the other Solitaries know about it? The ones outside of this territory, I mean?”

“We hide nothing from our kin. They are free to peruse the contents, so long as they do so here, in the presence of centaurs. Nonetheless, while they find it prudent to know what information mortals have on them, woodland Faeries live impulsively. Other than centaurs, the majority lack enough ambition to study the matter, for they have plenty of frolicsome antics to distract them.

“And apart from The Trapping, which they deem an isolated incident among a millennia of other chances to rebel, they believe mortals will never regain the upper hand again, no matter what intelligence they gather. Also, there is no account in the book about how to annihilate us, outside of iron, war, and the loss of our wildlife. Those options are no secret.”

And they’ve already been exhausted. Since then, the Faeries have struck back with relish.

Still, I’m grateful for the Folks’ lack of foresight. Perhaps if the Solitaries had investigated this book to their advantage, they might have learned supplementary ways to impose even harsher treatment on my world. “None of them have been prudent enough to take up the offer?”

Cypress’s eyes kindle amidst the flames. “One has.”

Well. I ought to have guessed. That makes Puck a more dangerous adversary.

The cautious side of me conflicts with a reckless and rather unwise side, one that warms from learning he’s made an effort with this book. Of course, it also pinches me with jealousy, because he got to read the original edition first, long before me.

If my fingers cling to the binding, I have an excuse. Humans wrote this chronology. As such, it should go to my people.

However, the scribe had made a deal and went to her grave honoring that bargain. It’s up to me to do the same. In the meantime, I’ll digest every lost word and use them to prevail in this hunt.

“Why give me this leverage in the game?” I push.

Cypress’s tail swishes. “I told you. When a centaur repays a favor, it must be something the recipient would most value. It is our way.”

“Does this make you a traitor?”

“It makes me an honest player. Do not expect that from the rest of my brethren.” He gives me a dispassionate look. “An advantage does not mean you will win.”

It doesn’t. Even though he’d told Tinder not to underestimate me, ultimately Cypress has misgivings that I’ll prevail in the hunt. The notion sits plainly on his face.

I sigh. “Why make retaliation against humans into a game?”

I expect him to list something shallow and Fae-worthy, such as that it’s fun. Instead, Cypress glances toward the hanging vines. His ears perk, sweeping outward as he listens to the sounds of life beyond the willow’s confines. “Take that up with our ruler when next you see him.”

I will. In the meantime, I have an ancient tome to acquaint myself with. Puck may have confiscated my notebook, but I’ve got something just as priceless now.

Since Cypress won’t accept gratitude, I dip my head in acknowledgment. I’m desperate to begin reading, but I’m also famished, dirty, and smelly. He provides me with a platter of bread, cheese, slices of ham, a tankard of mead, and a jug of honey tea.

After filling my stomach and quenching my thirst, Cypress guides me to a secluded willow yurt where a pond ripples. A mound of furs, plus a chest, a ewer of water, and a candle outfit the interior.

When the centaur departs, I waver for a full ten minutes before feeling safe enough to strip, peeling the soiled dress from my body. I dunk myself into the water, the liquid warmer than it would be in my realm. I wash quickly, scrubbing my hair and skin, then rummage in the pack for my undergarments, socks, leggings, and sweater. The comforts of clean skin and fresh clothes has me sighing.