Page 74

“That it is. And look at you, being studious. I like your cozy camp. To top it off, I see Cypress has bestowed you with a bookish favor. And no, I haven’t convened with him to hear the tale. I came straight to this spot, too greedy for the sight of your luscious glower. When you scowl, it does fabulous things to your mouth.”

“Do you keep anything to yourself?”

“Why would I do that?”

It’s not a yes or no, not an answer or a dismissal.

The satyr’s eyes flick to the book. “Talk about a lucky favor. What happened to earn you this coup? Did you braid Cypress’s tail?”

“I put a bolt in his flank and then took pity on him.”

“My, my, my. You wild huntress, you. That’ll do it, and you must be elated about the tome. You’ve been engrossed for the past ten minutes that I’ve been spying on you.”

Heat creeps up my cheeks. “I see privacy is an afterthought to satyrs.”

Puck just smiles.

The darkness has begun to recede, converting from a bruised blue to a lazy cornflower tinge. I had been so captivated by the Book of Fables I hadn’t noticed twilight approaching, nor any sounds outside this enclosure. The centaurs must have retired by now.

I clasp the book to my chest. “As usual, you’ve pranced around my first question.”

“As usual, you haven’t accepted my first response. I don’t need a reason to be here, but if you insist, I feel the urge to keep an eye on you, for when you step foot out of this safe haven. It’s a naughty job, but someone has to do it.”

“Despite the endless obligations and priorities of a ruler?”

His voice flattens. “This game is my priority.”

“For what reason? I’m just another mortal to punish for crossing The Triad. Why bother yourself when a faun or leprechaun can do it for you? What makes this game so vital?”

The answer lingers behind his teeth, just out of reach. “I’ll tell you later.”

I can’t decide whether to take that seriously. And what had I expected? That he would stop this game after our time alone? It had been a minor detour, however…friendly.

Yet I haven’t forgotten that look on his face when we parted during the ambush. “Then tell me something else now.”

“Humans first,” he says, scooting backward and putting several feet between us. The distance requires me to remove the lenses while he drapes himself onto the grass like a showpiece, folding his arms behind his head as though we’re comrades, as though we aren’t on opposite sides of a deadly game. “Where does your passion for Fables come from?”

My gaze darts away from the muscles rising along his arms. “I wouldn’t call it a passion.”

“How would you define passion, then?”

His murmur reaches across the divide and sidles under my clothing. Warmth detonates beneath my flesh, gathering at a private spot between my hips. Lark would know what to do with this sensation, but I’m at my wit’s end. I squirm for a comfortable position, hoping the satyr doesn’t notice.

He does. He watches me absorb his words, watches what the question does to my complexion and posture, watches the disturbance travel across my body, watches the impact he has.

And I watch those eyes simmer in response.

My tongue yearns to give him a lashing. At the same time, it cleaves to the roof of my mouth, parched.

I latch on to his question about Fables, my mouth running away with itself. I tell him about the first day Papa Thorne brought me into his home, when I was ten years old, my hair oily and matted, and my bony limbs encased in moth-chewed rags. Papa must have smelled the staleness of sweat, the smokiness of a cooking spit, and the funk of the muskrat I’d recently skinned.

I’d wandered through the living room, marveling at the clean objects. When I halted at the bookshelf, Papa had smiled and asked, “Do you like books?”

“I don’t know,” I’d said, which had felt like the right answer. I kept exploring and found a specific tome braced on the shelf, with the cover facing out. “What’s that one?”

“Oh.” Papa plucked the book from the shelf. “Magic lives in this one.”

When I first held that copy of the Fables, all the words had been blurry and smeared, nothing but puddles to my eyes. Yet I had felt the weight of those tales in my hands, the parchment brimming with life, a magical and perilous wilderness germinating inside. A tangle of branches had crept like a gateway from the margins, beckoning me into their forbidden world. The book had cast a spell on me, its cover becoming solid bark against my fingers, the pages as soft as fur.