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Nonetheless, quailing and blushing are useless reactions. I steel my features and jump off the animal, daring Puck to comment.

He just gazes at me, his eyes hooded as he traces my open blouse, my unkempt tresses, and my bare feet. I’d forgotten to don my ankle boots and cloak before the ride.

Sylvan ambles over to Puck in greeting. He pets her and whispers,“Finnst fér jún kóde? Éck feit jfernick fade lídur.”

Despite the neighboring pond, she canters off to the stream winding through the valley. Likely, she’s thirsty after our excursion.

I wait until she’s gone. “What did you say to her?”

“It’s confidential. You understand, I’m sure.” Puck moseys my way. “Have a merry ride?”

“She offered,” I explain, holding my ground.

He pauses a foot away—always, I’m aware of the precise distance between us. “The next time she does, have an apple ready. She fancies apples,” he says, his inflection haggard, like he’s speaking around broken glass. “And pat her neck. She fancies that, too. It relaxes her.”

This tone of voice is new. It’s poignant, troubling. “Puck?”

“Let her decide where to go. If you do that enough times, she’ll eventually let you lead.”

“Puck.”

“Until then, wait for her to get used to you. Trust her, and she’ll trust you back.”

“Puck,” I insist.

Distracted, the satyr admires my hair. He extends an arm, then halts to see what I’ll do, which is nothing. I do nothing but swallow, and he takes that as permission, his pinky coiling around a lock of green. Air siphons from my lungs as he rubs the layer between his thumb and forefinger.

My tongue strays across my lower lip, catching his attention. His irises kindle, following the movement of my tongue, hunting its progress along my mouth.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

Why is he counseling me on how to ride Sylvan? Why is he doing so as if this information is precious, imperative?

Puck recovers. He releases me and walks backward, then swings around and heads for the tributary where Sylvan had ventured. Before exiting, he stops. “The Trapping,” he says. “I got to her before that snare could, but those mortal shitheads had already done a number on her. They tried working her to exhaustion, forcing her across tumbleweeds and around a minefield of iron jaws waiting to bite off a limb. I jammed my leg into that trap on purpose, knowing it would distract them from her, so she was able to get away. But Sylvan was never the same after that and never let anyone ride her but me.

“Once, she bit off a dryad’s fucking hand when he got near her, even though he was a fellow Fae, not a human. So in The Redwoods of Exile, when I asked if she’d approached you on her own, I had my reasons. You’re different, and that difference is a good thing for Sylvan. It’s empowering her.” The knob in his throat bobs, like an old mechanism that hasn’t been exercised in a decade. “Thank you.”

I stand rooted in place, long after he departs. Outside the copse, centaur hooves clomp. Among the emerald willows, a whiff of thyme sails past my nostrils. I notice all of it but process none of it.

All I can think about is the look on Puck’s face when he saw me mounted on the deer, his admission, and his gratitude. I clutch my stomach, his confession nesting there. Puck had thanked me. He’d made the advice about Sylvan seem crucial because it had been. He’d provided this information, encouraging me to seek her out again.

If The Trapping has traumatized the animal, perhaps our ride is a sign of her recovery. It’s feasible he’d like help with that, for the brief time I have left until Middle Moon.

It could be a ploy, a snare constructed by a master trickster. However, Faeries don’t willingly exploit their fauna kin. I can’t imagine Puck taking advantage for his own devices, nor manipulating the fauna to win a game. He hadn’t chosen the hunt’s terms. The forest had done that.

So perhaps he…trusts me. The thought punctures my chest, a chink breaking loose. Unable to cope with the aftereffects, I float to the ground, snatch the Book of Fables from the spot where I’d left it, perch my spectacles on my nose, and thumb through the contents.

I research for several hours, until midday leaks into the wild. Then I pass out.

At one point, two soft thunks nudge me from a dreamless rest. The weight of someone’s eyes caress my skin. Groggy, I blink at the vines marking the entrance. They quiver, though there’s no one there to disturb them.

It must have been the wind.

I awaken at twilight to find my lenses askew—and my notebook settled beside me on the grass. Somebody had done me a favor and returned it.

Initially, the sight of my notebook fuels me with indignation. However, I have no time for outrage, no matter how much I’d like to shove Puck into the creek for confiscating it in the first place. Giving back the tablet doesn’t absolve him of that, but I pick my battles and let it go.

Instead, I dive into both tomes until my eyes ache behind the lenses. I pour over the Fables—the creatures, the morals, the illustrations—and compare them to my notes. I document theories about hunting, animals, and magical beings, then leave my refuge to stalk a wild hen for repast.