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After that, I search for Sylvan. She has laid claim to a favorite grazing spot where I coax her into a ride. It takes gentle persuasion—me whispering to her, petting her neck, and bringing her an apple. As Puck had advised, it works.

During the ride, I don’t reminisce about the sight of him sleeping. His nudity, splayed across the grass. His bare chest, a cliff of flesh and bone, teeming with unexplored landmarks. His mouth open, his breaths drawing in and out. His hips, twitching while he dreams.

I don’t think about any of it. I don’t ponder lots of things he’s done and said. I don’t agonize over how I’ve responded to those things, how my body has reacted.

Since I’ve ceased hunting Puck, I suspect he has elected to spend the remainder of this interim with Cypress, making plans for Middle Moon and collaborating on the hunt, should I venture beyond the veil prior to my deadline. The notion stings.

The trip with Sylvan soothes my headache, consoles my nerves, and fills me with wonder. Yet the spell is short-lived, failing to refresh my thoughts. This handful of days and nights have narrowed quickly, closing in on me like the walls of a cage.

I remember Lark’s sassy grin and Cove’s endearing smile.

When I return to the yurt, my eyes water. But crying will only dehydrate me. Besides, I haven’t succumbed to tears in ages, and I’m not about to break down in this realm, and not because of my captors.

Also, the centaurs might hear it. Above all, they’re still Faeries who might enjoy the sounds of my grief, however obliged Cypress is to reimburse my favor.

I think about what my papa and sisters have taught me. I think about what I’ve taught myself. I think about that and double my study efforts, then triple them, to no avail.

The eve of Middle Moon arrives. I’ve read through every original Fable and every annotation the scribe had penned. I’ve done so until my vision had blurred, until my spectacles had made dents in my face.

Yet. Nothing.

This, despite Papa calling me his tree of knowledge. This, despite the villagers of Reverie Hollow stigmatizing me as a know-it-all.

Come nightfall, I’ll have to leave The Heart of Willows. Either I’ll complete my tasks and win this game or not.

What will happen to Papa Thorne? What about Lark and Cove?

What will happen to the Fable Dusk Sanctuary and the animals who live there? What will befall the ones my sisters and I haven’t yet rescued?

As the sun bakes in the sky, I go to sleep shaking, curled in a fetal position.

Later, a melody coasts into the thicket. It has weight and shape to it, brushing the hair from my temple. I stir, as bleary as a dewdrop.

Music flows from a single instrument. The tune carries the richness of soil, the resonance of a contemplative forest.

It’s the sound of a cello.

20

I follow the tune, hunting its deep-throated notes through the willows. Before going to sleep, I’d changed into my leggings and sweater, the knit falling halfway down my thighs. A draft sneaks through the weave, pebbling my arms.

My hair hangs in a sheet over my shoulders. My bare feet step around fallen bracken, my heels brushing through stems of grass.

Hanging vines caress my shoulders as I pass from one coppice to the next, seeking the melody across the willow bridge. The music travels like a set of fingers, fondling the branches. It roots into the depths, burrowing under layers of earth and skin. It’s the noise oak trees would make if they could speak.

Strong yet lush. Mournful yet soulful.

And slow like a heady, leisurely moan.

My heart thuds. In my village, I’ve attended jubilees and fairs, heard my share of fiddles and lutes. But this source is different, a particular assembly of strings that’s unmistakable, playing a pivotal role in oral tales about three rulers of the Solitary wild.

One pipes a flute. One plucks a harp. One plays a cello.

The Fables say this: Beware of Fae music, for it will lead mortals to their doom.

I keep going. I keep hunting this instrument, pushing the vine cords out of the way, until I’m upon him.

Easing myself between two trees, I peek into an enclosure. And there he is.