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“Fables,” I gasp, launching backward.

My hands fumble, tidying the wreck he’d made of my clothes. Meanwhile, he’s content to remain a shambles. The evidence of our kiss is smeared all over him—the damage my fingers have done to his hair, the fiery threads rumpled.

What. Have. I. Done?

Kissing the satyr had been different from my experience with that village buck. The embrace with Puck had exceeded a lapse in judgment. It’s too profound, too staggering, too wretched to be reduced to a mere error. The emotions congest, a flurry of shame and something altogether exhilarating.

This lip-lock had been more than a mistake. It hadmattered.

Puck whirls away, then abruptly spins back to face me, his expression severe. The aftermath of our kiss lingers in the influx of color rushing up his ears, the arousal firm under his breeches. Lust fattens his pupils, bloating them to the point where they eclipse his irises.

Is that how I look?

Yet all that ferocity begins to evaporate the longer his gaze adheres to mine. Once it vanishes completely, misery rises to the surface. I see it in the rickety bob of his throat.

Nearly every sensation I feel flakes apart, leaving only one behind. It’s the only one I have room for, the only one that fits in my chest: betrayal.

How can he kiss me like that and still endorse this game? How can he look at me like that and still pursue this hunt?

How can I let him? And how dare I realize this too late?

I tense, my fists balling and my hair a tangled nest. I open my mouth to blast him with a question: Why?

No, a dozen questions. Why did he kiss me? Why is he doing this—all of this? Why won’t they let me and my sisters go? Why is it so important to maintain this rift between humans and Faeries?

I’ve read the Fables inside and out until my eyes have blurred and my spectacles imprinted my face. Despite the morals and cautionary warnings, the fundamentals have never been addressed. Why does having magic make the Folk superior to my people? Why do they assume magic is restricted to tricks, curses, glamour, strength, speed, immortality, flawless beauty, and otherworldly links to nature?

Why do they assume mortals don’t have magic of their own? Why isn’tbeing humanmagical? And what isn’t he telling me about the game?

Puck ejects a string of Faeish. He drags his palm over his mouth, shifts languages, and speaks quickly. “In The Heart of Willows, you asked what makes this game so vital? If I recall, I said I’d tell you later.”

“You-you did,” I stutter, aghast to hear my disjointed voice.

I’m not the only one. Never have I imagined witnessing Puck in a stupor, nor witnessing him sober with this degree of expediency.

I wish things were different. I wish we were allowed to savor this time rather than tear it to shreds. I wish the kiss hadn’t been forbidden. I wish I could feel only pride for causing that flush in his complexion, that ripple effect in his body, that swell of his mouth. I wish lots of wishes that won’t come true, not at the rate mortals and Faeries have been going.

Mostly, I wish I were a person who believed in wishes. Like Cove and Papa Thorne.

The Fae’s prolonged silence speaks volumes. Whatever he’s about to reveal, it’s crucial, and I might very well despise him for it.

“Brace yourself, luv,” Puck says.

Then he tells me. He tells me what my people don’t know, how their plan to eviscerate the Solitaries during The Trapping had indeed worked. The villagers had reckoned otherwise, concluding that their rebellion failed when Puck, Cerulean, and Elixir rescued the surviving animals.

“But it hadn’t?” I whisper.

“It hadn’t,” he confirms.

It hadn’t because the wild began to decline after that. Having lost scores of its fauna, the landscape flourished less and wilted more. It’s been weakening ever since: uneven foundations and brittle bridges in cliff peaks, shriveling leaves and parched soil in the woodland, and shallower water depths in the river, along with less rainfall and flora, and fewer abundant crops. Gradually, everything will fade into tendrils. The deterioration of their realms—the mountain, the forest, and the deep—means that Puck’s kin are in danger of fading with it.

This is what my neighbors had hoped for. Unbeknownst to them, the Folk are stuck in a race against time. They’ve kept this knowledge from reaching mortal ears, though that couldn’t have been grueling to accomplish.

Trepidation clots my lungs. That, and another unforgivable reaction. Fearing for the animals is one thing. Fearing for Puck is another.

Not only him, but Cypress. Not only Cypress, but the Fae children who play no part in the antics of their elders, because those children haven’t been raised yet.

“How long do you have?” I ask.