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My ribs splinter, on the verge of cracking open. If that happens, what will leak out of me?

Under my breath, I hiss, “I will never forgive you for this.”

From the corner of my eye, Puck stares ahead. “Now who said anything about forgiveness?”

Not a stutter to his voice. Not a hitch in his reply.

His gait is another matter, faltering at my words. It’s scarcely noticeable unless one is a huntress, attuned to how creatures move. It’s hardly discernible unless one knows this satyr, unless one has tasted him, touched him. It’s nothing unless one has spent time stalking him.

The Faeries resume dancing. I spot the young male with orange eyes and that marten tail, which swats about in enthusiasm. He drives his tongue into the mouth of a dryad.

The foal from earlier joins the festivities, skipping amidst the trees. Fiddlers pluck and lute players strum. One musician runs a daggerlike tool across a stringed apparatus resembling a paddleboard.

The revelers have donned gowns woven of daffodils or flowers I can’t identify; jackets of leather, suede, or moss; canvas tunics embroidered in vines; and leggings sewn from lichen or cowslip petals.

The rest flaunt their nudity. I avert my eyes from bosoms and exposed genitals. The only knickknacks embellishing these exhibitionists are anklets and bangles, since the Folk adore their trinkets as much as they adore themselves. The baubles chime with the Faeries’ movements as they whirl about.

My digits stray to my arm, around which a bracelet of gold leaves had once twined. Once, before those wenches called nymphs took my sisters’ gift from me.

Does Lark still have her thigh cuff? Has Cove managed to keep her necklace, with its waterdrop pendant? Or were my sisters forced to surrender those precious talismans, in order to make deals?

Puck notices my fingers resting where the bracelet should be. I snatch my hand away.

The feast is extravagant. It’s a gluttonous spread of smoked game in beds of squash, pea pods, and greens. To say nothing of the desserts—dumplings oozing steamed plums, apricot tarts garnished with toasted nuts; miniature cakes coated in mirrored chocolate glaze and encrusted with golden seeds; and on, and on. The overabundance of sugar would make any baker in Reverie Hollow swoon.

Puck leads me to the head of the table and pulls out the chair. I bite my tongue and sit. At which point, the satyr covertly bumps my crown, then leans over to straighten it and whisper,“Once in the dark forest, a Stag hunted a Doe…”

Just like that, my ribs do crack. They burst open, a landslide of emotions gushing out. I gawk at the table in a trance, then hazard a glimpse of him walking away. He claims the opposite end of the long, winding table, far away from my chair.

Lounging back, the satyr kicks his hooves onto the surface and crosses them at the ankles. Not sparing me a glance, he chats up an inebriated dryad. Suddenly, he acts as if I’m inconsequential, expendable to him and his kin.

It’s a simple gesture and an infinite declaration. It’s good and bad. It’s wrong and right. It’s dangerous and safe.

I could pummel him. I could kiss him.

Yet intelligence is the ally of intention and the foe of lethargy. Thus, both deer wondered, what if we thought wiser and hunted together?

Ally. Intention. Together.

It’s a ruse. He’s still playing his role, still choosing me over winning. But more than that, Puck wants to find another way out of this mayhem. He’d heard my argument, loud and clear. And he’s in.

I duck my head, allowing myself a few precious seconds to relish this connection, the magnitude of his pledge, then shove my reaction back into its cage. I’d wanted this from him, yet I shouldn’t. This development complicates things, from our allegiances to the game itself.

There’s nothing for it. I have to move forward, no matter how Puck feels, no matter how I feel. I pin my features in place and raise my head.

The Faeries sitting nearby insist I sample the delicacies they set before me.

“Try this, human,” they say.

“And this,” they tempt.

“But not this,” one titters. “It’ll scald your nipples off.”

They roar with laughter. I waver, auditing the fare for signs of manipulation and enchantment. Some of the dishes, I know to avoid from the Fables, whereas other servings are debatable.

When the Faeries present me with hazelnut cake soaked in honey—a potentially distrustful course—my eyes flit to Puck. He’s still chatting with the dryad, yet the satyr taps his fork on the rim of a plate. He’d once described himself as hands-on, so I recognize the private signal: This dish is safe.

Throughout the meal, I exercise judgment when I can. For the rest, I check the genuflections of Puck’s hand. The hearty rye bread with butter is edible, as is a fig-shaped bulb with a vivid yellow rind.