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“Woodland kin,” he announces. “Shall we get on with it?”

The guests erupt. They whistle and pound the tabletop.

From his end of the feast, Puck directs his attention to me. “So, luv. You’ve led us on a merry chase through this weald. Do you have three successful tasks to present to your rowdy captors? Have you triumphantly hunted down an animal that can’t be hunted? Can you tell us a Fable we’ve never heard before about that animal? And can you prove the moral is true?”

I stand. “No.”

Pandemonium results. The satisfaction this elicits disgusts me, but their reactions right afterward make me feel a whole lot better.

“I have a bargain instead,” I say.

An extravagant silence follows. It whooshes through the glade, amplifying the rampant sounds of the bonfire. The inferno fumes, its talons scratching the air.

Then commotion ensues. The Faeries glower, some braying in Faeish, others whining like adolescents, their voices overlapping.

Cypress’s mouth twitches.Bargainis the irresistible, indispensable magic word.

Puck flicks his hand, quieting the protesters. “You have our attention.”

I formulate my proposal with care. “I’m willing to bargain for more time: I’d like one extra week of my life. In exchange, I’ll reveal a passage hidden in the original Book of Fables.” I recount the details of Cypress owing me a favor—my bolt injuring him, my hands nursing him, the tome he’d leant, and the scribe’s secret text. Some have heard reports from the centaurs about what I’ve been up to, others not.

“The text indicates there’s a second way to preserve your land,” I announce.

The uproar resumes. The stupefied Folk exchange looks of disbelief. They whisper, scoff, and fling superior or insulted glares my way.

In the midst of that, Puck’s face slackens. This, he hadn’t foreseen. His eyes blaze with astonishment, then sparkle with ambition.

The text had said a link exists between humans and magical beings. If it can be identified, it will open another door for the Faeries, another means to restore the lost fauna.

I speak cautiously. “If you grant me this week, I’ll share the passage.”

“My, my,my,” Puck says, quieting the hubbub. “You’ve exceeded our expectations tenfold and many times over. Except how did this mortal scribe know about a ‘second way,’ if we don’t?”

“I have no idea,” I answer honestly. “But I think someone told her. An ancient Fae during her time, perhaps? Someone with an incentive?”

They contemplate that. The notion is hardly far-fetched, taking into account the Folk’s desire to barter and haggle. For the right price, a Fae of old could have informed a mortal of such vital information. If the scribes were industrious enough to traverse the continent and forage for knowledge about magical beings, why wouldn’t they be savvy enough—and daring enough—to make a deal?

I want to find out the source, but I have to be alive to do it. Survival comes first—mine and my sisters’.

Puck likes what he’s hearing. After several moments, so do the others. They don’t want to lose this game, but the odds imply that isn’t at risk, considering my track record thus far. What’s the harm in an extra week? Seven days of watching me struggle? That allotment of time is nothing to immortals.

And again, they do love surprises.

I take a deep, courageous breath and play another card. “One other condition. I will reveal the scribe’s text only when my extension is up, whether or not I win.”

“Faristn brakde,”Foxglove says to Puck, her face crimping with suspicion.

“Jún ketur lokide,”Tinder presses, his tone disruptive.

Cypress shoots the pair a combative look.“Jannsji er jún fade ejji.”Then he faces Puck, his voice turning flexible, companionable.“Jfade fá?”

I recognize the sounds of a debate. Based on the angles of their words, I take an educated guess. The other two must have raised skepticism that I’m tricking them, lying to them. Whereas Cypress must have shot that down with a crucial point: Why wouldn’t they want to know if there’s an alternative to restoring the fauna and saving the Solitary wild?

The satyr and centaur swap a look that borders on elemental, ingrained. Puck’s on my side, so I have no misgivings that he’ll agree. Yet he and his friend make a show of deliberation, locked in wordless communication.

After a moment, Puck’s eyes flit to the Faeries, then to me. He slouches like a disheveled monarch, his arm resting on the table, fingers rubbing together.

Beneath the facade, I see pride. The woodland may have chosen this game, but its ruler has the authority to approve of the extension. I had dislodged that bit of information from Cypress before we’d left The Heart of Willows, when I inquired about the varying Middle Moon celebrations within each segment of the wild.