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“I would’ve thought otherwise, from the way you express yourself.”

“You’re saying reality cannot be as mesmerizing as fiction, that these lands cannot be described or experienced thusly. I find it a pity that people must search within pages and oral tales in order to achieve wonder. Look around you, look at the majesty the Seasons have given us. What do you see?”

“Trees.”

He sighed. “Is there hope that we might continue this quest in silence? In the span of mere hours, you’ve subjected me to a brew of emotions. I’ve been livid, baffled, offended, and now—”

“Flustered?” I guessed.

“Provoked to the very edge of a cliff. I shall feel this way for a while yet, disturbed as a pile of leaves scattering into the wind until I’m rid of you.”

“You talk like you’re floating. How were you conceived? Did the clouds get frisky one day and then end up pregnant?”

“With child,”he insisted, jerking the reins and directing the horse around a shrub. “I cannot believe you’d defile intimacy by using that other term.”

“Those questions were compliments, by the way.”

“The more shuddering inquiry is how were you conceived?”

“I resent that.”

“If you must, but wherever you go, I assume that your presence makes noise.”

“I’m more interested in the noises you make.”

Aire floundered with the leather straps. My woodskin felt the knight’s heat rising to the surface of his neck, warming the back of my head.

That came out wrong. All wrong. I’d meant something harmless, the impression he gave to people. Not that the other hint wasn’t true.

I had to tone it down. He’d agreed to this jaunt, and if I wanted it to stay that way, I couldn’t afford to insult him more than I already had.

And I needed to do something else that I hadn’t done yet. “Hey, um, thank you for doing this. Also, sorry about my slip of the tongue. That wasn’t—”

“Better to quit while you’re ahead.”

“Am I ahead?”

“No.”

For days, we rode and camped, rode and camped. Bouncing atop the saddle, my rump screamed for mercy, because even wood had its limits.

As a distraction, Aire and I debated the benefits of fantasy over reality, imaginary things versus honest things. Often, his points got me riled up, whereas my points silenced him, inciting quiet periods in which we absorbed our words. He wasn’t condescending. He resisted me, but he also showed respect for my opinion, giving it due consideration—before disagreeing.

Over time, Aire relaxed. I got more anxious, swinging my head this way and that, my gaze scavenging the boughs. Whenever I heard atap-tapoverhead, I reached out and rapped my knuckles on the nearest trunk, but received no answer.

Where was Punk? She should have reached us by now.

My male companions noticed my agitation. Aire reassured me with all the reasons the woodpecker could have fallen behind. When he wasn’t singing, Nicu kept the rest of our conversations lively.

No good. I became a nervous wreck, going so far as to munch on my nails, which grated on the courser—that’s what my saddle partner had called his mount—who wanted to buck me off its back. I worked myself up, so that eventually my head flopped forward.

The next thing I knew, my eyes cracked open. Cantering hooves had come to a standstill. Aire had gone rigid, his breath fluttering against my hair.

“We are here,” he said.

“I’m awake now!” I blurted, my head snapping up. “I’m...oh.”

Maples, tupelos, and oaks suffused the woodland in burgundy, ocher, and green. Beams of light filtered through the mesh of leaves, stroking the houses propped high in the trees, tucked amidst the canopy. Bungalows with shuttered windows and orange doors, their outer walls encircled by terraces. Some of the dwellings stood alone up there, while others were stacked along trunks, one home above the other, connected by ladders or winding steps.