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Protecting his charge had always been Aire’s biggest priority. He kept reminding me of this even when I didn’t ask him about it, his conscience working overtime.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for him back home. Maybe they’d only put him on probation. Maybe they’d slap his wrist—or his face.

A routine cemented. Lyrik cooked, smoked, and potioned. The mercurial prick badgered me, instigated Aire, and bantered with both of us. He treated Nicu like a yo-yo, neither pestering the Royal, nor indulging him. For his part, Nicu responded either with elation or confusion.

I explored more of the treehouses on my own, searching in vain for clues.

I explored everything else with Nicu and Punk. Our trio raced each other across parallel bridges and slid down the winding tubes. Or rather, the wingless slid down the tubes while the bird rocketed, our shouts and chirps traveling for what seemed like miles.

I hunkered in my bungalow with my Royal accomplice, trading theories about the fairytale, interpreting bits of the story. On a whim, I showed Nicu the third acorn, and he kissed the groove mark for luck. Then we swapped memories of our lives and giggled until our sides ached.

Once, I caught Aire watching us from the doorway. Leaning his shoulder against the frame, he filled the open space, an entertained look on his face. By then, Nicu and I had been talking about innocent things, not dishonest things, so I didn’t fret that Aire had overheard the illegal stuff.

I patted the mattress, inviting him to join us. And he did.

And he joined me again, each night, on the swings. And we talked, usually about nothing meaningful, which felt significant all the same.

Responsibility and freedom jumbled. I played and labored, carefree and careful. Distractions abounded, multiplying in the forms of budding friendships and upgraded weaponry. Using a chalk stick and parchment that I’d found in the colony, I drafted designs and then smeared them. Discouraged, I flung the stick into the bushes.

I’d been replaying that initial woodland trip in my head, knowing I had to stop being a sissy. At this rate, the month would fly by. Who knew how long it could take to crack a fairytale code?

On a foggy morning, I left Punk with Nicu. When I reached the community boundary, Aire emerged from the tree line, blocking my way into the forest.

Where had he come from?

Did I really need to ask myself that?

He said nothing, merely stared at me. Perceptive. Aware.

He knew that something in the woods had unsettled me. My silence on the subject, and my zero subsequent hikes into the wild, hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Taking one look at his cloak, freshened leather pants, and steel blades, I nodded and sidestepped him, equal parts grateful and apprehensive. He walked beside me into the forest, giving me time to process where to go, what to do.

A knight following my lead. My ego was properly elevated.

Why, oh why, wasn’t anyone here to see this?

The colors glistened and intensified, dawn trickling through the boughs. Again, my nostrils snatched at those familiar but mystical scents of earth. The branches appeared to twist and turn, pointing their fingers at me, sweeping across Aire’s shoulders. He rolled one muscle until they obeyed and slipped off.

He paced himself, his presence enveloping me. Like the wind. Like a breath. I didn’t need to hear or see him to know he was there.

Meanwhile, my weight and woodskin clattered about.

The forest was a cluster, without paths or trails cutting into the vegetation. Each twig and leaf snagged. Everything touched, beautiful and imposing and exhausting. The trunks had no end, shooting into the sky, grinding into the earth.

I’d already sought out the lumberjack’s path from that long-ago walk, when he or she had been collecting acorns. I’d sought that path and failed.

Next, I scoped out the animal’s path, the place it had been roaming, the route it might have taken before it got trapped.

What else did I know of the fairytale? I knew the time of day it happened, the direction the sunlight had shone, which told me to head north...northwest. I listened for a stream, like the one by the treehouses, or anything that normally attracted animals—specifically, a land bird, as the story hinted.

I consulted my acorn heart, because surely there had to be a connection, the same way I knew wood itself. Some sort of meaningful, infinite bond that set the nut to knocking against my chest.

In the interim, I knelt and picked at plants or dug into shrubs, putting on a show for Aire. I made him believe I hunted an herb or root. A medicinal item, not fairytale enlightenment.

For an hour, we trekked, noting landmarks on the way. Aire remained quieter than usual. Did he make the distinction? Could he sense the truth?

I hadn’t dared to bring the third acorn here, scared of losing it or pissing off the woods. Fine, I’d gotten superstitious. I’d begun to think like Mother.