Oh. “I’d rather know if it’s in my power to escape this mountain.”
“And I, for one, cannot wait to find out.”
“For once, we agree.”
We chuckle, the sound foreign and downright alarming, because we peter out. Where had that laughter come from? Why had it seemed nostalgic?
I shake my head. “Why did I tell you this?”
“Why did I listen?” he asks, equally flummoxed.
Despite the questions, some type of upheaval simmers off Cerulean, his dark blue mouth thinning with bitterness. He looks as though he actually cares about my story.
Another awkwardness settles over us. I shift, restless but not ready to go back inside.
That same silhouette from earlier swings over the landscape, spiraling around the tail of a creeper. As opposed to the ones in my world, the climbing vines here are twelve times the size, lacing the bluffs or flopping over rocky brackets and swaying in the air. Cerulean’s owl friend launches off the spire and beats its wings after the other creature. They meet halfway, swerving around one another in a continuous spiral formation.
“You have one, two, three, four, five, six questions drifting through your mind,” Cerulean observes. “I’m beginning to decipher the number based on nothing in particular. Needless to say, that many questions sound like a wealth of bargains.”
I wonder, “How do you keep predators from snatching the refuge dwellers? How did you get ’em to share this habitat without fighting for dominance or preying on one another? Did they accept each other outright, or did it take time? Are you and Moth tending to ’em alone, or do other Faeries help? What about animal healers?”
“So I was wrong. Five questions.”
“Who said I was finished? I’ve got all night.”
“Are you applying for a keeper’s position?”
“Don’t need to. I’ve got one of my own.”
“One what?”
I let my deadpan expression speak for itself. His brows slam together. Surprise looks good on him, and I’m proud I put that expression there.
“You’re a keeper?” he asks.
“You might call it that, but I prefer the term, Fauna Goddess. It’s exotic and goes with my hair.”
The Fae scans me anew, intrigue enlivening his features. “Well, well. Very hush-hush of you, withholding that morsel from me. What manner of fauna?”
I hedge. “How much time have you got?”
Cerulean doesn’t answer, just crooks his mouth.
Since it’s a lot more fun to talk about the Fable Dusk Sanctuary, I tell him how I spend my days saving creatures, as that lark once saved me. Though I could never succeed without my sisters. Juniper’s a master at figuring out poacher routes and locating their traps, so we’re able to steal the animals back. With her skill at prying open steel jaws and metal cages, and with Cove’s talent for pickpocketing, we learned how to work quietly and swiftly, mostly without crossing weapons and making enemies.
Otherwise, some fauna get away on their own. In those cases, we comb the neighboring villages, hamlets, and farms, rescuing survivors or any creatures that have been hurt. It’s backbreaking work, but my family loves it.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cerulean stumped—or disturbed. A bundle of questions crowds his face, so he asks, and I answer. Stories about the animals flow out, including how my sisters and I learned to foster them, the hard stuff as well as the precious bits. I tell him about the pond that Cove built, the pastures that Juniper maintains for deer and fawns, and the makeshift aviary I’ve outfitted with houses, swings, and feeders.
Our chatter grows animated, drifting from one detail to the next, Cerulean revealing tidbits about the Fae fauna that aren’t recorded in the Fables. He has his own memories, some bittersweet, some hysterical, some heartrending, some fascinating. We go so far as to swap ideas for tending to the wildlife. I can’t believe it, but I lose track of the night.
That is, until my thoughts veer. Reminiscing about the animals Juniper, Cove, and I left behind pierces my gut, the same as thoughts of Papa Thorne do. Sharing this with the Fae who ripped it all away spreads the wound wider.
I whip up a steely expression and hurl it at Cerulean. “Where are my sisters? What’s Juniper being forced to do?”
He blinks from our trance, his expression morphing into nonchalance. “That is up to Puck, not me.”
“What’s Cove being forced—”
