Page 143 of Defy the Fae

Juniper defends, “It’s practical. I don’t want to run out of ink.”

“Then have Aster fetch an inkwell,” Tinder grits out sluggishly from his perch atop Cypress.

Puck approaches the lad and ruffles his hair. “You all right, luv?”

“I’ll live, minus a few digits.”

“Meh. Who needs that many anyway?”

“Indeed,” Cypress says. “It is that thick skull of yours that could have used an adjustment.”

“Fuck off, asshole.”

“Glad to know you two still love each other,” Puck slurs.

“Might we circle back?” Cerulean votes.

Foxglove sighs, “Yeah. I second that.”

Coral’s sultry voice drips in. “Third.”

“Fine,” Juniper admits. “The pencil is for revising. Are we honestly going to split hairs about this?”

“Grab her spectacles, while you’re at it,” Puck instructs the filly.

After he provides her with directions to their cabin, the centaur evanesces. Minutes pass until she returns. Winded breath whooshes from her mouth, and her hooves teeter before righting themselves.

Manifesting depletes our young most of all. Still, she possesses more reserves than any other Fae present. The iron hasn’t afflicted her as much as it has the rest of us.

Cove opens the Book of Fables to the right page. Under the caps, the pads of my fingers coast over the words and trace the inky font.

Immortal wild. Immortal land. Dwellers of the mountain, forest, and river. You are born of eternal nature—of the wind, earth, and water. Yet that which is everlasting is not unbreakable. And should you wither by the hands of others, look not merely to sacrifice, for another path to restoration lies in wait. Therefore, follow your Fables, heed your neighbors, and look closer.

“Follow your Fables,” I repeat loud enough for the congregation to hear.

“Heed your neighbors,” Juniper continues, “…and look closer.”

Yes. That.

It’s a riddle. It’s a cue.

It is rather fucking obvious.

Next, I seal my eyes shut and switch tomes, racing my digits over the pages of Juniper’s journal. Nothing happens at first. Yet when I reach a fresh leaflet, the flesh under my fingercaps prickles. Unlike the previous ones, this page doesn’t contain her handwriting. It is a blank slate waiting to be filled.

Heat crests behind my retinas. My eyelids flip open.

“I think we are right,” I say.

Juniper accepts the spectacles and pencil from Aster, then takes the journal from me and stalls on that same unmarked page. “Wait,” she realizes. “I can’t be the only one.”

Indeed. She cannot be.

This is also why her pregnancy hadn’t been the answer.

The solution is not to create a new life. It is to write about one.

That is the route to unity. That is the way to express it.

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