With a shriek, Oak dashes over, clamoring up the saddlebags and onto my lap.
“Chase me!” he yells, out of breath, full of the wriggling ecstasy of childhood.
Even faeries are young once.
Impulsively, I hug him to my chest. He’s warm and smells of grass and deep woods. He lets me do it for a moment, small arms twining around my neck, small horned head butting against my chest. Then, laughing, he slides down and away, throwing a puckish glance back to see if I’ll follow.
Growing up here, in Faerie, will he learn to scorn mortals? When I am old and he is still young, will he scorn me, too? Will he become cruel like Cardan? Will he become brutal like Madoc?
I have no way of knowing.
I step off the toad, foot in the stirrup as I swing my body down. I pat just above her nose, and her golde
