Jeremiah had to halt to breathe, but Puck did not leave him behind. Instead, the boy-sidhe crouched, his ear-tips perked through the frayed silken mat of brown hair, his leathers creaking just a little too much. This shaded dell, tucked some distance away from one of the bone-white paths, was ringed by fragrant, secretive-whispering cedars. Puck drove his slim brown fingers into the loam, muttering a word or two of chantment. He whistled, and pixies appeared, their tiny flittering glows bleached by daylight. Jeremiah’s breath came back, the dwarven draught burning like a coal in his stomach. He leaned against one of the cedars, glad a dryad wasn’t peering out of the bark. The entire sisterhood of this ring were probably out a-marketing—cedar-nymphs were naturally gregarious, fragrant beings. The pixies chimed around Puck, excited little voices babbling in a mix of languages. They picked words up everywhere and forgot them just as quickly, interlacing them with chantment-tongue.
