“A wally,” Lysander provided.

“Well spoken,” said the puppet Jones, from his spot down my back.

Helena waved for the puppet to shush. “And when Demetrius rose to confront Lysander—again—the bolt hit him in the back of the neck.”

“Came through to the front,” said Lysander, “the point blooming from his throat. He seemed rather surprised. I suppose the bolt was meant for me.”

“It was my father,” said Hermia. And we all started a bit, as she hadn’t even opened her eyes.

“Theseus’s simpering toady?” I inquired. “The logic plays. He did try to hire me to do the same.”

“That’s how a respectable father shows his love,” said Helena. “Not all the pretty praise and sweet embraces. Proper possession and control. Hermia’s father so loved her he threatened death on her, unless she married Demetrius. None of that prattle of being the apple of Daddy’s eye that I heard from my own father, great bag of rags that he is.”

“Oh thou sad, broken thing,” said I. “Since I landed here I have seen many wondrous and annoying things, but the glory of your wrong-thinking outshines them all.”

“She’s quite mad,” said Hermia.

“Maestro,” called Bottom from his spot behind the oak. “The watch approaches.” He nodded his muzzle rather furiously down the trail.

I stood. “Grab the fairy frocks, Bottom, we are away.”

“But what if it was the watch that killed Demetrius?” asked Hermia. “My father might have sent them, he is often in the company of Blacktooth and Burke at court.”

“It wasn’t the watch,” said I. “Probably. Let them lead you back to Athens, before you all perish from the elements and stupidity. And say nothing about our presence here.”

“But why?” asked Lysander, but I was already running down the trail with the ass-man clomping along behind me.

Chapter 12

The Squirrel is Strong with This One

The fairies dropped naked out of the trees, at dusk, and Cobweb immediately leapt into my arms and snogged me mercilessly, breathing her nutty breath on me, her skin redolent of bark and leaves from her squirrelly day out and about. I pushed her away after mere minutes.

“You’re a squirrel!”

“Well, you stink of cheese!”

“But you’re a squirrel!”

“Not all the time.”

“Enough of the time that you might have mentioned it before shagging me. Common courtesy, innit?”

Cobweb, wrist to forehead as if she might faint any second, said, “Oh, didst thou shag me? Methought me fanny was lightly brushed in the night by a foraging hummingbird. Could it have been . . . ?”

Moth and Peaseblossom snickered. Bottom honked.

Sarcasm does not wear well on the naked. “We should go. Blacktooth and Burke are behind us.”

“Not to worry, they are miles back, and not even following you.”

“How do you know?”

“Fine view from atop the trees.”

“Oh right. Squirrel. So, shall we gallantly bugger on, or do you need to gather some nuts first?”

“Why, haven’t you eaten? Are you hungry?”

Sarcasm is oft lost on the recently unsquirreled. “Grab your kit, sprite, night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast.”

Cobweb and the others retrieved their frocks and hats from Bottom, who, with Peaseblossom and Moth on his flanks, led us through the darkening forest toward the Night Palace. Time passed with just the crunch of leaves underfoot and we trod the first thousand or so miles before we spoke.

“Were you with us through the day?” I asked.

“No, we had duties to perform for the queen.”

“Even when you are a . . .”

“Daytime is the best time for gathering. We are always slaves, bound forever to serve.”

An immortal slave? My breath caught in my chest at the thought of it. I had been a slave. I knew the singular succor that was hope of freedom, even if promised after the grave, and yet I had forgotten what it was to not only have nothing, but be property. And as the all-licensed fool I’d had more privilege than most slaves. Yet, I had received Cobweb’s kindness and complained. Shame fell upon me like a hot shadow, and for the first time I found myself without words. I squinted and rubbed dust from my eyes and we walked for a long time before I spoke again, lest my voice break and she think me a wally.

When my shame settled, I said, “We encountered the young Athenian lovers again. One was murdered.”

“One of the shoe whores? Well, what do they expect, strutting about the forest all tarted up with their smooth hair and their shoes. A wonder they lasted this long.”

“It was the one you stabbed in the chin with the crossbow quarrel.”

“The yellow-haired geezer?”

“Demetrius,” I provided.

“Well, he was annoyingly tall. Did the pointy-bearded one do it? He had the look of a scoundrel.”

“He was the target of the bolt that killed Demetrius. The same kind as killed the Puck.”

“You reckon it was the same killer ended the Puck?”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure the why of it. Hermia’s father, Egeus, propositioned me to kill Lysander—”