He threw Arthur into the snow. Arthur landed hard on his elbows, socks damp and skin stinging with cold. The man stood over him, chest heaving. Breath curled from his nose like steam. A tendril of greenery lifted from his shoulder as if looking over it.
Freya slipped past and stood over Arthur, her fur standing on end.
“Get out,” the man said, his voice low and hoarse, “and if the forest lets you live, tell the rest of your kind to stay away.”
Arthur rolled shakily to his knees. He noticed, with a shiver, that the man had a wolf’s paws instead of human feet.
“All right,” Arthur gasped, “all right, I’m going—let me grab my shoes and I’ll—”
The man lunged. Arthur flinched, but the man merely grabbed the silver acorn hanging from his neck and glinting in the winter twilight. Freya hissed; he ignored her. The green tendril shot toward her, bobbing about her ears. She batted it away.
“Where did you get this?” the man asked.
“It was my father’s,” Arthur squeaked.
The man’s grip tightened, knuckles against his throat. Arthur swallowed.
The man’s eyes flickered over his face. “Your father?”
“George Throckmorton.”
The man’s anger drained away, leaving his expression unreadable. The greenery at his shoulders swayed confusedly.
“George Throckmorton,” he repeated under his breath.
He let out a huff of something like laughter. His breath fogged Arthur’s glasses.
He released the acorn, hand dropping to his side. For the first time, he considered Arthur. Arthur shrank under his gaze, wondering what he was looking for. What he saw.
“You must be Arthur,” the man said.
Arthur’s skin prickled. He hadn’t known what to expect when he’d found the vale, when he’d entered the tree-house, but it wasn’t this. He didn’t know what to make of this angry little man with his antlers and paws, his scar and knee brace, who was unknown to Arthur but knew his name.
“How do you— I don’t—” Arthur got to his feet, hugging the cat. She twisted in his arms to glare at the man and his greenery. “Who are you?”
The man dragged a hand over his face.
“The Lord of the Wood,” he said.
xiii. In which Arthur meets the Lord of the Wood
Arthur’s heart sank. This? This was the Lord of the Wood?
In his many daydreams over the years, Arthur hadn’t imagined this. He’d imagined a benevolent fairy prince, girt in autumn finery, who would welcome him as he’d once welcomed George Throckmorton.
The Lord of the Wood gave a crooked, bitter sort of smile. “I don’t look it, do I?”
Arthur flushed. He’d been staring, trying to recapture a piece of his father in the other man’s face. The eyes like sunlight, the hair like shadows. His inky hair in its knot was the only thing about him that Arthur recognized from George’s stories.
The cat squirmed out of Arthur’s arms. She wound around his ankles, glaring unceasingly at the Lord of the Wood.
“Dad didn’t—” Arthur ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. You’re not what I expected.”
The Lord of the Wood knew his name. He didn’t know why that should be. George had met him long before he’d married Arthur’s mother.
“You’re bleeding.”
Arthur touched his forehead. The blood had mostly congealed, but a small wet spot crept down his face. He shuddered.
