"As bad as children," Cordelia proclaimed with every ounce of her ten-year-old dignity.

"And as careless of time as a grown-up." Geoffrey frowned, glancing about him. "Whosoe'er set this trap, will shortly come to search it. Ought we not to set them free?"

"Aye, at once!" Cordelia fumbled with the trap. "Yet how doth it open?"

"Ye've but to lift," Geoffrey snorted. He knelt down, pressed a catch, and lifted the door. The two fairies darted out and swirled up into the air on gossamer wings, caroling with joy. "Free! Free!"

"Ah, the blessed air!"

"And the cursed Cold Iron." Puck glowered at the trap. "How comes this, elf? Must the folk of thy woods forever be using traps of steel?"

"Nay, or the Wee Folk would torment them sore." Kelly stumped up beside him, glowering at the cage. "Our trappers here use wooden boxes when they wish to take their prey alive, or, if they do not, then snares of cord that slay in a moment."

"Then there's a hunter newly come unto thy woods," Puck said grimly, "or an old one who's taken up new ways." He turned to Summer and Fall. "Ward thee, fairies—for I misdoubt me an some souls do be preaching disregard of Wee Folk unto all the parish."

"And disregard of animals' suffering," Kelly agreed. "Beware—mayhap more traps of iron dot yer forest."

"An they do, they'll be quickly buried," Fall promised.

"Never fear—we'll broadcast word," Summer affirmed. "And we thank thee, mortals." She dropped a curtsy to Geoffrey and Cordelia. "We owe thee favor now."

Cordelia exchanged an excited glance with Geoffrey. To have fairies owing them favors!

"If ever thou hast need," Fall agreed, "only call, anywhere throughout this Isle of Gramarye, and Wee Folk will fly to aid thee."

"That doth not mean their aid will suffice." Puck fixed the children with a gimlet glare. "Thou shouldst not therefore court danger."

"Be sure, we'll not," Cordelia said, round-eyed.

Puck didn't say a word; he only bent a stern glance on Geoffrey.

The boy glared back at him, then looked away, then back again. "Oh, as thou wilt have it! Nor will I court danger, neither!"

"'Tis well." Puck nodded, satisfied, and turned back to Summer and Fall. "But we will seek. Some mortal doth speak for Cold Iron in the elves' demesne—and that we'll not abide. Nay, we must seek him out, and school him. Children, come!"

He turned, striding off through the forest.

The children stared at his upright, determined back in total surprise. Then Geoffrey grinned and started after the elf.

Magnus looked down at Gregory, then grinned and hoisted the little boy to ride before him. Gregory squealed with delight and thumped his heels against Fess's sides. The great black beast seemed to sigh.

Cordelia followed all of them on her unicorn, singing softly, "A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go…"

As they traveled along the forest path, Geoffrey glowered behind at Cordelia, swaying gently on the unicorn's back and singing happily as she plaited a wreath of flowers. The two fairies rode with her, chatting. But Magnus kept an eye on his younger brother, and was well aware that his scowl was deepening and his mood darkening. After a little while, he turned to Puck. "It hath been some few hours that we've been afoot, Robin. I do grow a-hungered."

Geoffrey looked up sharply. "Aye! Food, good Puck! I shall find it, and gladly! Let us rest and dine!"

Fess glanced up at the leafy canopy and calculated the time from the light. "The sun will rise soon. Stop and rest—and find whatever is about that may be edible."

Geoffrey whooped and disappeared into the leaves. They rustled for a second or two; then none but the songbirds knew he existed—and even they might not have been sure.

Cordelia slid down from the unicorn's back. "Eh! What berries may I find nearby, good Summer?"

"Raspberries, mayhap. Come, and I shall show thee!"

Gregory sat down, leaned back against a tree. In three breaths, his eyes closed and his head nodded forward.

Puck smiled. "I had thought as much. 'Twas little sleep thou hadst this night past."

"Naetheless, Geoffrey will not wish to nap," Magnus warned.

Puck shrugged impatiently. "He never doth; he fears some part of life will pass him by, the whiles he sleeps. Even so, he hath need of slumber."

"Aye—he doth grow sullen. I think that he doth aim this secret anger at Cordelia's unicorn."

Fess agreed. "Yes. Because it allows her to ride, but will not let him near."

"That could breed trouble," Magnus mused.

Puck shot him a keen glance. "Thou wilt be a wise captain some day, youngling. 'Tis even as thou sayest—thou must needs find some way to quench his envy, or he'll wreak havoc."

"'Tis as I've thought," Magnus admitted, "yet I can see no way to it. The unicorn will not abide him near. What can I do?"

"Thou hast not seen it, then?" Puck grinned. "Seek within the terms of the situation, lad. The unicorn will not allow him near—yet doth it bear him ill?"

"Nay," Magnus said slowly, "not while he doth keep his distance."

Puck nodded, waiting.

"So," Magnus mused, "I must find some way for the beast to pay him heed, though he cometh not nigh."

Puck broke into a broad grin. "Thou hast the right of it. Now thou hast but to find the way."

Magnus found it as they finished breakfast.

As they ate, he sat there, looking about him, trying to find something to pull Geoffrey out of his black jealousy. The younger boy was a bit better, now that Cordelia had climbed down off her high horse long enough to gather a quart of berries and join them for roast partridge; but Magnus knew it would be just as bad, just as quickly, when she mounted again, and Geoffrey had to watch her riding. He could fly, of course, or ride Fess, but that was boring now. Riding a unicorn was something new.

Magnus eyed the unicorn, standing thirty-feet away, nibbling at some leaves. Then, as he turned back to his brothers and sister, his gaze fell on the wreaths Cordelia had plaited, resting on her head and on those of the fairies. The idea hit, and Magnus slowly grinned. "Cordelia—wilt thou lend me thy wreath?"

The girl looked up warily. "What wouldst thou do with it?"

"Naught but to play a game."

Cordelia eyed him, not trusting the simplicity of his claim —but she couldn't see anything wrong with it, so she held out the stack of wreaths with a glare.

Magnus caught them up and, with a gleeful whoop, flipped one sailing toward the unicorn.

She looked up, startled, poised to flee—and saw the wreath skimming through the air toward her. She whinnied,

ducked to aim her horn, and caught the flower loop with a toss of her head.

"Nay!" Cordelia cried, leaping to her feet. " 'Tis not fair!"

But Magnus was flipping wreaths to Geoffrey and Gregory, and the unicorn was swinging her head around in a circle, making the wreath spin around her horn, then suddenly ducked, and the flower ring sped back toward Magnus. He caught it with a yelp of delight. "I had not thought she could toss back to me!"

"Play with me, too!" Gregory cried, and spun his wreath through the air toward the unicorn.

"Nay, 'tis my turn!" Geoffrey insisted, and his wreath went flying, too.

Gregory's ring flew wide; he was a little short on motor development, but the unicorn dashed to the left and caught it anyway. Then, with a leap, she was back where she had been, to catch Geoffrey's wreath and rear up, pawing the air with a triumphant whinny.

"No! Nay, now! Give back my wreaths!" Cordelia shouted.

"Peace, lass," Puck counseled. "They do but play, and will give thee back thy wreaths when they are done."