1. Folly

Folly's nerves build as he unfastens his eyepatch. He blinks, adjusting to his full range of depth and peripheral vision. A glance behind him reveals an ordinary, grubby alley. Nothing strange lurks in the shadows.

Roland grunts next to him. "Don't know why you bother. You look weird with the patch, too."

Ducking his head, Folly tucks the patch away. His handful of iron nails jingles in the same coat pocket. His threadbare brown coat, not his bright performance robe. Folly hates drawing attention to himself, not that Roland would understand. The eyepatch draws only fleeting glances. It's strange, but in a way people are used to.

People aren't used to Folly's left eye.

Roland shifts his weight. He's an average man in most ways—average height and weight, which makes him several inches taller than Folly. Not obviously rich or poor. A middling brown beard. He likes a drink but doesn't overindulge. Remarkable only in his temperament.

Though perhaps the charm he uses on clients balances out the harshness he reserves for his employees.

"Make sure you get a good look at things," Roland continues. He doesn't need Folly's input. "So you can give me a good description. Last shop had two silver rose bracelets, and I had to buy both of them. We can't make a profit if we're buying all this extra trash."

Maybe if Roland didn't make Folly so nervous every time, Folly would do a better job. But Roland definitely doesn't want that input, and Folly feels too small and foolish to speak up.

Wrong move. "Are you listening to me?" Roland snaps.

"I'm sorry," Folly says quickly. "I understand. I'll give you a better description."

"Good man. We're going to be rich, you and me." Roland's friendly slap stings Folly's shoulder. "Get going and stop your fucking worrying."

Folly rocks with impact and takes off down the street. Roland always says it like that—they're going to be rich, both of them. But Roland owns the whole troupe of charlatans, and Folly's just the fortuneteller. All Folly's money goes towards his employment contract. He owes Roland for food, his wagon, the clothes on his back, the tent he performs in. An ever-shifting debt, and the math never quite adds up.

Maybe it would add up faster if Folly gave Roland what he really wants.

Half a block from the variety shop, Folly pauses to gather his nerves. Crumbly gray brick supports his shoulder in a hopefully casual lean, while tattered gold fringe waves tauntingly from the variety shop awning. It wouldn't do to linger right outside—the shopkeeper might think he was up to no good. Or worse, she'd realize how nervous Folly is.

The eyepatch would make this easier. People get funny about the eyepatch, sure. It's still better than showing his left eye, all freakishly gold next to his normal brown right eye. But Folly can't wear the eyepatch if he wants to find anything worthwhile today.

The town of Forwick is big enough to have a variety shop, which means mid-morning is a busy hour. If anyone looks askance at the lurking stranger, Folly can't tell. All he can see are his scuffed leather boots.

One more year of this. Maybe half a year, if he's lucky. If Roland loses interest. But it'll be forever if Folly can't muster his nerve to walk into the variety shop.

"People walk into shops every day," Folly mutters to his boots. "This isn't hard."

His boots don't reply. They never do, gods be thanked. Folly takes a deep breath and looks around. Quick, sweeping glances. Never linger on the shadows, in case the shadows look back.

All clear. Folly darts across the street, dodging collisions and eye contact. The trouble with cities is the people, but there are perks. Dark iron gates and window latches keep the glittering shadows away.

Above the awning, a sign proclaims Forwick Variety of Fine Things and Curiosities. The fringe dangles low enough that even Folly has to duck through.

Dust shrouds the shop's crowded interior. It drapes in artful layers over lanterns and shelves. Rubbing above his lip, Folly holds back a sneeze. He can practically feel the grit building up in his messy dark hair.

The grime will be worth it. Even the pale dust can't hide the faint stars of magic scattered throughout the shop.

The counter is the one gleaming island in the sea of dust. "How can I help you today?" the shopkeeper asks in practiced cheerfulness—then falters when she meets Folly's gaze.

Folly's heart seizes unreasonably. Seventeen years since the incident, he should be used to this reaction. "I'm just browsing."

Leaning on one ruddy elbow, the shopkeeper fishes a piece of candy from an open sack. "Sure, just browsing with that magic eye of yours." She tosses the candy into her mouth, then grins around the crunch. "Are you with that troupe of charlatans?"

This is why they run the scheme in two shifts. Real bargaining doesn't work with Folly's golden eye—it makes people suspicious. Folly is just the scout. Roland will follow tomorrow to buy the treasures.

"I'm with the magicians' troupe," Folly says, because they aren't supposed to admit they're charlatans. Folly fits in well with the other performers. His eye might be magic, but it doesn't do what he says it does. "Do you have anything special today? Anything bewitched?"

"Maybe, maybe not. There's plenty new and plenty old. The sweets are new." Crunches punctuate each sentence. "Would you believe I sell more sweets than the general store? The kiddies feel so daring, creeping through the dread variety for their lozenges."

She peers, crunching slower and slower, until Folly realizes he's supposed to laugh. He manages a smile. "That's very clever."

"It's all right," she says, content. "You clearly have a keen eye for merchandise. See if anything catches your fancy."

Smile falling, Folly edges through the clouds of dust.

The whole conversation, the shopkeeper's gaze remained fixed on his right ear. As if gawking at his left eye would be rude. Folly can never decide if he prefers the gawking or the aversion.

Perusing the shop is the fun part, even with dust creeping past the laces of his green cotton shirt. Old maps and new maps, silk slippers and dirt-crusted gloves. An urn as tall as Folly, and a book no bigger than his thumbnail. None of the shelves rise past Folly's waist, giving the shopkeeper a clear view of everything.

Folly has a clear view, too.

Fae magic has a particular quality. A shimmer that's no color and every color at once. Like a rainbow wavering above summer-hot cobbles. Folly chases the magic slowly, without appearing to do so.

Pretending not to see things may be his greatest talent.

Four enchanted items hide amidst the variety today. First is a crown of dried flowers, blue and gold blossoms that rustle when Folly examines the gaudy pendant next to them. Maybe Folly shouldn't mention the crown. Roland will be angry if it falls to pieces on the trip back.

Then a spindle, and Folly doesn't look closely enough to tell whether the magic clings to the wood or the yarn. That's safe enough to mention.

Third is a pocket watch, which will cost dearly from the silver-work case even if the shopkeeper doesn't know it's magic. Roland won't like that. Though… Folly peers closer. Maybe Roland will haggle a proper discount since the watch is defective. The hands tick backwards.

Folly gives equal attention to the neighboring nonmagical pocket watches before he continues browsing.

The final item glows far brighter than the rest. It's one of a slew of purses and satchels—a leather pouch, stained in bright berry colors. An iridescent shell forms the button.

Folly squints. No, the little purse isn't magical. Something inside it is.

Dangerous curiosity hammers Folly's ribs. There's no justifying it. The hidden magic calls in silent, shining invitation, and Folly would be a fool to answer. He should just tell Roland about the purse, like everything else.

He picks up the pouch. It's cool to the touch, and any heat in his palm is the burn of imagination.

The magic dims. Folly imagines it's relaxing in his grasp. Satisfied.

"Found something you like?" the shopkeeper asks. She plants both elbows on the counter, as if bracing herself for battle.

This is the part where Roland would say something funny or lay on his awful charm. Folly just sets the purse next to a sack of candy and says, "I'll take this."

"Oh, you have such an eye for detail!" the shopkeeper exclaims. "Why, the dye-work on this piece—" Her patter gives Folly time to think of what to say, even as his stomach twists. As she concludes with a regretful, "As sorry as I am to see this lovely purse go, that will be?—"

"Please, my lady, let's be reasonable." Folly forces a smile. He hates haggling. It draws out conversations forever. "The craftwork is lovely, but we both know it's worth four gilden at the most."

She deflates, then puffs up again. "Six gilden."

"Four and a half," Folly counters, trying not to wince. Each gilden delays his freedom that much more. Then again, what's another month? Will Roland ever really let him clear his debt?

She crunches. "Five and three quarters."

This part's easier. Like a dance where he knows the steps. "Five."

She grins broadly at Folly's right ear. "Done."

Folly's ruse wouldn't have worked if she'd looked him in the face, he reflects in retreat. She's savvy enough, she would have read the truth in his eyes. Folly's well aware the leather purse is only worth half a gilden. She might have wondered why Folly's willing to pay ten times its value.

Folly isn't sure either. He can't explain his sudden urge to own this magical item. But his bargaining worked. He has his prize, and he has descriptions of the other items to give Roland.

Before he leaves the shop, Folly hides the purse and its magic contents inside his inner coat pocket, safely buttoned up. Roland will ask questions if he sees it, and Folly doesn't have any answers. He just knows he wants this piece of magic for himself, even if the possibility of conflict rattles his heart against his ribs.

But Roland is nowhere in sight.

Relief mingling with disappointment, Folly takes off down the street. Roland often leaves mid-job, and Folly is happy to delay reporting until he can hide his prize. But now he has to remember the route back to the campground by himself.

At least Folly can put his eyepatch back on. He pauses in the mouth of an alley, right at the line of shadow.

Light glitters at the edge of his vision—the object in his pocket. He's tempted to pull out his purse instead of his patch and discover what he's purchased. So tempted that his fingers are already touching the leather when he looks to make sure nobody's watching.

That's when Folly sees the creature.

A stretch of shadow looms in the depths of the alley. Solid, unmistakably present, but it blends with the darkness. Its only clear features are two narrow eyes of every color, yet no color at all.

Terror urges Folly to grab the iron from his pocket. Instead, he exhales his fear through dry lips and adjusts his coat, like that's what he meant to do. He leaves the eyepatch in his pocket, even though all he wants to do is cut off the vision.

Glance away, slowly. Like he hasn't seen.

Then move.

Move.

Folly's limbs respond sluggishly to his frantic thoughts. Lurching from the alley, he flings himself into the flow of traffic. The surrounding press is welcome, even though usually his skin would be crawling. If Folly stays among people, if he ignores the creature, it won't bother him. Just like all the others.

Please.

Folly doesn't know why his eye is different. One night, when he was seven years old, he had two normal brown eyes. The next morning, the left one was eerie and gold. His parents asked over and over what he'd done, who he'd spoken to. What he'd spoken to.

He didn't remember. But ever since then, he's seen things nobody else can see. Things dark and bright, impossible and real.

"You aren't fae-touched," Mother told him sternly. "You just aren't."

That was how Folly knew he was fae-touched. That he was different, which was a bad thing.

The fae don't usually come into cities. They don't usually notice Folly—and maybe this one hasn't either. No cold claws hook around his shoulder, and no iridescence calls from the shadows.

Maybe it's harmless. Maybe Folly imagined it.

He reaches the scrubby campground unscathed. Nothing appears amiss. The travel wagons are circled, the tents and stalls shuttered for daytime. Goodfellow's Marvelous Magical Troupe only operates after sundown, because night is the time of mystery. Daytime is for sleeping off hangovers.

Averting his gaze, Folly passes the bleary-eyed guards. They don't bother calling out—they're probably used to him looking frazzled.

Folly's wagon is parked on the far side of the campground. He usually prefers the distance, but today, each extra step lodges his breath tighter in his throat. The wagon is a small, boxy structure, and the first thing Folly did after moving in was fix an iron horseshoe above the door. He's safe here.

Probably. Assuming fae hate iron like the stories say. Folly's never been forced to test it.

Folly fumbles with the key, then hauls himself inside. The wagon creaks with his weight, then again as he collapses into a corner. Curling over his knees, pressing his hands against his face, Folly finally allows himself to feel the panic.

A breath, sharp as a nail hammered between his ribs. Another. It's not fair. He should have been safe in the city.

With a watery laugh, Folly uncurls. His head thunks against the wooden wall, and he takes in his familiar surroundings. Little more than a pair of bunks slung over storage crates. Folly sleeps in the bottom bunk and uses the top for more storage.

He thought it was nice he got his own wagon when he joined the troupe, instead of having to share. Folly needs time alone to recover and prepare himself for his next foray into society. Except privacy has a price. One more debt tallied on his contract.

Helpless anger draws Folly the rest of the way out of his panic. This wagon may delay Folly's freedom by an extra six months, but at least nobody else will learn what he's found today.

Whatever it is he's found today.

Folly fishes the purse from his coat. It still shimmers, but the magic doesn't cast any light on the purse itself. The dyed leather is mottled red and purple, not perfectly made, but whimsical. Different. The shell button unfastens easily, and green cotton lines the empty interior.

Frowning, Folly tips the purse upside down—and cool metal falls into his palm.

The coin flashes bright, then falls dormant. Folly has the strangest sense that it's alive, and it's resting.

Folly turns it in his fingers, fascination building. He's never seen a coin like this before. Twice as big as a gilden. Very old. The embossing is far finer than gildens, the shapes clear and sharp. On one side, a bird spreads its wings in flight. On the other side, a dragon.

Folly's pulse spikes again. Not with panic. He doesn't know why, but he's meant to have this coin.