11. Folly

Two afternoons later, Folly's stomach twists outside the village. Their arrival is good news, because Folly isn't fond of sleeping on the ground. But Villages mean people, which is bad enough in normal circumstances. This village will mean more fae.

Folly's personal dealings with fae have involved Yarrow—who's surprisingly decent—and Moriath the shapestealer—who's terrifying. So, it's a coinflip whether Folly should be terrified of any given person.

Yet as he follows Yarrow onto the packed dirt road, Yarrow seems more nervous than he is. "Watch what you say," Yarrow instructs. "Don't apologize recklessly—admitting fault is dangerous. Don't make any promises either."

That suits Folly's general preference of social avoidance. He never liked talking to people in the human realm either.

He'd worried when he woke up yesterday, that things would be awkward after Folly's humiliating misunderstanding the night before. After Yarrow's casual admission that he wants to fuck Folly.

Folly can't imagine being so direct. He's never received that sort of admission without any hint of persuasion attached. Yarrow may want to fuck Folly, but he hasn't even flirted the past two days.

A quiet, secret part of Folly wishes Yarrow had just fucked his mouth. Folly could have handled that.

Yarrow's concerns only mounted as they drew near the village. "Be careful of the food," Yarrow continues. "Outdoors is safer, but if you're under a roof, don't eat anything without direct permission."

"Why is that?" Folly asks, hanging on every word. He can't help it. There's something strangely nice about having someone worry over him.

Yarrow glances over. His bronze eyes gleam in the sunlight. "I don't actually know why. But stealing someone's food is one of the oldest taboos in the realm. You'll indebt yourself to the host, which will be very inconvenient for me since we're bound together."

The reminder whips across Folly's heart. Right. Yarrow seems decent for a fae, but his concern for Folly isn't altruistic. He's just making sure his pet human behaves in public.

"I won't eat without permission," Folly says quietly. "Or talk to anyone."

Yarrow frowns, but doesn't question. He gestures ahead. "Here we are. The sentinel trees mark the village boundary."

One white-trunked sentinel tree rises on either side of the road. Folly would have noticed them even without Yarrow's directions—golden magic shimmers beneath the bark. Their branches curve outward, green-gold leaves nearly meeting in the center. Others are visible deeper in the forest, implying a complete circle surrounding the village.

Leaves swirl lazily down. They glint like fireflies, or the pixies Yarrow mentioned, until the moment they touch earth. A carpet of them softens Folly's footsteps as he crosses the threshold.

Folly stares, dazzled.

The village almost reminds him of the village he grew up in, though there are more shops than homes in this quarter. The buildings are painted in blue and green jewel tones, the thatching and shingles paler than Folly's used to. But there are buildings flanking cobbled roads, built of stone and brick and wood.

Folly would mistake it for one of the coastal towns where they favor brighter colors, were it not for the magic everywhere. Enchantment shimmers above every door and chimney. Plumes of smoke carry tiny sparks into the sky.

"Everything is so bright," Folly murmurs.

"Don't touch anything magic," Yarrow warns unnecessarily.

There aren't many people out. A tall fae woman dressed in leaves hangs feather ornaments from a rack outside her shop. A fae child with enormous eyes and flowers in their hair throws a wooden ball across the street. The child's chubby white cat doesn't move, but with a flicker of magic, the ball reappears anyway.

Half a dozen people in hunting gear stand on a street corner, sleek brown hounds at their heels. Most are fae like Folly's seen before, but one is far shorter and stouter than the rest, with a dramatic rusty beard.

Folly cringes as each set of eyes falls upon him—feather-merchant, child, cat, and hunters—all regard him. Their expressions range from amusement to disdain—to sudden interest, when they notice Folly's eye. One hunter turns as they pass, not trying to hide his staring.

If only Folly had his eyepatch, though he would still stick out for being human. Besides, there's another difference in the fae realm.

"Are they staring at you or me?" Folly asks under his breath.

Yarrow stretches his arms, taking up more space. "Both, of course. You're a human with a magic eye. I'm a big, bad, sexy wild fae. Oh, look. There's a traveling inn."

Folly looks as directed, but can't tell which of the buildings Yarrow means. Hopefully the inn has a bath. Washing up in the river has its limits.

A shop selling iron would be nice, but Folly doubts those are common in the fae realm.

"We should see if there's a soothsayer in town." Yarrow struts onward like nobody's watching. Or like everyone is watching. "I'd like some hints as to Moriath's whereabouts. You can trade professional tips, fortuneteller to fortuneteller. Always nice to—hang on."

Yarrow stops so suddenly, Folly nearly runs into him. Folly rocks back, adrenaline racing, but Yarrow's surprise melts into a delighted smile.

"That's Hummingbird's shop. She must have moved here recently." Yarrow points at a sky-blue cottage, its roof thatched with cloud-white straw. A wispy pink and yellow gown flutters from a flagpole outside. Rubbing his chin, Yarrow looks Folly up and down. "You need new clothes."

Folly plucks at his sleeve. The cuff is fraying, and the arberos sap left a mottled stain like red wine. "I can mend these."

Chuckling, Yarrow grabs him by the shoulder and steers him towards the cottage. "Sure you can. You still need new clothes."

Dread and embarrassment twine through Folly's stomach. "My coin probably isn't good here. What if this Hummingbird wants something else? You said I can't agree to favors, and I don't want to trade a finger. Maybe a toe, but then my balance would be?—"

"I'm paying, of course." Yarrow pats Folly's shoulder. "No fingers necessary."

Folly's voice catches in his throat as they reach the doorstep. He can't explain his nerves, because they don't make sense. Any mystery could lurk beyond the rough-painted door, from an arberos to a boarbear to a fae shopkeeper expecting Folly to obey trading customs he's never learned.

Yarrow raps on the door, then steps back. A frown crosses his handsome features. "Are you all right?"

There's no hope of Folly answering. But before his choked-up silence gets awkward, a window shunts open in the middle of the door—a mere four feet from the ground.

Dark eyes glitter beyond the narrow gap. Then there's a gasp and a squeal. "Yarrow! What are you doing here?" The door swings open, revealing a tiny, exuberant fae. Her eyes shine bright blue in the sunlight, fixing on Folly. "And who is this?"

"This is Folly," Yarrow says, squeezing Folly's shoulder. "Folly, this is Hummingbird."

Hummingbird is smaller than any fae Folly's seen so far—barely four feet tall, with rich dark skin and wide, opalescent eyes. A constellation of tiny gems glitters in her long curls. Her diaphanous blue dress flutters with her every movement.

"Folly," Hummingbird repeats, then leaps into the air. Sheer dragonfly wings appear at her shoulders, lifting her up into Folly's face. "Hello."

Folly squeaks, jolting back. Only Yarrow's grasp on his shoulder keeps him upright. "Um. Hi."

Wings blurring, Hummingbird looks him up and down. Her dark eyes are unreadable. "I haven't seen a human in years. Did Yarrow trap you with a riddle or promise you untold riches? Never trust untold riches. They're untold, after all."

"Um," Folly says. "He didn't do either of those."

Hummingbird cocks her head. "What is he using you for? Your pretty eye, or your pretty everything else?" She wags a long finger at Yarrow. "I thought you liked your lovers… how do you always put it? Feisty."

That shouldn't sting. Folly isn't one of Yarrow's lovers and has no intention of becoming one. So, his lack of feistiness shouldn't matter, and Folly shouldn't feel chagrined.

"Be nice," Yarrow says, a little sterner than usual. "I'll explain if you let us inside. Folly needs new clothes."

Hummingbird looks Folly up and down again, her entire body dipping in the air. "Yes, Folly does need new clothes. Get in, get in."

Beckoning, she swoops backwards and drops to the ground. Too stunned to feel offense at the scrutiny, Folly enters the shop.

The room looks bigger on the inside—a practical illusion of the massive mirror dominating the leftmost wall. The mirror reflects the shelves honeycombing the rest of the chamber, filled with fabric and trunks and sewing supplies. Hanging lanterns illuminate everything in clear light.

Folly cringes away from his reflection, missing his eyepatch. He'd rather look at anything else than his own grubby appearance.

"Nice place." Yarrow's hand finally falls from Folly's shoulder, and he turns around the room. "Bigger than your shop in Auden. Were you just looking to upgrade? Or am I missing any gossip?"

Hummingbird snaps her fingers, and her hair instantly piles atop her head, secured by a flock of butterfly pins. "I was bored. Dreadfully bored. Imagine seeing the same people every day for centuries! I was only there for thirty years, but the future was clear. But you, my horned friend, will not distract me." She plants both hands on her hips. "Why do you have a human?"

Folly chews the inside of his lip as Hummingbird stares down both of them. Her presence is far larger than her height.

Yarrow shrugs, unruffled as always. "A shapestealer cursed us together. I'm taking him to Queen Haelwen to break the curse."

"Huh." Hummingbird tilts her head. A curl falls from her pile of hair. She snaps her fingers again, and a butterfly pin swoops to pull it into place. "If you're going to the palace, you definitely need new clothes. Wait right there."

She darts towards the honeycomb shelves, humming an off-key song under her breath. A pair of wooden racks clatter on spindly legs towards the center of the room, each step sparkling with magic.

Folly hasn't said a word since entering the shop. Yarrow seems perfectly happy to do all the talking. Normally Folly would be grateful. Today… he can't shake his sense of obligation. Despite the fact—or perhaps because of the fact—that Yarrow is so insistent on handling everything.

Folly doesn't want to be a pet or a dependent. Or any sort of foolish creature led around by the collar and leash of his own desperation. He's an anxious mess of a person, but he is a person.

"Yarrow," Folly says quietly.

The wild fae's attention snaps towards him, bright bronze eyes focused. "Don't worry, not all of Hummingbird's wares are see-through."

Folly tears his eyes away from the alarmingly sheer fabrics draping over the clothes racks. "It's not that. Um. I know you said not to recklessly indebt myself to anyone."

"Don't eat anything in this room either," Yarrow says, though there isn't any food visible.

"I'll pay you back for the clothes," Folly says in a rush, then lifts a hand before Yarrow can reply. "With a reasonable amount of a reasonable currency."

Yarrow looks relieved by the restriction. Just for a moment, before a grin brightens the sharp lines of his face. "If you insist. Let me consider…" His gaze pans up and down Folly's body, with a much more leisurely perusal than Hummingbird's.

But Folly's neck doesn't heat until Yarrow turns his contemplation to the racks of sheer fabric Hummingbird is assembling.

Possible forfeits dance through Folly's mind. Yarrow said he doesn't trade sex for anything but sex—but he would trade a kiss. Or would Yarrow want another story, something more difficult or interesting or personal to tell? Or perhaps he'll assign Folly mundane chores like cooking and cleaning up after supper.

Folly's treacherous mind keeps returning to a kiss. Whether that would be reasonable currency.

"I'll pay for the clothes," Yarrow says, eyes sparkling with mischief brighter than any magic, "if you wear whatever I want."

Not what Folly expected. The request seems simple enough, but Folly knows how to bargain. And there's an obvious loophole in Yarrow's offer. "Whatever clothes you want. For one day."

Yarrow's grin broadens. "One month."

"One day," Folly repeats.

"One week," Yarrow says.

"One week, and I get to pick my shoes."

"Deal."

"If you're done flirting," Hummingbird sings out, fluttering a few feet away. "Let me take the human's measurements."

Flustered on all fronts, Folly steps away and lifts his arms as directed. He half-expects her to snap her fingers again, directing her butterfly clips to dart around taking his measurements. But Hummingbird doesn't even take out a measuring string. She just squints at him, lips pursed, then claps her hands.

"Right, I'm perfect at this. All of these should fit you." Hummingbird waves at the racks. "What do you like?"

The variety of colors and textures is overwhelming. Folly's drawn to a flowing robe, dark blue scattered with golden silk stars. It's a far finer version of the fortuneteller's robe currently knotted around his hips. He would be magnificent in it, sleeves swishing above the magic mirror. Not very practical, though—the summer realm has proven too hot for robes.

"What sorts of clothes would be practical?" Folly asks, hating how dependent he sounds.

Yarrow just steps closer, his presence warm behind Folly's back. "Traveling clothes, and something from court. Maybe two outfits for court, in case we're delayed there. I can keep the spares in my carryhold."

"High fae get all judgy if you wear the same dress for breakfast as for supper," Hummingbird agrees. "Do you want elegant court outfits, or slutty court outfits?"

Folly chokes. "Elegant, please!"

Yarrow sighs in disappointed unison with Hummingbird. "I suppose. Throw in that blue robe he wants, too."

Folly jerks around, gaze forced up by Yarrow's proximity. He hadn't thought himself obvious, or particularly subtle. But the fact that Yarrow noticed makes him feel seen.

It's uncomfortable. Prickly. Maybe not in a bad way.

Hummingbird jumps up into a hover and swings the robe around on its hanger. Holding it up to Folly's face, she hums. "Good choice, he looks good in expensive things. Nice color. And the gold, with that eye…"

Folly reaches out, to see if the fabric feels as soft as it looks. But Hummingbird yanks it away.

"No, no, no, you're far too filthy to try on my merchandise." She wrinkles her nose. "Both of you are lucky I let you in here. Are you staying at the traveling inn?"

Folly can't fault her for that. "That's what Yarrow said."

"Perfect." Hummingbird drops to the floorboards. "I'll pack these up for you, and you can try them on at the inn. I'll stop by for supper, and Yarrow can treat me to a pitcher or three of ale."

"Is that all you want?" Yarrow asks, and laughs when she rolls her eyes. He touches Folly's shoulder. "Go and browse while I bargain. I've known Hummingbird too long, and this might get personal."

His wink is filthy, his smile wicked. But his fingertips are so gentle through the fabric of Folly's shirt. Like he's making Folly part of the joke, not dismissing him out of hand.

"If anything's too expensive, don't buy it," Folly says, instead of what he wants to say, which is, thank you.

He moves away from the massive, revealing mirror, towards the shelves. One shelf holds rolls of silk glittering with magic. Pure white, like Yarrow's hair.

Maybe Folly's been judging Yarrow according to false premises. Folly's spent the last seventeen years flinching away from his own reflection in other people's eyes. People think being fae-touched makes him dangerous, suspicious.

And that's exactly how Folly's been treating Yarrow, even though Yarrow's shown Folly more kindness than most humans ever have.

Folly would rather work and travel with someone like Yarrow than someone like Roland. Minus the evil trees and ominous-sounding boarbears.

And of course, the shapestealer who got them into this mess in the first place.

Moriath's words catch in Folly's mind, like silk caught on branches. Seeing the guise of the glamour, not just the truth.

Folly squints at the shimmering white fabric. If he unfocuses his eyes, then refocuses, there's a difference. A change in texture or color. Or just a trick of the shadows. He steps closer for a better?—

Nausea sways through him.

Folly jerks back, clutching his stomach. He'd thought he had another foot of space, but he'd misjudged. Across the room, Yarrow glances over. The only sign of his answering pain is a furrow between his brows.

"Don't wander too far," Yarrow cautions, then returns to his murmured negotiations.

Right. Folly's heart thuds with the whispered promise of pain. And worse, the reminder: he and Yarrow are only together because they have to be. As soon as this curse is broken, he'll never see Yarrow again.

Best not to get attached.