12. Yarrow

Milla's Menagerie squats on the edge of town, just outside the sentinel trees. The inn isn't a menagerie, and Yarrow has never met anyone named Milla, but he has stayed here before. The menagerie looms like a five-story barn, all patchy blue paint and golden thatching and roughhewn window shutters flapping open.

Music and ale spill into the surrounding field, where villagers and travelers. Fae will take any excuse for a festival, and a traveling inn's arrival is a good one. Yarrow's no different. Normally he'd already be a pitcher deep into the celebrations. Or knuckle-deep into a celebrant, if he found someone cute and willing. But today, the rowdy crowd makes Yarrow wary.

People keep looking at his not-a-pet human.

"Stay close," Yarrow says as they ascend the folding stairs, though Folly is practically pressed against him already.

Flameless candles illuminate the dining lobby, which is quieter than the inn yard. Employees bustle about, delivering drinks and sweeping up messes, recognizable by the wreaths of straw and flowers in their hair. Hand on Folly's shoulder, Yarrow steers towards the front desk.

"We need a room with a bath," Yarrow says without preamble.

The bookkeeper looks familiar. Most of the employees at Milla's Menagerie are wild fae—it's a family business. They're all part fox spirit, with reddish hair and black-tipped ears. A fluffy tail flicks behind the tabletop as the bookkeeper leans forward.

"Hello, dear travelers. My name is Pennyroyal, and I'm happy to arrange things for you. A room with a bath could be available." Pennyroyal blinks, vertical pupils narrowing. He lifts a gaudy purple quill over the open book. "What are you trading—coin, goods, or… services?"

His gaze lingers on Yarrow, who grins. "Heard of me, have you? Did I seduce your sister or a cousin?"

"Both, though not at the same time." Pennyroyal taps the quill to his lips. "The threesome was with my sister and her lifemark."

Right. That was a good time. The memories are warm, as is the certainty that Pennyroyal would gladly make new memories with Yarrow tonight. Yarrow could use some stress relief, and he wouldn't mind tugging on that fluffy tail.

But Folly's practically vibrating with nervous tension at his side. Yarrow's hardly about to let Folly out of his sight. As for keeping Folly in his sight while he fucks Pennyroyal…

No, too awkward and risky. Pennyroyal's eyes slide over Folly with far too much interest. What if this is all a ploy to kidnap Yarrow's human? The curse would complicate any abduction attempts, but Yarrow would rather not fight in the inn.

"Maybe another time," Yarrow says. "I'll pay in coin, and don't try to cheat me. I know your rates."

"Me? Cheat?" Pennyroyal gasps—which isn't a denial. "All right, names?"

"He's Folly, and I'm Yarrow."

Pennyroyal's pen dances across the page. "One human, and one… what are you, again?"

Discomfort dampens the pleasure of flattery. "Fae and satyr," Yarrow answers smoothly, as though the question doesn't rankle. It makes sense. Having so many strangers under one roof, the innkeepers need to know the abilities of their guests.

The question just always reminds Yarrow that he's different. Not quite one thing, not quite the other.

"Hm, we had a satyr around last week, I think." Pennyroyal procures a key with a dangling copper charm. "How many nights?"

"Which direction are you traveling?" Yarrow asks.

"Three nights north, and we'll turn east at the palace," the fox fae answers.

Yarrow fishes the correct change from his purse. "Three nights then."

After the usual transaction details—clarifying that nights include days, and explicit permission to eat any food they purchase—Yarrow heads for the stairs.

Folly sticks close in the growing crowd. Clears his throat a good twenty seconds before saying softly, "Sorry if I, um. Got in your way, there."

"Another day of abstinence won't kill me," Yarrow says cheerfully. "Rain is always sweeter after a drought. Hey!"

The nosy fae veers away from Yarrow's glare, and Yarrow grabs Folly by the wrist. In a crowd like this, keeping Folly as a pet would be easier. At least then Yarrow could put a leash on him.

"What did you mean, about which direction the innkeeper was traveling?" Folly asks. His wrist is warm in Yarrow's palm, his pulse rapid despite the relative composure in his voice.

"Not the innkeeper," Yarrow says. "I said this is a traveling inn, didn't I?"

Folly's step falters. "Wait, you don't mean—I thought that was just a weird way of putting it!"

"It's very self-explanatory." Yarrow gestures with his free hand. There's nobody else around the stairwell, so he gets a good sweep of his arm in. "This is a traveling inn. It travels."

"Of course," Folly says faintly. "Silly me." His hair brushing Yarrow's shoulder, he swivels around as if enraptured by the ordinary stairs and walls.

Without a crowd, Yarrow doesn't need to hold Folly's wrist, and it's awkward on the stairs. So he lets go, missing the convenience of a leash.

Yarrow never gave much thought to the magic of traveling inns, or how wondrous they must be to someone whose inns all remain rooted in place. Almost as wondrous as the look in Folly's eyes, when he's so delighted he forgets to be afraid.

"They move after midnight," Yarrow says, wanting to feed Folly's sense of wonder. "You'll see villagers jumping off the porches when it starts to move, if they lose track of time. Some inns have legs, so they can walk anywhere the navigator directs them. But some inns hover, following the leylines. They're stuck on certain routes, but the journey's smoother."

Folly touches the railing. "Which kind is this one?"

"The latter. You'd have seen the legs outside, if there were any."

Their room is on the fourth floor. The copper griffon hammered into the door matches the token dangling from the key. Magic shivers over Yarrow's hand as he unlocks the door, the room recognizing that he belongs, for now.

Inside, the room is both spacious and cramped. The rustic barn walls match the rest of Milla's Menagerie, and checkered curtains shroud the wide bay windows. Half the space is ceded to a massive bed, big enough for four of Yarrow to sleep comfortably. More with some contortion and stacking.

Between the bed and the windows sits the impressive copper tub. Hip-height, with a step cut into the side. Not quite as spacious as the bed—only two could fit comfortably. Three if they squeezed.

"That's the biggest bed I've ever seen," Folly says, flushing. The little human seems innocent, but his thoughts may be coursing along the same riverbed as Yarrow's.

"It might be two beds glued together." Yarrow closes the door. Latches it, then summons the clothing parcel from his carryhold. "You bathe first, so you can try the clothes on. I'll bathe after dinner."

Folly exhales as if steeling himself. "All right."

"I'll turn around," Yarrow says gallantly, proud of himself for remembering Folly's preferences.

But Folly just sighs again. "It's fine."

Yarrow's eyes narrow, because humans can lie. "Excuse me?"

Folly shrugs, hands up. "We're stuck together for at least three more nights, aren't we? I'll be a weird, awkward person no matter what, because that's just who I am. Whether you're looking at me or not won't change that."

"You're no weirder than any human." That sounded more reassuring in Yarrow's head. He sighs too. "I'll keep my back turned," he adds, which is the truth. Almost. A difficult truth. Uncomfortable pressure prickles inside his chest, until he hedges, "Mostly."

Ears red, Folly scrubs a hand through his hair. "Don't stare, though. Just. Ugh."

The bed is the only comfortable spot within twenty feet. Yarrow moves closer and slumps on the edge as Folly approaches the tub. Untying his tattered robe from his hips, Folly hesitates.

"How does this work? I can see there's magic."

Yarrow almost gets up to go check. But Folly sounds nervous again. "Is there any sort of rune that looks like wavy lines, or rain drops?"

"Yes," Folly says. "It's brighter than the rest."

"Then touch that," Yarrow says. "And touch it again to make it stop."

After a few deep breaths, and muttering under his breath, Folly touches the rim of the tub. Then he yelps.

Yarrow jerks to his feet, axe in hand—as water rains from the ceiling, and a wall of opaque blue air encircles Folly and the copper tub.

Relief doesn't quell Yarrow's heartbeat. "Are you all right?"

Folly emerges from the wall of air, eyes wide. "What is this?"

"A privacy ward," Yarrow answers. He shakes out his hand, and his axe settles beside him on the bed.

"Oh." Folly waves his hand back and forth through the ward, with the same expression of wonder—now tinged with relief. "That's convenient."

The existence of the privacy ward seems to give him new confidence. He bustles around the room, finding robes and towels in the closet, then disappears behind the wall of blue again.

Yarrow should feel relieved too. No chance of accidentally trampling Folly's boundaries. Instead, uneasy anticipation coils inside him.

"Is it safe to use these… soaps?" Folly asks from inside the ward.

"Yes, they're not food," Yarrow says. "Don't eat them."

Folly laughs. Quiet, genuine. It's a nice sound, not at all muffled by the privacy ward or pattering water.

Nor is the sound of fabric sliding to the floor.

Yarrow swallows, blood sinking through his veins. Keen ears picking up every sound of Folly getting into the bath, Yarrow tries to think about Moriath instead.

Tracking down disappearances might help, if they're recent enough. Maybe Yarrow can figure out who the stolen shapes belonged to. The copper-eyed fae. The rune-faced human witch.

Water moves softly. Yarrow's imagination moves with it.

Folly's skin would be paler on his chest and back than his face. Paler still on his ass and thighs. How much hair does he have? Likely more than any of the true fae Yarrow's slept with.

"This is much nicer than any inn I've stayed at," Folly says over the unmistakable glide of skin on wet skin. "Are all baths like this in the fae realm?"

"Most don't have privacy wards," Yarrow answers, strained. "Usually there's just enchantments to fill and drain the tub, and keep the water warm."

"Where does the water come from?" Folly asks.

"The ceiling?" Yarrow answers, feeling strangely inadequate. He needs to find more answers for Folly. "I don't know. I'm neither an enchanter nor a plumber."

Except that must be a good enough answer, because Folly laughs again.

Maybe Yarrow was wrong. Abstinence might kill him after all.