13. Folly

Folly leaves the water running as he towels off. There's not much space between the tub and the glittering blue privacy ward; a light spray tickles his bare skin. His hair clings to his forehead, and the clean dampness is a gift. A revelation. Folly hadn't realized how gross he felt until he scrubbed the sweat and dirt and evil tree sap away.

Yarrow has been silent on the other side of the ward. That part's eerie—neither seeing nor hearing the fae. They've only been bound together for a few days, but Folly's already accustomed to the flight of white hair in his peripheral vision. The glint of bronze horns in sunlight.

The unexpected sense of security, that someone's watching out for Folly. Perhaps even more strange and magical than the enchanted bathtub.

Knotting a towel around his waist, Folly peers up along the flow of water. He'd expected some sort of piping system, but there are no holes in the ceiling. Just runes carved into the wooden beams, all gleaming with fae magic. The water seems to appear from nowhere.

Such a simple, ordinary thing to use magic for. Where Folly's from, magic is rare. Costly. Dangerous. People mistrust witches and fae-touched folk, because who knows what sacrifice they were willing to make for power?

Folly wouldn't mind staying in a world with magical bathtubs, if it weren't for all the other dangers. Regretfully, he touches the raindrop rune again. The copper is slick and warm beneath his water-softened fingertips. After a flash of magic, the rain stops, and the privacy ward vanishes.

Folly jumps, startled, even though he did that on purpose. He clutches the edge of the tub so he doesn't slip on the wet floorboards.

Yarrow looks up from the foot of the bed, then jerks his gaze away. "Do you want to sleep or head down for dinner?"

Sleep sounds amazing, but Folly's stomach yearns for food that isn't cooked over a campfire. "I'd prefer dinner first." Then Folly takes a closer look at Yarrow, and frowns. "Are you all right? Um. You look tense."

Fidgeting with his armor, Yarrow rises. "I'm fine. You should get dressed. So we can head down."

A drop of water slides from Folly's hair, down his neck. He crosses to the bed, fingers the open burlap parcel, and says, "What should I wear?"

Yarrow's very close. Travel smells better on him than on Folly. Either fae don't sweat as much as humans, or Yarrow's just fitter. More accustomed to the weather.

Yarrow steps back, putting distance between them. "What?"

"You're supposed to tell me what to wear for a week," Folly reminds him.

"Right." Yarrow pulls a few garments onto the bed. "If these fit, the rest should too. You can pick your own socks."

Folly gathers everything as Yarrow retreats towards the window. He stops well within the range of the curse, clasping his wrist behind his back. Something is off, as if some new worry arrived while Folly was bathing.

But Folly already asked, and Yarrow already deflected. Asking again might strain their tentative rapport. And Folly would rather not have a conversation as he unties the towel from his waist.

The privacy ward crosses his mind, but he would have to turn the shower on again, and that would get everything wet. So Folly just tugs the smallclothes and trousers on as quickly as possible.

Not as quickly as he'd hoped. The trousers are a rich brown fabric close to linen, but subtly different. They're close-cut enough that Folly has to wiggle into them, but they're comfortable once he laces them up. Better fitting than his own clothes.

A glance proves Yarrow is still facing the window. As if his own good manners are another privacy ward.

Putting on the tunic is easier, yet leaves Folly squirming under his skin. The yellow-green garment is softer than anything Folly's ever worn, and it's comfortably loose. The hem reaches his upper thighs.

But it doesn't have sleeves. Folly's never been so aware of his own arms before. The fine hairs, the weedy muscles. He's never been preoccupied with his own appearance, beyond the annoyance of his fae-touched eye.

Just. Comparison is easy and unflattering, when Yarrow's standing across the room. Light from the windows gilds every muscular curve of the fae's arms.

Last night, Yarrow said he wanted to fuck Folly. But he doesn't act like it. Not the way Folly's used to getting interest. There's been no leering or wandering hands. Nothing more than a guiding touch on his shoulder. No pressure. Casual. Confident. Safe.

Folly isn't used to people being safe.

Maybe Yarrow's interest was just a passing fancy. Maybe Yarrow just wants to fuck everyone, in a casual, hypothetical way.

At least the clothes fit well. And there's something strangely reassuring about knowing Yarrow picked them out for him. Even if, sure, there weren't many options, Yarrow was picking between two different pairs of trousers.

Had Folly been left to his own devices, he would have dithered for an hour over which outfit would best suit the occasion. As if one tunic or another would protect him from making a fool of himself.

After pulling on a pair of ordinary socks, their chief quality being that they're clean, Folly buckles his own belt over the tunic. The coin purse sparkles faintly, then darkens.

Folly doesn't need privacy to pull on boots, so he says, "How does it look?"

Yarrow turns, hands on his hips. Gives Folly a slow, deliberate once-over. That same tension flashes across his face, before melting into a grin. "Do you want an honest answer, or a polite one?"

Shit. Maybe Folly looks stupid after all. "Honest, please."

Yarrow veers around the copper tub. Light glints off his horns, almost as bright as his eyes, as his rough scent fills Folly's lungs again.

"You look delicious," Yarrow says softly.

"Oh," Folly exhales. And that squirmy self-consciousness doesn't feel so bad after all.

Yarrow reaches for the pile of clothes. The starry robe spills like a waterfall in his hand. "And you're missing one thing."

"I can't wear that to dinner," Folly protests, though he'd love to. "I'll look silly. Like I'm wearing a costume."

"What's wrong with wearing a costume?" Yarrow cocks his head, expression subtly shifting from interest to a more theatrical flirtation. "You can dress up as anything you want, and sometimes that becomes the truth. Lift your arms."

Folly's used to being pushed towards things he hates. Not things he wants, with irrational, undeniable yearning.

He lifts his arms, and Yarrow slides the robe over his shoulders. Their skin never touches, but Yarrow's hands are hot through the soft sleeves. Like gentle kisses of flame through the clouds. The robe is light, the collar a whisper against the damp back of his neck. But the hem swirls out with a satisfying swish when Folly turns.

There's no mirror in the room, but Folly doesn't need one. The admiration in Yarrow's eyes is enough.

The field outside Milla's Menagerie reminds Folly of his own traveling carnival. A similar mix of people gathers around trestle tables and picnic blankets. Couples young and old, colleagues all dressed the same, children running and shrieking at each other. Except none of these revelers are human. Most are regular fae, with long ears and bright hair. But there's the occasional flick of a fluffy tail, or ripple of scaled skin.

And magic glitters everywhere. Glamours and charms. The sun hasn't set, but lights already dance overhead, anticipating the darkness. All the magic puts Folly on edge. A week ago, the sight of one fae would have him running for his life. Now he's supposed to relax and dine with scores of them.

Don't apologize. Don't eat food he hasn't paid for. Don't fuck up.

Yarrow was right about one thing. Folly's starry midnight robe doesn't stand out among the feathery shawls and glittering hairpins. People might be staring at him, but it's because of his species. Not his outfit.

Yarrow struts through the crowd, completely comfortable, and raises his voice. "Hummingbird! Are you here yet?"

"I'm right here, you fool!" Hummingbird calls from a table right behind them. Her iridescent wings blur as she hops onto her bench. "Let me see—oh, that does fit," she croons at Folly. "Of course it does, I'm an expert. Spin around for me."

Folly looks instinctively towards Yarrow. Which is silly, because Yarrow isn't his keeper.

Except Yarrow has the answer anyway. "Ignore her," he murmurs, then raises his voice. "Are you ready to drown in a pitcher, pixie?"

"Not if I drown you first!" Hummingbird retorts, then drops down to a seat with peals of laughter.

"Give me a moment," Yarrow says, then hails one of the passing fox fae to place their order.

Folly sits awkwardly across from Hummingbird. "Um, thank you for the clothes. They're really nice." He cringes internally. Thanking merchants might be a horrible insult in the fae realm. Or the opposite—maybe he's supposed to be even more effusive. But sitting down silently could be an insult too.

Fuck, can he not survive half a minute without ruining a social interaction?

"Thank you!" Hummingbird chirps. Her dark-rainbow eyes squint with her smile. "I haven't dressed a human in at least fifty years. Of course, back then it was usually all sultry lounging clothes, or ball gowns… Whenever a human would eat the wrong thing at court, and get stuck here for a bit." She laughs. "Most people don't need practical hiking outfits for their humans."

Folly needn't have worried about not knowing what to say. Hummingbird seems perfectly willing to talk for both of them. Yarrow's presence at his side is still a relief. The fae slides onto the bench, close enough that his knee brushes Folly's. Casually enough to have been an accident.

"Maybe the high fae just need to get out more." Yarrow pats Folly's back reassuringly. "Spending all that time in castles can't be good for them."

Folly isn't sure what he's being reassured about. But he'll take it.

"I don't know why you want to join them," Hummingbird says. "Living in little villages like this is stifling enough. I can't imagine how suffocating Elladar must be."

Her voice is breezy, but Folly feels a sudden kinship with her. Stifling. That's what his home village was like, constantly being watched, constantly being suspected of anything that might be fae magic.

"Where do you want to live?" Folly asks tentatively.

Hummingbird shrugs. A butterfly clip dives to catch a dislodged strand of hair. "I'll know when I'm home, I suspect. I like moving around, except for how inconvenient moving my shop is."

"I'm sure your friends would be happy to help," Yarrow points out. "If you ever told us in advance."

"And owe you a favor?" Hummingbird places a dramatic, spindly hand over her heart. "Don't be absurd."

A pair of fox fae arrive bearing pitchers and dishes, which saves Folly from much of the conversation. He can fill his mouth with food instead of words, after Yarrow confirms it's safe. The food is ordinary fare—beef and barley stew, with a side of warm, flaky bread. Every flavor is richer than Folly's used to. But that might just be his hunger after three days in the woods.

He's halfway through his meal when the children arrive.

A pair of them stop at the end of the table, whispering and elbowing each other. If they were human, Folly would guess their age around ten. Dark-haired and copper-skinned, they look almost like human children, except their eyes are a bit too big, and their pointed ears poke through their curly hair. One has green eyes, the other has orange eyes. Folly can't tell either of their genders. Not that he tries very hard. He's more concerned with how intently they're staring at him.

"Careful," Yarrow breathes in his ear.

Folly shivers. "Are fae children dangerous?"

Yarrow's chuckle warms his veins. "No, they're just annoying."

Folly laughs, which makes the children jump. He swings around to perch on the edge of the bench. "Did you want something?"

They jump again, and the orange-eyed one says, "Strawberry says you're a human."

"That's true," Folly says, and asks the other, "Are you Strawberry?"

The green-eyed child wrinkles their nose. "No! Strawberry's an old hag."

Old hag could be rude, or a neutral description, depending on what Strawberry is.

"But your eye is fae," the orange-eyed child says. "What does it do?"

And suddenly, Folly feels at peace.

He's surrounded by fae, transported to another realm, and trapped by a curse. But he has a flashy robe and an audience, and he isn't a freak. He's a performer.

And he knows exactly how to impress these children.

"I won my eye in a card game." Folly taps his left cheek. "It allows me to do two things. First, it lets me see the future. Second…" He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "It lets me tell lies."

They both gasp, and the green-eyed child asks, "Really?"

"No." Folly winks his golden eye. "All humans can lie—like I did just now. I can't even see the future like I said. Unless that's a lie, too."

They gasp again. "Doesn't it hurt?" the orange-eyed child asks.

"Are you evil?" the other chimes in, as if being evil is the coolest thing they can imagine.

"I'm probably not evil." Bolstered by the admiration, Folly settles in. "But I could tell you a story about someone who might be."

A few more fae gather around as he begins. Most of them are young, but one fox fae woman wipes her hands on her apron as she listens.

His tale about the Great Folarius, the most powerful fortuneteller in the land, isn't true, of course. He never fought monsters, and he never told fortunes for kings. But as the evening deepens and his story grows wilder, Folly's nervousness subsides. If he could perform like this all the time, flashy robe billowing with each gesture, Folly wouldn't be so afraid of everything.

As he talks, Yarrow drags up another chair to sit beside him. The wild fae's gaze is just as attentive. Just as impressed. Somehow, that thrills Folly even more.

"Does the Great Folarius have any amazing companions?" Yarrow asks, teasing, during a lull in the story.

"I don't know." Folly strokes his chin thoughtfully. "He has a companion, at least."

Yarrow's grin widens in delight. But before he can answer, a fae man bustles up to usher the children away.

"I'll order us another round," Yarrow murmurs in Folly's ear, leaving him to bid his young audience goodbye.

Goodbyes take a while. Folly isn't used to being the most interesting attraction at the carnival. When the children are gone, Yarrow is about fifteen feet away, quietly talking with Pennyroyal from the front desk.

Nervousness tugs at Folly again. Maybe he's emboldened enough to interrupt. But would Yarrow welcome that?

"Your man paid for this already," says a light, feminine voice at Folly's shoulder. The fox fae from his audience sets a tall mug on the table. "He's still talking with Pennyroyal. Call me Oleander, by the way."

Folly forces a smile, covering his surprise. The phrase your man is… flustering. "Thanks." He reaches for the mug—then pauses. A hint of magic glitters on the golden surface. "Um, what is this?"

"It's clever to be cautious." Oleander laughs, her short reddish hair tossing. "This is ale, but there's a bit of magic." She lowers her voice in a theatrical whisper. "The magic makes it taste good."

Folly still hesitates. His throat is dry from all the talking, but what if this fae is trying to trick him into a life of indentured servitude? That would be—all right, not much worse than his life in the human realm. But very inconvenient with Yarrow tied to him still. And the fae could be a worse master than Roland…

Oleander sighs dramatically and picks up the mug. "Look," she says, and takes a sip. Her next sigh is happy. "Mmm, that's good. See? No effect on me."

Folly takes the mug, still hesitant. Even though the ale smells very good. There's a tempting hint of sweet apple. And Folly's very thirsty.

From their small distance, Yarrow turns and meets his eyes. Waves, then returns to his conversation with Pennyroyal.

Reassured, Folly takes a sip. The liquid is just as refreshing as he'd hoped, the sort of drinkable sweetness that lulls the drinker into forgetting the alcohol. One mug of this should be enough, Folly cautions himself, as he downs a second gulp.

"Perfect." Oleander's ears flick. "What's your real name?"

"Philostrate," Folly answers without thinking, then jolts. Usually he just answers Folly, or some nonsense about the Great Folarius. But it's not like it's a secret. He sips the sweet ale again. "Um, I prefer Folly."

"So do I." Another light laugh. "What does your golden eye really do?"

"It lets me see magic." Folly sets the mug down, confused. He'd meant to spin a better story. "Just fae magic."

Oleander nods. "Unfortunate limitation, but still very powerful. What can you tell me of Yarrow? Where does he come from? Who are his parents?"

"I don't know where he's from. His mother's name is Crocus, and she lives somewhere called Spiritwood." Folly bites back the other details. They press against his teeth, eager to jump out. Fear twists through him. "What did you do to me?"

"Nothing permanent," Oleander says breezily. Her hand waves, flickering with magic. "That wasn't permanent either—it's a fox fae trick, so nobody will look or listen. Now, tell me more about your wild fae friend."

"Yarrow!" Folly shouts, panic driving him to his feet.

But Yarrow doesn't turn around. Nobody does. The festive gathering continues uninterrupted, with dancing lights and laughing fae who sound more sinister by the moment.

"Don't bother," Oleander says, unperturbed. "I said they wouldn't listen. Tell me more about Yarrow."

Folly inhales, shaking with the urge to answer. "Is this a truth spell?"

Fuck, he's stupid. Oleander hadn't lied once, even when she sipped the drink to make him think it was safe. A truth spell wouldn't have any effect on a fae, who already had to tell the truth.

Oleander's ears pin back, her cheerful demeanor fraying. "Answer me, human, or I'll hurt you."

The threat kicks Folly's thoughts into motion. He assesses everything around him. The traveling inn. The fox fae. Yarrow, so close yet so distant.

"Hurt me?" Folly asks, with a vicious grin. "Great idea."

And he sprints away from the inn. Away from the fox fae. Away from Yarrow—until the curse's agony lashes through him.