14. Yarrow

Pain claws into Yarrow. He chokes mid-sentence, eyes blurring. But the agony is nothing compared to the cold slice of worry. The curse's bite means Folly is trying to leave him. Or worse—someone is trying to take Folly from him.

Yarrow's axe jumps into his hands in a flurry of gold sparks.

Pennyroyal jumps back with a yelp, and Hummingbird takes to the air. Others cry out, alarmed either by Pennyroyal's cry or Yarrow's drawn weapon. But Yarrow barely notices them. All he has eyes for is Folly, huddled on his knees, his starry blue robe spread around him.

And the fae standing over him. She's hard to focus on. Like a gauzy curtain is blurring the air between them. Her pointed fox ears and Menagerie apron are her only clear features.

Until Yarrow lunges towards her.

His axe sings. His muscles move with effort, then with ease, as he surges into the curse's boundary. The pain lifts like shackles falling from his limbs. Yarrow's only thought is removing one of the fox fae's limbs.

Then he'll question her.

Then he'll remove her head.

She jerks back, the blurring spell dropping. Yarrow has one clear look at her—reddish hair, tired yellow eyes, her apron the same color but a different cut than the other Menagerie workers?—

Before she melts into shadow.

Light, feminine laughter turns to a creaking cackle, echoing through the field, as the shards of darkness race away. Yarrow whirls, blood pounding, aching to pursue. But there's nothing to chase.

The shapestealer is gone.

"Drop your weapon!" someone shouts, irate. Probably a Menagerie worker. Yarrow is not following guest protocol right now.

Yarrow returns his axe to his back, but not because he's been told. Weapon out of the way, he drops to his knees next to Folly. Relief rushes through him, the euphoria of proximity countering the pain of separation. Except he can't be relieved yet.

"What happened?" Yarrow brushes the hair back from Folly's pale face. "Are you hurt?"

Folly leans into the touch, trembling. "I'm only hurt because of the curse," he says haltingly. "She tricked me into drinking some sort of truth potion. That was Moriath, right?"

"I think so. Fuck." Yarrow tries to tamp down his anger. He can't run after the monster, because he's stuck with Folly. Even if he wasn't stuck, he wouldn't want to leave when his human looks so distressed.

Fury burns beneath his bones. Moriath tried to take Folly from him.

And Yarrow was careless enough to let it happen.

Buzzing with thwarted adrenaline, Yarrow shoves to his feet. "Up we go," he says, offering a hand. He tries to sound encouraging, not furious, because his anger is directed at Moriath and himself. Not Folly.

Folly takes Yarrow's hand and stands up. He's shaky on his feet, like a nervous deer. Nothing like the confident man holding court at the dinner table just an hour ago. "I can't lie," Folly whispers, his lips chalky. "Yarrow, what do I do if I can't lie?"

The question is like asking how to breathe.

But Folly didn't grow up how Yarrow did. Yarrow can't relate to the dilemma, but this must be frightening. "Think before you speak." Yarrow lifts Folly's chin, squarely meeting his mismatched eyes. "Silence is always an option, until I get you an antidote."

Folly swallows. "She said it was temporary."

"That's good," Yarrow says, letting himself sound relieved. Hopefully temporary involves a reasonable timescale. "We need to explain ourselves now, but I can do all the talking."

Sure enough, Pennyroyal stomps over—as heavily as a light-footed fox fae can stomp. "Tell me why I shouldn't kick you out of Milla's Menagerie right now," Pennyroyal demands. His earlier flirtatious interest is nowhere to be seen.

Yarrow exhales. Flirting his way out of this one won't work, and besides, he's not in the fucking mood. "A shapestealer was impersonating one of your kin," Yarrow says quietly, though the sharper-eared onlookers can likely hear. "I'll tell you more in private."

Pennyroyal braces his hands on his hips. He looks skeptical, until Hummingbird alights on a nearby table.

"I caught a glimpse before she vanished," Hummingbird says. "She looked like one of you, but her outfit was all wrong. I would know. That was a fake."

Pennyroyal gestures, and the noise around them muffles. "Then we're in private right now. Talk."

Yarrow sorts out his story quickly. "I fought a shapestealer in the human realm recently. The shapestealer was attacking Folly at the time. I didn't expect the shapestealer to follow us into the fae realm, but he must have been after Folly again today."

"Must have been," Pennyroyal repeats, crossing his arms as his tail swishes. "I don't care about what happened in the human realm. I care about what happened here at the Menagerie. Which of you can explain?"

Yarrow hesitates. Making Folly talk under a truth potion isn't fair, but Pennyroyal likely won't see it that way. He'll see it as convenient, not a violation. Yarrow came very close to violating guest obligations—Moriath may have harmed Folly, but Yarrow drew his weapon first.

"I can explain," Folly says, his voice quiet but clear.

"Don't lie to me, human," Pennyroyal warns. "I don't want a pretty story."

Folly laughs shakily, and squeezes Yarrow's hand as if in reassurance. Which is when Yarrow realizes how tense he's gotten, worrying about Folly.

"What I thought was another fox fae approached me," Folly begins. He pauses between sentences, gathering up his truths. "She did the same spell you just did, so nobody would look at us, and nobody could hear us. She also tricked me into drinking a truth potion, so she could ask me questions about Yarrow."

Yarrow starts. "What questions?"

Folly's lips press together, and he glances at Pennyroyal and Hummingbird. Instead of answering, he says, "She said her name was Oleander."

Pennyroyal goes gray. His hand lifts to his mouth. "Oleander vanished thirty years ago."

Yarrow winces. The Menagerie is a family business. "My sympathies, Pennyroyal. The real Oleander's likely thirty years dead."

"Spirits. She was such a jerk," Pennyroyal says, with painful fondness. He looks away, ears flicking back. "What else happened?"

Folly twists his fingers in his robe. "I tried to call for help. When that didn't work, I triggered a spell that was already on me and Yarrow." Folly shrugs. "You saw the rest."

That part surprises Yarrow. He'd assumed the curse triggered when the shapestealer tried abducting Folly. But Folly had done it on purpose to get his attention.

Clever little human.

Hummingbird's wings twitch, sending pixie dust sparkling. "Are we done? We're not technically under your roof, so there shouldn't be a problem. I want to drink more."

Pennyroyal scratches behind his ear. His smile is hollow, like he's trying to hide his sadness. "Yes, we're not technically in the inn, and you didn't technically draw your weapon on another guest. So, no problems with the Menagerie. Just, you might want to stay in your room, at least until we reach the next stop."

"Fine by me," Yarrow says. He wants to get Folly away from all these prying eyes. All these faces that might conceal Moriath's identity.

With a wave of Pennyroyal's hand, the surrounding noise sharpens. A drinking song winds through the revelers. Night birds call from the nearby forest. Pennyroyal pats down his apron and heads for the inn.

"That was interesting!" Hummingbird says. "Care for another round?"

Folly leans against Yarrow, his answer wordless but clear. Yarrow loops an arm around his shoulder. "Not tonight. I'll see you around, friend."

Hummingbird peers at their connection but doesn't comment. Tactful, for once. "Turning in already? You're too young to be this boring." Bobbing up on her iridescent wings, she points at Folly. "Lovely to meet you. Be careful out there."

She leaps up and away in a rainbow of pixie dust, leaving Yarrow and Folly alone in a forest of sidelong glances.

"Back to the room?" Yarrow proposes.

"Please," Folly says faintly.

Yarrow tugs Folly after him. The other travelers and village fae give them a subtle berth. Only at the front steps does Yarrow realize he has Folly by the wrist. He doesn't let go. He feels more secure, having Folly within grasp.

Folly keeps close, his pulse wild beneath Yarrow's palm. His silence presses against the walls, like he's afraid of the truth on his own lips.

"If the truth potion doesn't wear off by morning, we can find an antidote," Yarrow assures him as they reach the stairs.

Folly stiffens in his grasp. "How long do these usually last?"

"Usually not that long. Just, either way, we can fix it." Worst case scenario, Crocus is the best herbalist Yarrow knows. She'll help for the low, low price of questioning all of Yarrow's recent life choices.

Hopefully it won't come to that.

"Great," Folly mutters.

Yarrow keeps hold of him until they reach the door with the griffon. He manages to fumble the lock open one-handed, and pulls Folly into the room. Locks the door again. Then he has no excuse to hold on, so he lets go.

Folly remains very close. The air beats between them like a silent drum. A truth held behind clenched teeth. Guilt and anger and relief sing harmony in Yarrow's heart. He wants to touch Folly all over and check for bruises.

But Folly said the only thing that hurt him is the curse.

Yarrow exhales and casts his axe on the dresser. "You triggered the curse on purpose?"

"Sorry." Folly slumps miserably on the edge of the bed. "I didn't know how else to get your attention. Moriath's spell meant you couldn't hear me."

"I thought I told you not to apologize so lightly, and certainly don't apologize for this." Yarrow wants very badly to ruffle Folly's hair. He restrains himself. "That was brilliant."

Folly's gaze jerks up. "I was stupid, letting myself get tricked like that. I shouldn't have drunk the ale, and I shouldn't have answered any of her questions."

"What did you tell her?" Yarrow asks.

"I told her what my eye does," Folly says. "Then I told her that your mother lives in Spiritwood. Did I put your mother in danger?"

"Crocus can handle herself." Yarrow cocks his head. "Is that it?"

"Then I realized I couldn't lie, and stopped answering." Folly wrings his hands. "It could have been worse, but that was bad enough. I shouldn't have drunk the stupid potion."

"She tricked you." Yarrow shrugs, hands out. "That's what fae do. You know that, I know that. If anyone's to blame, it's me."

"You keep rescuing me," Folly says, like it's a personal failing. "I'm dragging you down. I'm useless."

He believes that.

Yarrow exhales, feeling like he's been punched. Folly's still under that truth potion. Which would be better termed an honesty potion, because Folly believing something with his entire messed-up heart doesn't make it true.

Leaning back against the wall, Yarrow begins unlacing his boots as he talks. "I keep having to rescue you because I keep being careless. I'm not used to traveling with a companion, or looking out for someone besides myself. You can blame me, or you can blame the trees and the shapestealers. But you shouldn't blame yourself."

The furrow between Folly's brows begs to be smoothed out. "You aren't careless. You've cared more than—" He touches a golden star on his sleeve. His dark lashes kiss his cheeks like feathers. "How do you tell the truth all the time?"

"Easy." Yarrow kicks his boots to the side, and pads closer in his socks. He crouches in front of Folly, so he can look up into his gorgeous eyes. "Avoiding lies doesn't mean telling every truth. You keep the important truths to yourself. And the really important truths?" Yarrow grins. "You share them when the time is right."

Folly's answering grin is small, but it's enough to light a fire in Yarrow's heart. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"You know what else isn't as bad as you think?" Yarrow pokes Folly's knee. "You. You keep calling yourself stupid, or useless, or a freak. But you've been brave and brilliant since the moment we met."

Folly's gaze darts around. "You're the only one who thinks that."

"That would be enough, but I don't think I'm the only one." Yarrow sighs. "Look, I'm no good at talking about feelings. I do sex, not relationships, and I'll stick around for breakfast if I'm invited, but that's it. But this? You?" Yarrow pokes Folly's knee again. "I need you to know you're amazing. I was entranced tonight, watching you light up the party. I've been entranced since you tried to stab me in Elsewhere. You're smart and special, and that's a good thing."

Fuck. Folly has this wide, wet look in his eyes. Yarrow's come on too strong, probably scared him off. Yarrow gets intense sometimes. He sighs to his feet, backing away.

Folly jumps up too and touches Yarrow's arm. "I'm terrible with talking out feelings, too. But thank you. Traveling with you has been…"

Yarrow covers Folly's hand, so small and warm in his grasp. "You don't have to say anything under the truth potion."

"I like when you say nice things to me," Folly says quickly. Like he's racing against his own doubts. "And I like when you hold my wrist."

Suddenly, twenty feet aren't enough. Yarrow wants Folly tethered within ten feet of him. Five. Close and constant enough that Yarrow can take his time unraveling every hint of nervous desire.

No. Yarrow should wish for a wall between them, because self-restraint doesn't run naturally in his blood.

"I like saying nice things to you." Yarrow shifts his grip. "I like holding your wrist. I'm sure I'd like doing other things to you too, but not while you're under a truth potion."

Pink-faced, Folly ducks his head. "Saying things is easier like this."

"Easy isn't always right," Yarrow says. Tugs Folly's hand gently. "Want to watch the inn move away before we sleep?"

Folly takes a deep breath, composure returning. "That sounds nice."

"Great." Tugging him towards the window, Yarrow tacks on, "Come on, gorgeous."

Folly stumbles. But when he regains his balance, he's smiling again.