15. Folly

Folly wakes up anxious.

His nerves are no fault of the accommodations. He's the most comfortable he's been in years. Possibly ever. The mattress cradles him like a supportive cloud. The blankets surround without stifling, and they smell like a forest without malice.

Every ache and pain lies in wait, ready to accost Folly as soon as he moves. But for now, he's comfortable. A dangerous state of mind. Comfort gives him the opportunity to review every single thing that happened the night before.

The good—entertaining the fae children.

The bad—getting tricked by the shapestealer.

The worst—confessing he likes when Yarrow holds his wrists.

His right cheek presses damp against the pillow, his lips slightly parted. Undignified. Embarrassing. He's only wearing smallclothes and the same loose shirt as yesterday, and the quilt is like silk against his bare legs. The position means his back is to the window. And the mattress is lower in front of him than behind him, which means Yarrow is still in bed too.

Pretending to sleep has its appeal. Hiding from the world a little longer. But Folly needs to know whether he simply imagines the weight of Yarrow's gaze, a feathery second blanket even warmer than the first.

Blinking blearily, Folly meets Yarrow's bright bronze eyes.

The fae leans on one arm, looking down on him. His horns catch the morning light like a crown. Long hair cascades over the golden planes of his shoulders. He isn't wearing a shirt, which Folly remembers from last night but somehow is more important now.

"How do you feel?" Yarrow says, voice soft as the dawn. "Can you lie to me?"

Folly rolls his face into the pillow. He inhales cotton and gentle florals, screwing up his courage, before flopping onto his back. "I'm a farmer," Folly tells Yarrow and the ceiling. Relief buoys him up to sit, grinning. "I'm the best farmer in my entire village. Last year, I won an award for my pumpkins."

Yarrow grins back. "For all I know, that's true. But by your smile, I'm guessing it's not."

"The truth potion's worn off," Folly says, which he wouldn't be able to say if it hadn't. "Thank the gods. I don't know how you live like that."

Yarrow chuckles. "You would have gotten the hang of it, deceiving with the truth. You're clever like that."

Heat and light twist in happy tension. Folly's sharing this comfortable bed with the most fascinating man he's ever met. He can lie again, but he'd like to tell a few truths instead.

To himself, as well as Yarrow.

"How long were you watching me sleep?" Folly asks, looping his arms around his knees.

Yarrow tilts his head, hair sliding over his bare shoulders. "Since before dawn. I woke early," he answers shamelessly. "Your sleeping posture is very good. You hardly move, so I had to watch carefully to catch every flicker of your eyelashes."

His attention slips beneath Folly's collar. Folly feels like he's wearing nothing at all. The attention is welcome. Exhilarating. Not stifling.

Folly never expected any fae to be like Yarrow. So genuine. So caring.

"What are you thinking?" Yarrow asks, like he truly wants to know. His lips are strong. Full.

The last time Folly surrendered to impulse was the night he met Roland. The tavern was dark, the best Folly could afford after his previous job washed out. Roland bought him a drink, then offered him a job. Then bought him a few more drinks. And Folly hadn't minded sleeping with Roland at the time. The memory only became suffocating in hindsight.

Folly wants to be reckless again. Roland can't ruin that forever.

"I'm thinking this will never work," Folly says slowly, pulse quickening. "I belong in the human realm. You belong here. We'd have just a few months before one of us caught realm-sickness."

"Does it have to work to be worthwhile?" Yarrow sits up and walks his fingers across the bedding, until he brushes Folly's ankle beneath the quilt. The faint pressure sears past Folly's nerves. "I'm only seventy-seven. I'm not ready for a lifemark."

Only seventy-seven. Every word and every gleaming inch of skin proves Yarrow isn't human. His very existence is seductively dangerous.

Folly ducks his head, wishing he was brave enough to meet Yarrow's eyes now. He's only brave enough to admit, "I don't even know what a lifemark is, but I'd like to kiss you."

"That sounds like a fair trade." The bed shifts. Yarrow's hand slides up Folly's shin, then pushes the quilt aside. His touch whispers against Folly's bare knee. "I want to kiss you too."

Folly chin tips up a moment before Yarrow touches his throat. The heat is a promise, not a threat. Yarrow leans in slowly, yet Folly's pulse still jumps with perceived suddenness. The moment between wanting and having frays, unsteady as Folly's nerves.

"Not so fast," Yarrow murmurs. "I want you to remember this."

As if Folly could forget any moment with Yarrow. This moment will stand out, though: Yarrow's fingertips above his heart, guiding him down, until Folly lies flat on the cloudlike mattress. Sunlight gilding Yarrow's horns and hair, neither as bright as the fire in his eyes. Yarrow's touch feathering along Folly's arms, until his palms meet Folly's wrists.

Yarrow presses Folly's wrists to the mattress on either side of his head. And as Yarrow pins him to earth, Folly soars.

Silken hair brushes Folly's throat. Yarrow's cheek hovers close to Folly's. "Do you like this, little human?"

Folly likes it beyond reason. He pushes instinctively, and Yarrow's warm grasp doesn't budge. Instead of entrapment or control, the pressure feels like protection. Yarrow holds him down to keep him close, and closeness means safety. Desire. Admiration.

"Yeah," Folly says, because he can't put the rest into words.

Yarrow smiles against his cheek. "You'll like this even more," he says confidently, and claims Folly's lips for his own.

The kiss crawls into Folly's basest instincts. A slow exploration, touching more than soft lips and sharp teeth. Folly surges into it, and Yarrow's grip tightens. All Folly can move is his head. His hips, rocking up into empty air.

He would believe Yarrow was seven hundred years old, or seven thousand, every year spent learning to kiss like this. Folly suddenly feels young. Does his lesser experience show? Does Yarrow think him clumsy, unskilled, unappealing? How will Folly be able to satisfy?—

"Stop thinking," Yarrow murmurs between their lips. His thumbs caress the bones of Folly's wrists. "Unless you're thinking about me."

Luminous kisses descend Folly's throat, and Folly can only obey, surrendering again to quiet bliss. Soft pleasure-pain blooms beneath Yarrow's lips, the hint of teeth marking a bruise above Folly's collarbone. Folly's eyelashes flutter. He would think this was magic, but there's no telltale shimmer. Just Yarrow's warm presence focused entirely on him.

Folly wants more. A leisurely need builds in him, and Yarrow's kisses are the tinder to his flame. All Folly wanted was a kiss, but every rational thought has been driven from his head. He can't remember what was holding him back.

"Let's go down for breakfast," Yarrow says in his ear.

Folly blinks. "What?"

"If we kiss any longer, I won't want to stop." Yarrow's grasp loosens. He traces Folly's arms, up to his shoulders. Clasps his face in a delicate cage. "Get dressed. Wear your fancy robe."

Folly slumps on the mattress, breathless, as Yarrow slides from the bed. "You're a tease," he manages, not quite a whine.

"You're impatient," Yarrow counters, tossing a grin over his shoulder. "Understandable. I'm a magnificent talent, and if you're thinking clearly, I need to work harder."

Yarrow skirts the copper tub and leans at the window. Framed by the gauzy curtains, he looks more spirit than living creature.

Hand around his own throat, lightly pressing the stinging hickey, Folly rolls to his side. Then sits up. Yarrow's grandstanding is well-deserved—Folly isn't thinking clearly. Another kiss, and Folly wouldn't stop either.

Maybe he wants that. Maybe he doesn't. He should be grateful for the space to think, though his body hums resentfully in Yarrow's absence. Even if that space will give Folly's anxiety room to blossom.

He's still cursed and trapped in the fae realm, after all. A little worry is good for him. Safer than the distracting exhilaration of Yarrow's touch. The physical excitement leaves his thoughts too serene.

Not knowing what to say, Folly rises silently. He touches his wrists, then tears his gaze away from Yarrow. Hunger nudges his stomach. Not urgent, but breakfast sounds nice. As long as Yarrow stays close, and Folly doesn't take food or drink from strangers.

Folly's clothes are piled on the table, just within the curse's circumference. Folly pads around, pauses to run his fingers over the carved lip of the tub. He'll have to use the bath again before they leave the inn.

Just because it's a really good bath. Not because it could easily fit two. Not because Folly's mind is wandering towards inappropriate?—

Pain churns through his gut like a handful of thorns. With a thin, choked whine, Folly staggers backwards. Confusion and disbelief sting worse than the pain.

"Careful there," Yarrow says, barely a hint of pain in his own voice. He turns at the window. "Do I need to put a leash on you? Honestly, I wouldn't mind that."

Even that idea can't distract Folly now. Heart pounding, he looks across the room, between himself and Yarrow. "How far apart are we?"

Yarrow's smirk fades. "Should be around twenty feet, if you triggered the curse."

"I'm not the best at eyeballing distances," Folly says reluctantly. As if speaking the words aloud will make them true. "But the boundary feels smaller than it used to be."

The alarm on Yarrow's face is not reassuring, even if he quickly covers it with a smile. "Well, fuck. You might be right."

"We never measured it exactly," Folly says quickly. "I might be wrong. Hopefully I'm wrong. Maybe we can get a string or ribbon from Pennyroyal, and we can mark off the distance. So we can track if it's shrinking."

"That's a good idea," Yarrow says, which is what Folly wants to hear. Then he adds, "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Folly hugs himself. Moments ago, he didn't want Yarrow to let go of him. Now, the airy, spacious room feels stifling. Like the curse's shadowy vines tangle around his bare legs. "No," Folly corrects himself faintly. "I need a minute."

He sits heavily on the foot of the bed and presses his palms against his eyes. The darkness is the only privacy he can hope for. Even there, he can't escape the sigh across the room. The wooden creak as Yarrow opens a window, then the tickling breeze.

He needs the impossible, something Yarrow can't give him: space, alone, a moment to breathe.

The Pyran River whispers beneath an ever-summer sky. The jeweltone waters are nothing like the shallow pools that splashed through Brightwood. Here, the Pyran winds through a deep, dark riverbed, and the opposite bank is farther than a stone's throw away. Bright green forest presses close, reflecting in the water.

A golden wharf nestles against this side of the riverbank. Clusters of colorful stalls display flowery hats, feathered masks, bottles of ruby wine, and spinning metal devices Folly's never seen before.

The sight might be festive if there were any shopkeepers or customers. Folly and Yarrow are the only living creatures on the wharf, and the quiet is eerie after three days in Milla's Menagerie.

The only movements are the rustling trees, the rippling water, and the empty golden ferry, slowly drifting towards them.

Folly hugs himself on the edge of the wharf. He's dressed for court, per Yarrow's instructions. A nicer shirt, the leaf-patterned lace woven tightly enough that only glimpses of skin are visible. Folly's still glad to wear the midnight robe over it. The riverside is cooler than the summer regions Folly's traveled so far. He'd worried the weather might get warmer closer to the summer palace, but the air and shadows are refreshing.

The past three days have been tense.

Yarrow isn't to blame. Folly probably isn't to blame either, though that's difficult to remember. They acquired a thin silk rope from Pennyroyal, marked with tiny knots every half foot. Every morning and night, they've measured the curse's limits.

Unfortunately, Folly was right.

They've lost a foot and a half since they started measuring. The curse's invisible leash has shrunk to a mere seventeen feet. At this rate, Folly has a month before he's glued to Yarrow's side.

And Yarrow's been distressingly vague about subsequent possibilities. He hasn't kissed Folly since that brief, blissful morning. They spent most of their stay at the menagerie downstairs, playing careful card games with Pennyroyal and the fox fae's family. All the socializing hasn't been good for Folly's nerves—every person he meets could be the shapestealer.

But being alone with Yarrow is bad for his nerves too. Folly wishes it wasn't. Wishes he could process the confusion of desire and claustrophobia. But every night when Folly crawls into bed, he fears suffocation.

Every morning, when Yarrow's already left the bed, Folly feels alone.

Folly touches the leather coin purse at his hip. Please let this coin be enough for the summer queen. Folly doesn't want to commit Yarrow to another quest on his behalf, and he doesn't have anything else to offer by himself.

Nothing he would willingly give, anyway.

"Are you ready?" Yarrow asks, as the golden ferry bumps against the pier. Silk banners flutter in the breeze. There's no boatman in sight.

"As I'll ever be." Folly shakes out his hands and squares his shoulders. "Are you ready?"

He means the echo as a quiet joke. But instead of laughing and blustering, Yarrow silently extends a hand. His gaze is distant, his hair flowing like the silk banners.

Folly allows Yarrow to help him over the edge, onto the deck. He sways, unaccustomed to the movement beneath his feet. Even more unsettling is Folly's realization, unavoidable in the set of Yarrow's jaw.

Yarrow doesn't answer because he can't lie, but he doesn't want to admit the truth either. As they board the ferry to Elladar, Yarrow is nervous.