17. Folly

New worry echoes in Folly's heart, outpacing his footsteps in the marble hall. It's a strange sort of worry, one that doesn't make Folly want to hide. Because the worry is for Yarrow, not himself.

Two intimidating fae guards escort Folly and Yarrow to guest quarters. Folly would love a chance to study their armor, made of green, metallic leaves. They move with inhuman grace, and magic shimmers along their swords.

Yarrow doesn't have his axe now, which suddenly strikes Folly as dangerous. Perhaps ‘guest chamber' is Elladar code for execution, and these guards are leading Folly and Yarrow to their deaths. Or to a prison cell. Or they'll be tossed into a ravine. Yarrow will be fine, but Folly will fall and break his leg. Unless Yarrow has been hiding healing magic, Folly's injury will develop an infection and?—

Probably they're just going into a guest room.

Folly's used to his own catastrophizing, but he hasn't seen Yarrow look so off balance before. Apparently, Yarrow truly thought the summer queen would help them. He doesn't properly ruminate on worst-case scenarios.

They stop in front of a painted green door, the archway pointed at the top.

"This room is yours for the night," a guard says, her voice cool as flowing water. "You may travel between this hall and the Court of Hours until your appointment at the armory."

"Thank you for the escort." Yarrow's wink looks half-hearted to Folly. "Your diligence is admirable."

With an elaborate bow, Yarrow waves Folly through the door.

The guest room is lavish.

There's even a balcony, visible through a set of glass doors. Flowers bloom along the railing. Carved vines circle the four posts of the single bed. The wardrobes match the table and chairs, speaking to intentional design rather than using whatever castoffs were available.

Such wealth and magic in a simple guest room is more impressive than the marble antechamber. Folly expects royalty to decorate their own quarters. Not the rooms they designate for people like him.

Yet Folly can only be astounded so many times in one day before the opulence fails to shock him. He's seen too many fancy rooms today—and he has other concerns right now. Like the wild fae pacing at the edge of their bond.

Yarrow reaches out, then winces. "I always forget I don't have my axe."

"Are you all right?" Folly asks softly.

Yarrow stops short, turning. "I should be asking you that. I should have realized… I shouldn't have wasted our time coming here."

That isn't an answer, but Folly doesn't need to press for the truth. The unfamiliar vulnerability is clear in Yarrow's furrowed brow.

Growing up, Folly never thought fae could be scared or vulnerable. They were the monsters in the shadows. Flawless and terrible.

Folly's never felt this protective over someone before. Especially not a fae warrior who towers over him by a foot. And he's selfishly, guiltily glad that he's still bound at Yarrow's side, so he can see this side of that constant confidence.

"I'm all right." Folly manages a grin at Yarrow's skepticism. "I mean, all of this is overwhelming, and I'm scared of the curse shrinking. I hate being trapped. But worrying is normal. I was already afraid every day in the human realm. Is this really that different? And…"

Yarrow moves closer. Not quite touching. Uncertainty gives way to interest. "And?"

Folly traces Yarrow's armor, where the metal warms with the heat of his skin. "I can't think of anyone else I'd rather be bound to."

Yarrow catches his hand. "Nor can I," he says, soft like a confession. "I'd like to keep you longer. But not like this."

Folly bites his tongue before he says something foolish. Like vowing to remain in the fae realm. Like inviting Yarrow to the human realm. He's only known Yarrow for a week, and all they've done is kiss. What if Yarrow tires of him after they have sex? What if Folly's performance disappoints?

Or they could have lifestyle differences. Like if Yarrow invites people over too often. Or plays the tambourine late at night. Or secretly eats people.

Folly cuts short his catastrophizing. "If the queen won't help us, what's the new plan?"

Yarrow shrugs, still holding Folly's hand. "We stay the night. We see what Nevander gives us in the morning. After that? I don't know."

"Will Nevander be helpful?" Folly asks. "Is it worth waiting to meet him, or should we just go?"

"Nevander is the most serious person I know." Yarrow wrinkles his nose like that's a bad thing. "He wouldn't ask to meet without a reason."

That sounds like more than passing familiarity. Folly can't imagine the two of them socializing. Yarrow is so exuberant, and Nevander is so cold. "Is he a friend of yours?"

Yarrow chuckles. "Nevander hasn't had friends since he joined the royal guard."

"All right, so we get what we can from him," Folly says. "Then I have some ideas."

"You do?" Yarrow asks. His surprise isn't flattering—but it's justified. Folly hasn't exactly been leading this quest.

With a gentle squeeze, Folly lets go of Yarrow. He needs his hands free to fiddle with his sleeves. "Constantly worrying can be productive. I end up with a lot of contingency plans. We don't know where Moriath is, but we know what he wants."

Yarrow's eyes narrow. "I won't use you as bait."

"Of course not." Folly's lip hooks into a smile. "We will use me as bait. Because we're doing this together."

Folly's prepared for an argument, but Yarrow's scowl softens. He looks Folly up and down, with the same admiration as when Folly told stories at Milla's Menagerie.

"I don't like that plan," Yarrow says. "But it's better than any of my ideas. Let's see if we think of something better before we leave."

Folly will probably regret this later. He doesn't want to be bait. For now, though, he likes that Yarrow listens to him.

"We should rest up." Yarrow pats Folly on the shoulder. "Unless you want to see the banquet."

Folly leans into Yarrow's touch, thinking. The evening's young, and he isn't tired. But they'll be journeying again tomorrow. But he's curious about summer court banquets. High fae and magic. Is it different from the gathering outside Milla's Menagerie? What sort of place does Yarrow want to live?

But what if Folly violates court etiquette and ends up embarrassed or imprisoned or?—

"Wait, are you actually considering it?" Yarrow asks, stunned.

"Maybe." Folly twines his fingers between Yarrow's. "I'm really nervous, but I sort of want to see."

A grin warms Yarrow's face. "Then let's try it for a minute, and you can see if you like it." Yarrow's grin turns wicked. "Besides, Hummingbird gave you exactly the outfit to wear."

Nervous excitement thuds behind Folly's ribs. Hopefully the outfit involves trousers.

Folly hovers on the edge of the Court of Hours—no, that's the wrong word, when there's a man literally hovering across the crowd. Folly stands nervously between the quiet hall and the subtly milling courtyard, wondering if he's under-dressed or over-dressed.

This banquet isn't like the rowdy gathering outside Milla's Menagerie. At least a hundred fae talk and laugh and dance and pluck golden grapes from creeping vines. Disparate voices blend subtly with the harp and flute playing from the stage. A massive clock looms from the northern wall, like a captured moon with its white wood face. The gleaming golden hands rest motionless, trapped at a quarter till twelve.

Food and drink are served from stalls, marked by flagpoles and silk streamers at each corner, but no awning overhead. Stars wink above, while below, sourceless light illuminates rippling fountains and golden armbands and gowns of trailing silk roses that nobody trips over.

The gathering is a dance, and everyone except Folly subconsciously knows the steps. Everyone except Folly has long, pointed ears and inhumanly bright eyes. A hundred exquisite faces, not all of them the work of glamour.

A man leans against a nearby bar, clad only in a shimmering silk loincloth that brushes his knees. Folly probably isn't under-dressed.

He probably isn't over-dressed either. His scarlet silk tunic may flow to mid-thigh, the sleeves fluttering past his wrists, but the neckline swoops far below his collarbone.

And Folly hadn't known silk could be so sheer.

"Is the clock almost to noon, or almost to midnight?" Folly asks instead of begging to leave. He wants to stay, even though he's nervous.

Besides. Yarrow's presence is distracting. When Folly had asked what Yarrow intended to wear to the party, Yarrow had simply winked—then stripped off his shirt.

"Midnight, of course. It's more dramatic. Fae love their poetry and drama." Yarrow braces his hands on his hips, the movement rippling through his brawny form. His sun-tanned skin gleams in the sourceless light, from the angle of his jaw to the cut of his hip disappearing beneath his leather trousers. "Come on, little human, let's drink."

It should be safe. They aren't under a roof, so they won't violate hospitality rules by accident. And Yarrow said Moriath can't infiltrate Elladar. But a hundred fae dance in the Court of Hours, and Folly only trusts one of them.

Yarrow takes him by the wrist, rubbing casual circles though the silk. "Don't worry. I'll taste every glass for you."

"You don't have to," Folly says, embarrassed. But he doesn't mind being nervous, if Yarrow comforts him with teasing touches against his pulse.

"I want to." Yarrow winks, and lifts Folly's hand. Makes deliberate, searing eye contact before feathering a kiss against Folly's knuckles. His voice lowers. "There. Now everyone watching knows not to touch you."

Flushing, Folly ducks his head.

Yarrow kisses his hand again, then muses. "Dancing might be a problem. Some of the steps involve switching partners, or separating by a dangerous amount of distance…"

"We're not dancing!" Folly hisses.

"Excellent solution." Yarrow tugs him towards the nearest bar. "This way, to the best mead in all of Summer."

The bartender is the first elderly fae Folly has seen. Deep wrinkles drape from her high cheekbones, and her lips press together like a drawstring purse. But her eyes are bright, her movements quick, and her hair—though so white it appears translucent—falls thick and sleek to her waist.

She looks up, expression neutral. "Back so soon, wild fae?"

"Soon?" Yarrow leans against the white wood bar. "Dear Lady Sevastia, It's been an entire week since my charming presence last graced the Court of Hours. A pint of mead for my friend and me."

Sevastia's neutral expression doesn't change. "Just the one?"

"For now." Yarrow pulls Folly closer. "We're going to share."

Sevastia raises her eyebrows. "Most unhygienic," she mutters, but slides a wooden tankard across the bar regardless.

Yarrow takes the first sip, as promised. His eyelids lower and his head tips back slightly, and the stretch of his neck invites tender touch. Gold clings to his lip, and heat fills Folly's lungs. His own desire feels naked. Overpowering.

"Your turn," Yarrow says, handing over the tankard. He leans languidly against the bar, his gaze intent.

Folly swallows on nothing. Then he holds Yarrow's gaze and lifts the heavy tankard to his lips.

Sweetness bursts over his tongue. Subtle floral notes aren't subtle at all on the second sip. Folly can't taste the alcohol, but it dizzies through his bloodstream.

And Folly relaxes.

So suddenly, he would be startled if he weren't so thoroughly at ease.

"Oh, wow," Folly breathes. "This really works."

He reluctantly allows Yarrow to retrieve the tankard. "I knew you were tense, but I didn't know how tense." Yarrow takes another sip. The liquor affects him, but not as much. Either because he's fae, or because he's not a wreck of nerves like Folly. "Let's slow you down, until we see how you like the feeling."

Folly would complain about Yarrow watching his consumption, like he's an irresponsible child. But he's too relaxed for petty complaints. And besides. It's nice to let someone else do the watching and calculating sometimes.

"What next?" Folly asks.

"We stay here and drink," Yarrow says, which is exactly the answer Folly hoped for. "Watch the party until this tankard's empty, then decide if we want another, or if we want to go dancing."

"No dancing," Folly says quickly, and Yarrow laughs. Unexpectedly, he seems as happy to stay on the outskirts as Folly is.

The lighting shifts as the evening passes. The gradual changes don't follow any pattern Folly can determine. Sometimes the light cools, then warms, then brightens, then dims. With each sip of sweet mead, the music sounds more resonant. More vital. Each melody carries an emotion. Joy, lust, regret, hope.

An open space clears amidst the whirling dancers. Two fae with sweeping green hair take the center. Their dance is quick, vivid, punctuated with flying scarves and metallic clangs. They wield daggers in each hand.

A bear sits on the edge of the stage. Little white flowers pepper its shaggy fur, and it sways in time with the music.

The fae in the loincloth leans against a lamp post without a lamp. Another male fae kneels in front of him and pulls the loincloth aside.

"Is that, um. Typical here?" Folly asks.

Yarrow's so close, his laughter vibrates through them both. "Do humans never fuck at parties?"

"Not the parties I've been to." Folly's face heats. "People usually at least find a dirty alleyway."

Yarrow tucks a lock of hair behind Folly's ear. He leans close to murmur, "That sounds dreadful. You're far too gorgeous for a dirty alleyway. I'd rather fuck you in a meadow of summerstars, or the shallows of the Pyran, or that floral swing over there. Even the flowers would dim against your beauty."

Folly stands frozen, the tankard an inch from his lips. Flattery pours sweeter and more intoxicating than any liquor. "You've had too much to drink. I'm not gorgeous."

"One of us only speaks the truth, and one of us lies." Yarrow retrieves the tankard. "Who should we believe?"

Belief isn't a matter of truth. Whether or not Folly is beautiful is far less important than the floral swing swaying across the crowd. Folly is a breath away from tugging Yarrow forward, when a young man rushes up to the bar.

"A small glass of mead for a thirsty spirit?" the young man asks Sevastia, breathless with laughter. A crown of white flowers balances askew on his dark blond head, and his pale green tunic clings with sweat.

Sevastia wags a thin finger. "You know I won't give you mead, naughty boy." But she pours a small glass, then deliberately turns her back. Towel in hand, she begins cleaning the other end of the bar.

The young man leans across the white wood surface—and instead of the cup, snags the bottle.

He's shorter than Folly. The shortest fae Folly's seen, except for children and Hummingbird, who's part pixie. And when he swigs from the bottle, his hair shifts back, revealing small, rounded ears.

"You're human," Folly blurts out.

The young man coughs. Glaring, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Excuse you."

Folly's too stunned to worry about breaching etiquette. "Sorry, it's just, I haven't seen another human since I got here. Um. I'm Folly. This is Yarrow."

Silver paint gleams around the young man's eyes. No, the boy. He looks no older than sixteen or seventeen. Most reasons for a human to be in the fae realm are terrible, and Folly's stomach twists with concern. The boy could be enslaved or trapped by a curse just like Folly.

"Hello, Folly and… Yarrow." The boy's gaze lingers on Yarrow's bare chest, then lowers. A smile brightens his face. "I'm Tansy."

A human boy with a fae name. "Have you been in the fae realm long?" Folly asks, trying to ignore the way Tansy looks at Yarrow.

"You haven't heard of me? I'm hurt." Draping a hand over his heart, Tansy angles his smile at Yarrow. "Tell me you've heard of me."

Yarrow passes the tankard back to Folly. Their fingers touch, the warmth mollifying. "You're the queen's changeling."

Tansy sweeps a bow, bottle held high. "See, brother human, I'm famous throughout the realm. Even this handsome wild fae has heard of me."

Yarrow stiffens slightly at Folly's side. A perfect excuse for Folly to surrender to his jealous instincts.

"Could you get us another tankard?" Folly asks, returning the cup. He smiles up at Yarrow, who fixates on his lips.

"Sure, but you have to stay right there." Yarrow squeezes his shoulder, then heads down the bar to flag Sevastia.

Under dimming lights, Tansy crooks a grin. "You aren't subtle."

Good. Folly isn't trying to be subtle. He's not about to let this boy make eyes at Yarrow, when Folly hasn't even fucked him yet. But even his jealousy doesn't erase his concern. "If you're a changeling, does that mean you were kidnapped as a child?"

Tansy sighs. "Kidnapping has such negative connotations."

That isn't a denial. But if Tansy was ever kidnapped, he looks… happy about it. A healthy glow to his skin, fine clothes, the old bartender's indulgence. Folly never imagined a human could thrive like this in the fae realm.

Maybe going home isn't so urgent. All Folly has waiting for him are a wagon he doesn't own, a boss who won't take no for an answer, and a family that's glad he left. If the fae realm was always like this—fewer killer trees, more incredible mead—Folly wouldn't mind lingering.

"What's it like, living here?" Folly asks.

Tansy shrugs. "How would I know? It's normal, I suppose."

Yarrow returns, and tension Folly hadn't noticed eases from his belly. This relaxation isn't all due to the mead. It's also Yarrow, strong and gorgeous at his side. So interested in Folly that Folly feels he may be worth that interest after all.

"Here you go," Yarrow says.

And Folly surrenders to instinct. He takes the tankard, then reaches to grab Yarrow by one gleaming horn. The ridges are smooth and warm beneath his palm as he pulls Yarrow down.

Yarrow's kiss is even warmer.

"Thanks," Folly murmurs against Yarrow's lips. Then releases him.

Fascination burns in Yarrow's eyes. Like Folly is the only one in the courtyard. "You're welcome."

Watching the display with one hand on his hip, Tansy mouths not subtle to Folly, then skips off into the crowd. Jealous nerves soothed to satisfaction, Folly wraps both arms around Yarrow's neck.

Yarrow's next kiss delves so deep, Folly never wants to breathe again.

"Were you jealous?" Yarrow asks, voice warm with delight.

"Maybe," Folly admits.

Yarrow's eyes curve in a smile. "I like that, but there's no reason to be. The boy is what, twelve years old?"

Folly laughs.

Then he blinks, realizing Yarrow is serious. "You have no sense of human ages, do you?"

"I know you look precisely twenty-four." Yarrow pecks another kiss on Folly's cheek—then pulls back, trepidation in his eyes. "Unless you've been lying about your?—"

Folly silences him with another kiss. "I'm tired of this party."

Yarrow sets the tankard aside. "Me too."

And he takes Folly by the wrist.

The palace hallways blur with Folly's urgency. Music rings in his ears, and desire leaves him more drunk than the fae mead. After far too long—five minutes, five excruciating minutes—Yarrow halts, so quickly his boots squeak against the marble. A familiar green door waits in welcome.

"This is our room," Yarrow says, then hedges, "Hopefully it's our room."

It's their room. The door unlocks with a touch and a glitter of magic, and Folly yanks Yarrow inside. The door's still swinging closed when Folly's back hits the wall, and Yarrow fills his space with miles of bare skin and a ravenous grin.

Folly's wrists meet the stone beneath Yarrow's heated palms.

"Fucking spirits," Yarrow breathes, staring down at him with something dangerously close to adoration. "I want to…"

Folly lifts his chin, baring his throat in surrender. "What do you want to do?"

Yarrow leans down. His hair spills over Folly's shoulder, and his words hook into Folly's soul. "I want to tie you up and fuck you for hours."

Folly's heart wavers on a precipice. Like he's agreeing to more than just one night. Sex has always been so casual for him. Failed attempts to forget how alone he is. Forget about playing bondage games—that's a quick way to get robbed or murdered with the wrong stranger from the tavern.

But Yarrow would never hurt him, and each vulgar word sounds far too much like a promise. Agreeing would be reckless.

Folly wants to be reckless.

"Let's start with one hour," Folly says, because he's reckless. Not stupid.

"Clever little human," Yarrow purrs. "I can work with that."