20. Yarrow

Guilt and panic tumble through Yarrow's stomach. This is his fault, his carelessness putting Crocus at risk. Folly said Moriath asked about her, and Yarrow dismissed the danger. Crocus can take care of herself, yes. But that thought isn't reassuring when the shapestealer prowls her territory.

When Yarrow is all the way south, on the summer queen's goldwood wharf.

"Oh, gods." Folly scrambles to his feet. "I'm sorry, Yarrow, this is all my fault."

His pale, tense face snaps Yarrow out of his panic.

"Funny, I was thinking it's all my fault." Yarrow scratches the base of his horn, trying to think. "We should have gone straight there, before heading to court. Her cottage is three days away. Maybe two, if we detour to buy horses. Fuck."

That's still too long.

Crocus has wards. She's high fae. She's not helpless. But Yarrow doesn't even know how many shapes and powers Moriath has collected. The witch form alone may be able to break a mushroom circle, at least during daylight when its warding power is weakest.

"There have to be other options." Folly wrings his hands, but the panic in his voice is controlled. "This is the fae realm! Everything is fucking magic here! Is there a traveling inn? Does anyone at court have teleportation magic we could trade for?"

Right. Problems require solutions, not panic. "No traveling inn. Someone at court, maybe—but we'll waste more time trying."

Part of Yarrow also cringes at the thought of crawling right back to court begging for help. He'd bargain with a swagger, of course. But the high fae would still look down on him. That's nothing compared to Crocus's wellbeing, of course. But it still?—

"What about Elsewhere?" Folly asks.

Yarrow stops short—only in that moment realizing he'd been pacing the length of the wharf. "What?"

Folly's brow creases in thought. "Could we enter Elsewhere from here and come out closer to Spiritwood?"

"Nobody ever uses Elsewhere like that," Yarrow says slowly. "But it could work."

Crossing Elsewhere requires powerful magic, or talismans from a skilled enchanter. But Yarrow managed without a talisman when he brought Folly through. He'd simply bargained, like Elsewhere was just another tree or river. He hadn't really thought about how strange that was. At the time, he'd had other concerns, starting and ending with the cursed, unconscious human in his arms.

That same human is much more helpful while conscious.

"We'll try it," Yarrow says decisively, reaching out. "If it works, great. If it doesn't work, I'm sure you'll come up with something equally brilliant."

Folly grimaces at the compliment. "No pressure," he mutters, taking Yarrow's hand.

The slight weight of Folly's palm steady Yarrow's heart. "I don't actually know how to do this."

The admission is easier than it might have been a month ago. The belief in Folly's eyes doesn't falter. "You've done it before. Just do that again."

"No pressure," Yarrow says, and as Folly laughs, he exhales. Reaches out not with a hand but with a questing thought.

Are you there, Elsewhere? I'd like to barter passage.

There's a breath of silence. Then the air shimmers, and pressure like an oncoming storm cools around them, and Yarrow has his answer.

"Oh, that's very magic," Folly whispers.

Elsewhere doesn't speak like a fae, or even with the slow thoughts of an ancient tree. Yarrow simply knows what the realm wants. The knowledge surfaces like a boulder in a river, revealed not by its own rise but by the lowering water.

The answer itself is an empty riverbed. Loneliness.

The price would be easy to pay in any other circumstances.

"I'm glad you enjoyed our company last time," Yarrow says to the shimmering air. "I'd be happy to spend time with you again, but I'm in a rush today. There's wickedness afoot, and what kind of son would I be letting wickedness be afoot with my mother?"

Elsewhere feels unsure about that question.

Yarrow exhales shakily. The force of communicating with an entire realm is subtle, but he can't keep it up for long. "How about this? You let us go to Spiritwood quickly today, and the next time I travel through you, I'll stay an entire four hours."

Unacceptable.

Fine. Yarrow doesn't have time to haggle. "I promise there will be a next time, and very well. Thirteen hours."

Acceptable.

"It worked," Folly says, with unflattering surprise, just before the shimmer resolves into an arched, golden portal.

"Keep hold of my hand," Yarrow warns, as if Folly would let go. "This is going to be unsettling. Just keep running and close your eyes if you need to. And keep hold of my hand."

"If you're trying to reassure me, you're failing," Folly says. That iron control is back in his voice. "Let's go."

Their clasped hands tighten, and they step through the golden portal as one.

Impact jars Yarrow's bones—one instant of falling, just an inch, before the ground materializes beneath his feet. Golden magic tears away, revealing an endless sea of gloom. Dark fog swirls slowly, like a distant galaxy turning at an unimaginable scale.

The only solid thing is the patch of dark earth beneath their feet.

Folly's gasp echoes in the nothingness. "What the fuck."

Yarrow tugs him onward. "Keep moving."

"How?" Folly demands, but when Yarrow moves, he moves too.

Most fae never cross Elsewhere. Those that do speak of its dangers, its ever-changing form. Some find twisting labyrinths in the clouds. Some find a gauntlet of shadowy monsters. Some simply step from one realm to the next, missing the realm between in the blink of an eye.

Neither here nor there. Neither something nor nothing.

With each step, the ground stretches to catch their feet. Trust is the only thing pushing Yarrow forward. Trust that Elsewhere will keep its promise. Trust in his own intuition. The trust that Folly's placed in him, burning in the vise-grip of their hands.

Gold flares, and they cross a door they cannot see. A forest snaps into place around them.

The transition is jarring in daylight—from nothingness to pale gray trees and wavering sunlight and wispy silver flowers swaying along the roadside. From silence to rustling leaves and mournful bird calls.

From nowhere, right to Crocus's cottage.

Yarrow and Folly stand in the middle of a narrow dirt road, with Spiritwood behind them and Crocus's white picket fence before them. Protective mushrooms line the fence, growing from the top board and along the base. White, yellow, red, green, some tall and some tiny. Many of them are new varieties cultivated specially by Crocus.

The cottage itself has a squat, mushroom-like shape, though perhaps that's just expectations coloring the view. By all appearances, it's an ordinary cottage. Red paint chipped and faded with wear, and a jaunty yellow straw roof.

There's no sign of Moriath or any sort of struggle.

Folly still clings shakily. "Is this it?"

Yarrow leans down to kiss the top of his head, without really thinking about it. "Your brilliant idea worked. Thank you."

The compliment flusters Folly but doesn't distract him. "Which means we're near the shapestealer."

"Right." Yarrow reluctantly releases Folly's hand. If only Folly could scry again, but Yarrow's not about to push his little human into exhaustion. He lowers his voice and gestures. "We should circle around to check the perimeter. Her wards look intact here, but the shapestealer could have entered through the back."

Folly nods, his expression serious.

But before they can move, the cottage door swings open. The sudden movement sends Yarrow's axe into his hand, and he braces for attack.

Crocus stands in the doorway, wearing a stained apron and heavy gloves over her pink gingham dress. Her long white hair piles in a messy bun, threatening to topple as she tilts her head.

"Are you coming in or what?" Crocus demands, stripping off the gloves. "If you stand out there for too long, you'll grow mushrooms for toes."

Relief crashes into Yarrow, followed swiftly by primal dread. His mother is fine—and Yarrow is inadvertently visiting.

With a curse-bound human and a petition to the summer queen in tow.

"I can come back another time if you're in the middle of something," Yarrow says hopefully. "I don't want to interrupt."

Crocus waves a glove. "Don't be absurd, the bitecaps can wait, and I always have time for my favorite son." Her grin turns sly. "Come in and introduce me to your new friend."

She disappears inside as the gate creaks open on its own.

"Do you think she's the shapestealer?" Folly whispers.

"Nobody else says the thing about mushrooms for toes," Yarrow whispers back. "If he can imitate her that well, I'll just give up and call him Mother."

Folly chews his lip. "She isn't under attack."

Yarrow tries to muster his earlier filial concern. "No."

"Fae can't lie, so was she serious about us growing mushrooms for toes?" Folly asks.

"She was exaggerating the timescale," Yarrow explains. "If we stood here for a year, we would end up growing mushrooms, probably."

"I'm about to meet your mother," Folly says faintly.

"I'm so sorry," Yarrow says, and steers Folly towards the cottage.

The front door opens into the spacious kitchen—part dining space and part laboratory. There are two of almost everything, to avoid contamination. Two ovens, two ice boxes, two pantries. Only one square wooden table, though. As Yarrow and Folly enter, Crocus is sweeping its contents away. Mortars, pestles, and glass jars dance through the air and into the mushroom pantry.

"I was wondering if I would ever see you again." Crocus lays out a clean, lacy tablecloth. "Months and months without visiting your mother! But now I see what you've been busy with, don't I?"

Folly shrinks back, eyes wide. Whether from the intensity of Crocus's stare, or the sudden clatter of the tea set from the non-mushroom pantry.

"We can't stay long," Yarrow says. "We're looking for a shapestealer, and he's in Spiritwood. Have you had any trouble?"

"You can stay for a pot of tea," Crocus says firmly. "Or you wouldn't have stepped through that gate. Sit down, both of you. And you!" She snatches a teaspoon from midair and points it at Yarrow. "I'm still waiting on that introduction."

Yarrow sighs. He feels about thirty years old again, fully grown but still living at home, chafing under his mother's roof. Folly must think he's ridiculous. "This is Folly. He's a fortuneteller by trade from the human realm. Folly, this is Crocus. She's a crazy mushroom farmer, and she's my mother."

"I'm not crazy!" Crocus protests.

"The mushrooms are crazy."

Crocus sighs. "That they are. Now, what was this about a shapestealer? Why are you looking for him?"

Yarrow cringes. This is the part he doesn't want to explain, but avoiding the question will only make Crocus more interested. He hesitates long enough that Folly frowns in concern, and Crocus folds her arms.

Saucers and teacups clink onto the lacy tablecloth.

"I've been tasked with slaying the shapestealer," Yarrow finally admits. That doesn't satisfy Crocus's glare, so he continues. "By Queen Haelwen, as a condition for my joining the summer court."

Crocus's jaw drops. "Why the fuck would you do that?"

Yarrow shifts his weight. Fuck, he wishes he wasn't having this conversation at all, much less in front of Folly. "I want to. And it might be easier for you to return, if I was part of the court too."

A trio of teaspoons falls, rattling on the table. "Why the fuck would I do that?" Crocus demands. "I'm as much use as teats on a fish at court."

"I just want you to have the choice," Yarrow says, more forcefully than he intended. He shrugs. "I don't know exactly why you were banished, but it has something to do with me, doesn't it?"

Crocus glares. She's two inches shorter than him, but twice as intimidating. "This is my own fault for not being clear, isn't it? Yes, I left because everyone was annoying about me getting knocked up by a satyr. But I left, Yarrow. Haelwen banished me as the price for being allowed to leave."

The world seems to shift around Yarrow. "You left on purpose?"

"I was used to the assholes at court, but I didn't want that for you." Crocus's gaze softens. "Maybe I shouldn't have made that choice on your behalf. But Haelwen rescinded my banishment about ten years ago. I guess it had been long enough."

Yarrow scrubs his hand through the back of his hair. He feels a little foolish, a little angry. Very embarrassed to be having this conversation in front of Folly. "Maybe we should talk about this later."

"Or we could talk about it now," Crocus says sweetly. "Folly, dear human, would you mind waiting outside while I talk with my son?"

"Um, I can't. Ma'am," Folly stammers.

Crocus's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"The shapestealer cursed us." Folly takes Yarrow's hand and squeezes. "I have to stay next to Yarrow. I guess I could stand on one side of the door, if he stayed close on the other side. That makes me nervous, though, not being able to keep an eye on him, because what if we lost track of where we were on either side of the door? Then we would trigger the curse, and?—"

"Oh, dear," Crocus says mildly. "I'll make tea."