21. Folly

The normalcy might be more shocking than anything else Folly has encountered in the fae realm.

Setting aside the mushrooms growing on the windowsills—and around the sink and under the rafters—tea with Yarrow's mother is so… ordinary. Crocus bustles around, magic sparkling at her fingertips, bringing out scones and dried fruit as the utensils fly around the table. All the while, she interrogates Yarrow about the curse and the shapestealer.

Yarrow grumbles like a sulky child, but answers.

"It's sweet that you worried, but really, I'm safe as a boarbear's baby here. Folly, dear, you can eat this and this," Crocus pauses to specify, setting down a plate. "And you can drink the tea."

Yarrow grabs a dried fig without invitation. This must still count as his home, which is difficult to imagine. The place is small. Yarrow's horns rise nearly high enough to hit the herbs hanging from the rafters.

Everything is so domestic. Folly can't remember having such a relaxed family meal. His mother would be more polite than Crocus—no chiding, no rude sayings about fish teats. But being polite wasn't worth much, when she wouldn't look at him without his eyepatch.

Maybe he used to have nice family meals before his eye changed.

Folly tenses, his teacup nearly to his lips. Crocus hasn't once commented on his eye. Hasn't flinched or gawked while looking at him. And Folly's been so long in the fae realm, he's getting used to that.

Returning home will be a rude awakening.

"Did I forget to invite you?" Crocus finally sits across the table. "You're welcome to drink any or all of the tea."

"I was just thinking of something," Folly says, cutting back the reflexive apology. Crocus seems nice, but she's still a strange fae. "I appreciate the hospitality."

Crocus beams. "Yarrow has never brought home such a nice boy before."

Folly pauses again, his teacup half an inch closer to his lips.

"Crocus," Yarrow complains. "I've never brought home any boys."

"My point stands," Crocus says loftily.

Folly hadn't been concerned, but he likes that Yarrow wants him to know he's special. Warm and happy, Folly sips the tea. Rich, floral flavor coasts through his senses.

"I know my son prefers to fuck them and leave them," Crocus continues, forcing Folly to choke on his second sip. "Like mother, like son." Yarrow chokes at that too. "But unlike me, I've always thought he'd do better with companionship."

Yarrow rests his elbows on the table and covers his face. Folly's tempted to hide too, but Crocus is staring right at him. A strand of long, white hair falls in front of her face, but she doesn't move.

Folly tries not to fidget, but his fingers move on their own to fiddle with the teaspoon. "You're not bothered that I'm human?"

Crocus shrugs. "I don't shock easy. I fucked a kelpie once." As Folly tries to remember what a kelpie is, Crocus's thin lips purse into a frown. "Wait a moment—how old are you?"

"Twenty-four," Folly answers, as Yarrow drops his forehead to the table. Folly moves Yarrow's plate and teacup aside, so his hair doesn't fall in the buttered scone.

"Twenty-four," Crocus repeats, still frowning. "I'm not familiar with human years."

"He's an adult," Yarrow says, muffled and aggrieved.

Crocus's smile returns. "Perfect, that's perfect. Now, I don't want to get ahead of myself, but what point are you at? Just fooling around? Getting serious? Moving in together? I don't see a lifemark, though you could be hiding anything under that robe."

"None of your business," Yarrow says, still muffled, as Folly asks, "What's a lifemark?"

Crocus spreads a bright pink jam over her scone. "Have you told him anything, Yarrow? Never mind. A lifemark ritual binds two lovers together, for as long as they both live—or unless they destroy the lifemark. It's quite the commitment, and most fae don't do it. Best saved for royal alliances and such. But for relations between fae and mortals, I'd consider it essential."

Folly turns his teacup in its saucer. "Why is that?"

Yarrow straightens in his seat. "Because it binds the lifemarks' lifespans together. They don't die if the other dies prematurely, but a lifemarked human would age like a fae."

Folly's mind races. He'd never considered that a possibility. Living like a fae, bound to Yarrow forever. There are downsides, of course. Folly's good at thinking of downsides. What if Yarrow tires of him? What if Folly ruins Yarrow's plans to live at court? Folly would outlive all his friends and family, too.

But—what friends? What family?

"That sounds like something we talk about later," Folly says, hoping Crocus isn't mad at him for changing the subject.

On the contrary. Crocus's smile only widens. "Of course. Let's talk about where you're going to live. I can't imagine Yarrow living in the human realm, plus he would visit me even less. You can't very well live in Elladar. That pack of rabid bears would eat you alive. Which means the only logical solution is?—"

"Nice try," Yarrow says, gesturing with a scone. His mood seems improved. "I'm not moving back in with you."

Crocus sighs dramatically, still smiling. "It was worth a try. I suppose you'd better get on with your big quest for Haelwen. Which I disapprove of, to be clear. But first, I have something for you. Wait here."

Teacup in hand, she waltzes into another room.

Yarrow pats Folly's knee. "Sorry about this. She can be… overbearing."

"Don't apologize lightly," Folly teases, leaning against Yarrow's shoulder. The armor's uncomfortable beneath his cheek. He doesn't care. "Besides, I think I like this."

Relaxing, Yarrow pats Folly again. "That's good."

Folly's not so sure. This might be easier if Crocus were terrifying. If Folly couldn't so easily see himself slipping into this family. He and Yarrow could share a few nights, work it out of their system, then part ways. Folly could return to his world and his life with nothing but memories, and all the space he needs.

One night together shouldn't affect Folly so deeply. But it's more than last night's incredible connection, which still aches inside him. Folly can't remember anyone else caring for him like this. Neither ignoring nor hating nor abusing his difference.

He can't remember wanting to care for someone in turn, either. Folly can't do much compared to Yarrow. But he figured out how to reach Spiritwood faster. That felt good.

Crocus returns brandishing a scroll of paper. "Someone left this for you, darling son. I haven't read it."

She sets it beside Yarrow's teacup, then heads to one of the pantries. A length of twine holds the scroll closed, and the yellowed paper looks ominous. Crisp ink flows in letters Folly can't read, but must spell Yarrow's name.

"Who gave this to you?" Yarrow asks, without touching the scroll.

"I have no idea." Crocus lifts a jar of blue liquid to the light, then replaces it on the shelf. "Someone left it on my gatepost early this morning."

Folly looks at Yarrow, whose eyes reflect Folly's suspicion.

"Let me guess," Yarrow says. "You waited to give me this after tea on purpose."

Crocus shrugs, unrepentant. "What's a mother supposed to do? You never visit."

Yarrow sighs. "Folly, is this magic?"

There's no obvious shimmer, but Folly peers closer, right eye closed, just in case. "There's no magic."

"Thanks." Yarrow slips the paper from the twine. His brow creases as he reads. "Right, this has to be Moriath. ‘I will wait in Cerulean Glade for the next week. Bring me the fae-touched human, and I'll lift the binding. Elsewise, I'll collect him myself, and break the binding with your blood.' Rather dramatic fellow."

Fear lances through Folly, as much from Yarrow's serious tone as the threat. This is a creature who's bested them twice. "This has to be a trap."

"We're already trapped." Yarrow tucks the letter away and stands up. "But we have an advantage. Cerulean Glade is two days away. If we go Elsewhere now, even with a thirteen-hour delay, we can beat Moriath to the glade."

Crocus returns to the table with an armful of alarming jars. "Lovely spot to meet someone," she says, setting the jars down. "I used to have picnics in Cerulean Glade all the time. I know, you don't want to hear it. What supplies do you need?"

"I love you, Mother," Yarrow says, getting up to inspect the jars.

Crocus flicks his horn. "As you should."

Folly remains seated, stirring his cooling tea, as Yarrow and Crocus discuss which spores and powders might be useful against a shapestealer. Yarrow remains safely within range of the curse, but each step of distance tugs at Folly's heart.

This isn't like petitioning the queen. There's no chance of refusal. Either Folly and Yarrow will kill Moriath, or Moriath will kill one of them. Or Moriath will lift the curse as promised, but some of his shapes can pen falsehoods. Folly would lay a hundred gilden against that promise being true.

The curse will be broken, and Folly's heart wavers at the crossroads, afraid of success as well as failure.

Fuck them and leave them, Crocus said.

Folly doesn't want to be left.