11. The Folk

When he left Chamomile's hut, Micah looked down at his socks and boots next to her door, then experimentally flexed his toes on the ground. Really, it wasn't that cold to walk on. Like floorboards in the winter, but not like walking barefoot outside. He thought Ingrid would be happy if he finally went barefoot in Lilydale like everyone else did.

Pulling out his phone, he frowned while he read his texts with Julian.

Micah cringed at his own maudlin messages. That was one thing Julian always accepted about him, though. How dramatic he could be. Micah imagined what their life would have been like without magic—he'd have been a theater kid, probably, and Julian would have been in the front row for all his shows.

He typed another message.

Satisfied and strangely emotional over his father's newfound acceptance for Micah spending time with the Folk, Micah slipped his phone back into his pocket and then cast his gaze across the compound. He needed to be busy so he'd stop thinking about his foolish kiss.

Behind the kiln throne, next to the undying garden, something resembling a kitchen was under a thatched clay roof held up on support beams carved with swirls, flowers, leaves, and woodland creatures. A trio of short, green-skinned faeries were busy over a large black cauldron which wafted something savory in Micah's direction.

He sank his hands into his jogger pockets and ducked into the kitchen area to peer into the cauldron. One of the faeries, a small male, jumped when he looked up at him. He was wearing a Pokémon tee.

"Oh! Hello," said a female next to him, her bark-brown hair in a sock bun on top of her head. "You must be…the Prince?"

"Micah is fine," he laughed.

The short-haired female next to her tittered, and the male shook his head in horror.

The one who spoke to him touched her chest and said, "I'm Brynn, and this is Gwynn and Spinn. We're the goblin triplets."

"I love your names! What are you making?"

"Potato-leek stew," answered the female at the end, Gwynn.

"And fresh bread," squawked Spinn, with a slight lisp.

"Can I help at all?" asked Micah.

The three goblins exchanged looks of confusion with their pale green eyes.

"You want to help us?" asked Gwynn. "But you're royalty."

Micah shrugged. "I'm just Micah."

Spinn started to say something, but Gwynn reached over and pinched him.

Brynn piped up, "If you insist, you can cut up some more carrots over on that counter. It's a bit short for you, milord, because we're the regular cooks in the compound."

"That's okay. I can make it work." He stepped past them, his mouth watering at the smell from the cauldron, and then washed his hands with the water at the pump-sink in the corner of the kitchen shelter. He had to kneel to really effectively cut carrots, the trio whispering about him while he worked with a grin on his face.

After a bit, Micah's back was slick with sweat from the heat of the cauldron, and he'd cut more carrots than he'd ever seen in his life. Now he was mincing fresh garlic cloves, the oil coating his fingertips and the smell strong enough to make his eyes sting.

Back in the Redwoods, the kitchens were carved into a fallen redwood tree and occupied by stony-faced goblins who took no breaks and rarely slept. Their only pleasure had been inventing more ways to hook humans on their desserts. Before feasts—which were frequent—the goblins were whipped in front of everyone and threatened with death if the food did not turn out perfectly.

Here, in Lilydale, the triplets were humming in harmony and flicking each other with nibs of carrots and circles of sliced potato. Spinn, seemingly the runt of the trio, complained the most loudly at his treatment.

Chamomile appeared at the pillar closest to Micah, making him jump and narrowly avoid nicking his thumb. She scowled at his work, crossed her arms, and then looked toward the cauldron. "I hope you're making him work hard, kids," Chamomile said to the goblins.

"We wouldn't dare, Miss Chami," said the goblin with the short hair, Gwynn. It was interesting seeing them by Chamomile, whose skin was still green-tinged but much lighter than theirs.

Chamomile was his height when she walked up to where he knelt next to the counter. "You skulked off," she told him.

"Yup."

She glanced back at the trio. "I need to take him with me," she told them. "Sorry." She grabbed Micah by the back of his sweatshirt and hauled him away from the kitchen.

"Hey!" He fell onto his ass, dropping the knife on the counter on his way down. "I was helping. Let go! Chami, I can walk."

She let him climb to his feet but then hooked her finger through the strings of his joggers and dragged him up to the picket fence around the undying garden. She clicked the latch on its tiny gate and let them in. In the winter, they turned it into a hothouse, with a bespelled glass dome above it to keep in the humidity that helped the plants thrive.

The gnome from the night market was inside. She blinked up at Chamomile where she sat on her knees with a basket of strawberries next to her, and three of the red fruits in her hands.

"Hi, Syabira," said Micah. "Better get out of here. I think I'm about to be lectured."

Syabira smiled slightly at them with her shining peach lips. Her ears were small and furred like a deer's, and with her short coiled curls uncovered, you could see the two small ivory horns on her forehead.

Micah flopped into the dirt with his back to the picket fence and crossed his arms, glaring at Chamomile.

"You're going to kill the greenery if you don't fix your attitude," Chamomile said matter-of-factly. She pointed at the strawberry leaves by his hip, which shivered and bent away from him.

"Oh, so you brought me in here on purpose?"

"Yes," said Chamomile. "Ingrid told me that you killed a plant at work yesterday, so you need to figure that out. I'm not suggesting, I'm telling you that you're going to. If you're going to spend time in Lilydale, you're going to learn to honor it, rather than accidentally killing things because your emotions are out of control. Before, it was the Redwood Queen. But what if it's a loved one? Or an innocent person?"

Micah said nothing, unable to argue.

"If you kill my plants," said Syabira softly, leaning down to speak into Micah's ear, "I would consider cutting off one of your toes."

Micah eyed Syabira, who looked quite serious. "Yes, ma'am."

"May it not come to that." Syabira smiled gently, brushing off a strawberry, dropping it into her basket, and then wandering down to the opposite end of the garden. The leaves stirred against her bare legs as she walked with one foot in front of the other down a narrow soil aisle marked with small round stepping stones.

Chamomile dropped into the dirt, facing him with her legs and arms crossed and irritation creasing her usually delicate features.

"I wasn't supposed to," Micah explained.

"What?"

"In the Redwoods. Connecting with plants for the sake of plants was laughable."

"Why?" asked Syabira from a distance, outrage flashing in her doe eyes.

"The Folk who worked with plants were meant to make thorns or traps or statues of the Queen," Micah said. "That's why I was so excited about you when I came here." He nodded to Syabira. "You wouldn't get away with peddling flowers or running nurseries there."

Syabira cut a glare at nobody in particular before her expression grew tender as she turned her attention to a yellow hibiscus blossom larger than her hand.

"Well," said Chamomile with an indignant huff, "it's different here. Lilydale thrives because we care for it, and it for us, whether someone is directly involved in the gardening or not. And you have an affinity to plants, whether you like it or not."

"I…I do like it," said Micah softly. "I've always liked them. They make more sense than people."

"Aye to that," said Syabira.

Micah looked down at the plants growing merrily on all sides of them. The rich smell tricked his brain into believing it was midsummer. He held a serrated perilla leaf delicately in his hand, allowing the coarse texture to soothe the feeling of his blistered fingertips. As he let his gaze un-focus on the leaf, his pelvis relaxed into the soil, which was cool against his bare ankles. He felt more like himself among the leaves and the dirt, formless and thoughtless, just another living organism thriving in the hothouse. He brushed the leaf with the pads of his fingers—and they suddenly tingled as if going near a lit burner on a stove. Micah sucked in a breath and snatched his hand back. He looked down, turning his hand over. The frostbite blisters were gone.

His mouth dropped open as he rubbed the skin near his cuticles where the blisters had gathered, but it was smooth and undamaged. "Bro."

In the opposite corner of the greenhouse, Syabira straightened, her liquidy eyes going round. She took a small step closer to Micah, curiosity evident on her face before she caught herself and withdrew, but not before she allowed herself a happy little grin.

Chamomile looked unsurprised. Sharp teeth showing, she grinned and shoved his leg with her foot. "Healed yourself, did you?" she said. "Didn't even break a sweat."

"I knew perilla leaves were said to have healing properties, but…how can I just access them like that?" asked Micah.

"When you cast other worries from your head, you might find you can access quite a bit more plant magic than you think," Chamomile said. She glanced at Syabira. "Right, Bee?"

The gnome straightened and paused with a carrot still blanketed in soil dangling from her hand. "All the other things you concern yourself with likely hold you back," agreed Syabira.

Micah gave the gnome a long look before finally muttering, "Easy for you to say, gardening all day and selling flowers all weekend."

Nonplussed, Syabira remarked, "I make a choice to focus all my energy on flora. You could too."

"I don't remember asking for you to join in on the lecturing," Micah said, petulance sneaking into his voice like coffee that brewed too bitter. He heard himself, and embarrassment heated his neck to boiling. How old was he? The gnome glared fearlessly at him until he sighed and said, "Sorry. That was rude."

"Indeed," said Syabira with a sniff, returning her attention to cleaning the carrots.

Micah stared at his knees. He'd never mouthed off to Syabira like that. She'd shown him nothing but patience over the years. He was going to have to make it up to her. Find her a new trowel or something.

Chamomile cleared her throat loudly. "Now that you're done being an asshole, you get to talk to me." He shut his eyes. "You've tried many times over the years to avoid serious conversations with me, but it won't do this time around. We need to talk about that kiss. Your guilt spoiled the enjoyment of it, which is what you get for trying to act like you're not a serial monogamous."

Syabira's gaze snapped back over to them and then just as quickly away. Her black eyebrows rose and her lips pursed; she quickly dug her hand into the soil and resumed pulling up vegetables to make it look like she hadn't heard.

Fortunately too absorbed by his misery to notice, Micah sighed, hugging his arms around his stomach. Setting the perilla leaf on his knee, he said flatly, "I told Andrew repeatedly how committed I was to him. I told him repeatedly how I didn't want anyone else. Look how quickly I turned on that."

She nodded silently. After a few minutes, she plucked a leaf from a mint plant next to her and set it on her tongue. She chewed for a moment and then said, "We don't scorn wounded animals for acting out. I don't scorn you for seeking comfort."

Micah bowed his head and raked his fingers through his hair.

"Besides," Chamomile added, poking his chest, "I know I'm very comforting." When he looked up to glare at her, she winked at him.

"Don't get me wrong," Micah admitted, straightening again and tracing the petals on a strawberry blossom, "you have a soft and curvy appeal."

"I don't need your validation, but thank you." Chamomile dropped her chin onto her fist, raising her brows. "But…?"

"But I want Andrew." He curled his fingers into fists. His bones ached with yearning. "So, so badly."

She patted his hand. "I know."

"Do you think I blew it?"

"I hope not," she said, pulling her waterfall of silver-white hair over her shoulder and twisting it into a rope. "I struggle to imagine someone as rational as Andrew antagonizing you for doing something he told you to do. Even if he's upset that you actually did it."

Regardless, it was going to be messy when Andrew made it home, thought Micah. Many things to talk about. Many wounds to stitch up, perhaps for both of them.

Chamomile looked up over Micah's shoulder as the female goblins carried the cauldron out between them, with Spinn holding a platter with the bread on it behind them. "Ah. Food. I'm ravenous." She lunged with an open mouth at Micah's arm, and he yelled and shoved her away, chasing after her out of the garden while Syabira shook her head at them.

"I thought there were more Folk than this," said Micah as they sat around an enormous fire that was keeping his toes delightfully toasty.

The fire was ringed in with giant toadstools, stumps turned to seats, and painted boulders laid with cushions. There was a large fallen log sanded flat on top which was being used as a table. It held several carafes of mulled wine and honey mead, pots of tea, and even a crystal-clear pitcher of water that came from a well dug near the frozen stream. But there were only a dozen or so Folk eating, and they left a healthy amount of space between themselves and Micah, Ingrid, and Chamomile.

"Some are reluctant to interact with you," Ingrid told him frankly, her long legs crossed as she sat on a particularly tall stump that seemed to be cut for her substantial height.

"Oh." Micah frowned. Across the fire from him, blue-skinned Lina exchanged an awkward look with a red-haired male sitting under a flannel blanket with her.

Glancing at Ingrid, Micah said more lightly, "I guess Folk might not be crazy about your half-human brother lurking around."

"It's not that," Chamomile said at once.

Adjacent to them near the steps up to the kiln throne, Syabira sat on a large spotted toadstool with her legs crossed on top. She took a sip from a teacup and then told Micah, "We have known you existed for twenty years, but you have made yourself scarce."

Guilt dragged at Micah's stomach.

"Some of us feel that as a wound," Lina explained. She glanced at Nox with the goat pupils, and the goblin triplets, and the chalky-skinned sprite Wex, and then chimed, "Not me, of course."

"No, no. Nobody's obligated to receive me warmly," Micah insisted with a wave of his hand. He awkwardly took a long drink of honey mead, which loosened up his twisted insides. "I have a lot to prove here yet."

"Do you intend to?" Wex's eyes flashed with a challenge. She hiccupped when Lina punched her arm.

Micah nodded. "Yeah. I do." He looked at Ingrid and Chamomile, who were staring at him with particular intensity and matching faint smiles. He dropped his voice to a hushed whisper and said, "Maybe I should bring gifts."

"Yes," said Chamomile immediately.

"You two want to go up to Target with me?" He grinned.

Ingrid groaned, "Do I have to?"

"Yes," said Micah and Chamomile at the same time.

As the night grew darker in Lilydale, the fires were lit and reflected off the ice walls like a thousand sunsets. Ingrid sat on the kiln throne primarily because it afforded her an excellent vantage point to watch the Folk revel around the enormous fire at her feet. The golden flames licked at the sky and made the city lights beyond invisible against them.

Micah and Chamomile were engaged in some quick, complex dance to a frantic song Fethir played on a piccolo. Ingrid suspected they were improvising the moves, but she envied how easily they mirrored each other's rhythm. She envied how they drew the eyes of the Folk. She envied how rapidly Micah had captured the affections of Lilydale with nothing more ostentatious than small gifts and his time.

She was convinced he didn't realize he'd done it yet; in the Redwoods, he was always authentically himself, and it had always gone unnoticed. In the Redwoods, Micah was always in the shadow of the trees and the tall, vicious, brilliant Fae nobility who circled the Redwood Queen like wolves waiting to snap up her leftover kill.

Here, though, Micah stood out among the small, common Folk. They all smelled his noble blood and observed his potential as easily as Chamomile had when they'd first arrived in Minnesota. Around Ingrid, he looked clumsy and small. But not around here. Around here, he became naturally prominent, like a cairn seen through the fog.

Ingrid took a slow sip from a goblet of mulled wine, unconsciously tapping her foot as the jig reached its crescendo. Micah's height was perfect relative to Chamomile's to whisk her around the heat of the fire, wobbling light gleaming on his hair turned to sage in the saturated darkness. He'd pulled off his shirt and was slick with a sheen of sweat. The bobcat skull and antlers tattooed across his chest seemed sacred in this setting, serving as a reminder to the Folk exactly how capable he was.

Ingrid was nauseous with pride as everything fell into place, made sense, justified each stepping stone they'd struggled their way onto through the river of Micah's life. Everything that felt wrong with him, that felt unfair and undue, it was finally, wholly, completely overshadowed by his full potential.

She touched her cheek, startled when her fingers came back damp with tears.