Yarrow leans his forearm against the opening. The inside of the hollow is lower than the soft earth outside, but Yarrow is still several inches taller. “Safest place to sleep in Brightwood.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” Folly accuses.
Yarrow’s grin widens, lit by the soft glow. “No, but it’s true.”
Fae can’t tell lies—but Folly’s used to misleading truths. “Will it really let us out in the morning?”
“Unless something goes terribly wrong.” Yarrow holds an acorn up to the light. “We made a bargain. In exchange for the nights’ shelter, I’ll sow its seed by the next river we cross.”
The way he sayssow its seedmakes Folly’s ears heat.
Yarrow steps back from the entrance. “You can’t run, so you may as well come in.”
True. Folly’s situation will be no worse trapped inside a tree than trapped outside it. He steps carefully over the threshold. The blossom illuminates a round chamber, ceiling curving ten feet overhead. The floor is flat, if uneven, and all of it ringed in pale wooden striations. The space is larger than the wagon Folly sleeps in, but there are no windows, no bedding, no small comforts.
Folly exhales, trying not to panic, as the opening creaks closed. “Do the plants listen to just anyone, or only to fae?”
“It helps to be carrying a giant fucking axe.” With a sly wink, Yarrow stretches out his hand. This time, Folly hardly flinches as the axe materializes in his grip. “I got that summerstar for free, as a gesture of goodwill.”
“Smart vine,” Folly murmurs.
Yarrow sits down against the curved wall, setting his axe beside him. He stretches out his legs. “I can tell you more about plants in the morning, but you should probably lie down before you fall over.”
He sounds cheerful. Folly’s too tired to hear any underlying derision.
So, Folly sets the summerstar in the center of the hollow. Its light remains as bright as the moment it left the vine, even though there’s no moonlight in here. There’s no visible opening either, but there’s faint movement in the warm air. As if they rest in the tree’s lungs.
Yarrow probably wouldn’t have brought them here to suffocate to death.
Folly shrugs off his robe and bundles it up as a pillow. Then he unfastens his hoop earrings and tucks them into his coin purse. They look shabby, the metal obviously fake. Just like Folly.
Curling up on the hard wood isn’t comfortable, but Folly’s so tired it doesn’t matter. His limbs are sluggish, his eyelids heavy.
Across the hollow, Yarrow’s bright bronze gaze never wavers. The last thing Folly sees before falling asleep is the fae, staring at him.
When Folly wakes, Yarrow is still staring.
Brightness fills the hollow tree. The crooked seam has split once again, allowing morning to soften the pale interior. In the center of the hollow, the summerstar no longer glows. Its wilting petals are plain white.
Blinking, Folly pushes himself from his lumpy pillow. Every movement is a reminder of yesterday’s bruises. Tripping on the trail. Running from the shapestealer. Falling to the ground in Elsewhere, Yarrow’s hands firm around his wrists.
Folly rubs his eyes. “Do fae sleep?”
Rising to his feet, Yarrow looks as rakishly perfect as he did the night before. “Not as much as humans, apparently.”
“Did you stare at me all night?”
Yarrow shrugs, unabashed. “There wasn’t anything else to look at.” He plucks up the summerstar, then leaves the hollow.
Folly could have used another ten minutes to gather himself up, but the sight of Yarrow leaving spurs him into action. Hisbruised knee complains, joined by most other joints in his body, as he follows Yarrow out of the tree.
Daytime transforms the clearing. Sunlight filters gold and green from the leaves above. The trees are armored in glossy brown, and the bark’s jagged edges are pale as if gilded. Like veins of gold surround every tree. The scent of the forest isn’t as overwhelming, and a bird sings not far away.
Brightwood is an apt name. It’s so beautiful that for a moment, Folly forgets to be afraid.
“I have some provisions in my carryhold, but we should catch breakfast at the next river.” Yarrow leans against the tree as the crevice creaks closed beside him. “Don’t worry, there’s always a nearby river.”
“What’s a carryhold?” Folly asks.
