And he’s spent many a night with companions, but they usually don’t get much talking done.
This is nice.
Chapter 11
Folly
Two afternoons later, Folly’s stomach twists outside the village. Their arrival is good news, because Folly isn’t fond of sleeping on the ground. But Villages mean people, which is bad enough in normal circumstances.Thisvillage will mean more fae.
Folly’s personal dealings with fae have involved Yarrow—who’s surprisingly decent—and Moriath the shapestealer—who’s terrifying. So, it’s a coinflip whether Folly should be terrified of any given person.
Yet as he follows Yarrow onto the packed dirt road, Yarrow seems more nervous than he is. “Watch what you say,” Yarrow instructs. “Don’t apologize recklessly—admitting fault is dangerous. Don’t make any promises either.”
That suits Folly’s general preference of social avoidance. He never liked talking to people in the human realm either.
He’d worried when he woke up yesterday, that things would be awkward after Folly’s humiliating misunderstanding the night before. After Yarrow’s casual admission that he wants to fuck Folly.
Folly can’t imagine being so direct. He’s never received that sort of admission without any hint of persuasion attached. Yarrow may want to fuck Folly, but he hasn’t even flirted the past two days.
A quiet, secret part of Folly wishes Yarrow had just fucked his mouth. Folly could have handled that.
Yarrow’s concerns only mounted as they drew near the village. “Be careful of the food,” Yarrow continues. “Outdoors is safer, but if you’re under a roof, don’t eat anything without direct permission.”
“Why is that?” Folly asks, hanging on every word. He can’t help it. There’s something strangely nice about having someone worry over him.
Yarrow glances over. His bronze eyes gleam in the sunlight. “I don’t actually know why. But stealing someone’s food is one of the oldest taboos in the realm. You’ll indebt yourself to the host, which will be very inconvenient for me since we’re bound together.”
The reminder whips across Folly’s heart. Right. Yarrow seems decent for a fae, but his concern for Folly isn’t altruistic. He’s just making sure his pet human behaves in public.
“I won’t eat without permission,” Folly says quietly. “Or talk to anyone.”
Yarrow frowns, but doesn’t question. He gestures ahead. “Here we are. The sentinel trees mark the village boundary.”
One white-trunked sentinel tree rises on either side of the road. Folly would have noticed them even without Yarrow’s directions—golden magic shimmers beneath the bark. Their branches curve outward, green-gold leaves nearly meeting in the center. Others are visible deeper in the forest, implying a complete circle surrounding the village.
Leaves swirl lazily down. They glint like fireflies, or the pixies Yarrow mentioned, until the moment they touch earth. A carpet of them softens Folly’s footsteps as he crosses the threshold.
Folly stares, dazzled.
The village almost reminds him of the village he grew up in, though there are more shops than homes in this quarter. The buildings are painted in blue and green jewel tones, the thatching and shingles paler than Folly’s used to. But there are buildings flanking cobbled roads, built of stone and brick and wood.
Folly would mistake it for one of the coastal towns where they favor brighter colors, were it not for the magic everywhere. Enchantment shimmers above every door and chimney. Plumes of smoke carry tiny sparks into the sky.
“Everything is so bright,” Folly murmurs.
“Don’t touch anything magic,” Yarrow warns unnecessarily.
There aren’t many people out. A tall fae woman dressed in leaves hangs feather ornaments from a rack outside her shop. A fae child with enormous eyes and flowers in their hair throws a wooden ball across the street. The child’s chubby white cat doesn’t move, but with a flicker of magic, the ball reappears anyway.
Half a dozen people in hunting gear stand on a street corner, sleek brown hounds at their heels. Most are fae like Folly’s seen before, but one is far shorter and stouter than the rest, with a dramatic rusty beard.
Folly cringes as each set of eyes falls upon him—feather-merchant, child, cat, and hunters—all regard him. Their expressions range from amusement to disdain—to sudden interest, when they notice Folly’s eye. One hunter turns as they pass, not trying to hide his staring.
If only Folly had his eyepatch, though he would still stick out for being human. Besides, there’s another difference in the fae realm.
“Are they staring at you or me?” Folly asks under his breath.
Yarrow stretches his arms, taking up more space. “Both, of course. You’re a human with a magic eye. I’m a big, bad, sexy wild fae. Oh, look. There’s a traveling inn.”
