It’s uncomfortable. Prickly. Maybe not in a bad way.
Hummingbird jumps up into a hover and swings the robe around on its hanger. Holding it up to Folly’s face, she hums. “Good choice, he looks good in expensive things. Nice color. And the gold, with that eye…”
Folly reaches out, to see if the fabric feels as soft as it looks. But Hummingbird yanks it away.
“No, no, no, you’re far too filthy to try on my merchandise.” She wrinkles her nose. “Both of you are lucky I let you in here. Are you staying at the traveling inn?”
Folly can’t fault her for that. “That’s what Yarrow said.”
“Perfect.” Hummingbird drops to the floorboards. “I’ll pack these up for you, and you can try them on at the inn. I’ll stop by for supper, and Yarrow can treat me to a pitcher or three of ale.”
“Is that all you want?” Yarrow asks, and laughs when she rolls her eyes. He touches Folly’s shoulder. “Go and browse while I bargain. I’ve known Hummingbird too long, and this might get personal.”
His wink is filthy, his smile wicked. But his fingertips are so gentle through the fabric of Folly’s shirt. Like he’s making Folly part of the joke, not dismissing him out of hand.
“If anything’s too expensive, don’t buy it,” Folly says, instead of what he wants to say, which is,thank you.
He moves away from the massive, revealing mirror, towards the shelves. One shelf holds rolls of silk glittering with magic. Pure white, like Yarrow’s hair.
Maybe Folly’s been judging Yarrow according to false premises. Folly’s spent the last seventeen years flinching away from his own reflection in other people’s eyes. People think being fae-touched makes him dangerous, suspicious.
And that’s exactly how Folly’s been treating Yarrow, even though Yarrow’s shown Folly more kindness than most humans ever have.
Folly would rather work and travel with someone like Yarrow than someone like Roland. Minus the evil trees and ominous-sounding boarbears.
And of course, the shapestealer who got them into this mess in the first place.
Moriath’s words catch in Folly’s mind, like silk caught on branches. Seeing the guise of the glamour, not just the truth.
Folly squints at the shimmering white fabric. If he unfocuses his eyes, then refocuses, there’s a difference. A change in texture or color. Or just a trick of the shadows. He steps closer for a better?—
Nausea sways through him.
Folly jerks back, clutching his stomach. He’d thought he had another foot of space, but he’d misjudged. Across the room, Yarrow glances over. The only sign of his answering pain is a furrow between his brows.
“Don’t wander too far,” Yarrow cautions, then returns to his murmured negotiations.
Right. Folly’s heart thuds with the whispered promise of pain. And worse, the reminder: he and Yarrow are only together because they have to be. As soon as this curse is broken, he’ll never see Yarrow again.
Best not to get attached.
Chapter 12
Yarrow
Milla’s Menagerie squats on the edge of town, just outside the sentinel trees. The inn isn’t a menagerie, and Yarrow has never met anyone named Milla, but he has stayed here before. The menagerie looms like a five-story barn, all patchy blue paint and golden thatching and roughhewn window shutters flapping open.
Music and ale spill into the surrounding field, where villagers and travelers. Fae will take any excuse for a festival, and a traveling inn’s arrival is a good one. Yarrow’s no different. Normally he’d already be a pitcher deep into the celebrations. Or knuckle-deep into a celebrant, if he found someone cute and willing. But today, the rowdy crowd makes Yarrow wary.
People keep looking at his not-a-pet human.
“Stay close,” Yarrow says as they ascend the folding stairs, though Folly is practically pressed against him already.
Flameless candles illuminate the dining lobby, which is quieter than the inn yard. Employees bustle about, delivering drinks and sweeping up messes, recognizable by the wreaths of straw and flowers in their hair. Hand on Folly’s shoulder, Yarrow steers towards the front desk.
“We need a room with a bath,” Yarrow says without preamble.
The bookkeeper looks familiar. Most of the employees at Milla’s Menagerie are wild fae—it’s a family business. They’re all part fox spirit, with reddish hair and black-tipped ears. A fluffy tail flicks behind the tabletop as the bookkeeper leans forward.
