But Roland is nowhere in sight.
Relief mingling with disappointment, Folly takes off down the street. Roland often leaves mid-job, and Folly is happy to delay reporting until he can hide his prize. But now he has to remember the route back to the campground by himself.
At least Folly can put his eyepatch back on. He pauses in the mouth of an alley, right at the line of shadow.
Light glitters at the edge of his vision—the object in his pocket. He’s tempted to pull out his purse instead of his patch and discover what he’s purchased. So tempted that his fingers are already touching the leather when he looks to make sure nobody’s watching.
That’s when Folly sees the creature.
A stretch of shadow looms in the depths of the alley. Solid, unmistakably present, but it blends with the darkness. Its only clear features are two narrow eyes of every color, yet no color at all.
Terror urges Folly to grab the iron from his pocket. Instead, he exhales his fear through dry lips and adjusts his coat, like that’s what he meant to do. He leaves the eyepatch in his pocket, even though all he wants to do is cut off the vision.
Glance away, slowly. Like he hasn’t seen.
Then move.
Move.
Folly’s limbs respond sluggishly to his frantic thoughts. Lurching from the alley, he flings himself into the flow of traffic. The surrounding press is welcome, even though usually his skin would be crawling. If Folly stays among people, if he ignores the creature, it won’t bother him. Just like all the others.
Please.
Folly doesn’t know why his eye is different. One night, when he was seven years old, he had two normal brown eyes. The next morning, the left one was eerie and gold. His parents asked over and over what he’d done, who he’d spoken to.Whathe’d spoken to.
He didn’t remember. But ever since then, he’s seen things nobody else can see. Things dark and bright, impossible and real.
“You aren’t fae-touched,” Mother told him sternly. “You just aren’t.”
That was how Folly knew he was fae-touched. That he was different, which was a bad thing.
The fae don’t usually come into cities. They don’t usually notice Folly—and maybe this one hasn’t either. No cold claws hook around his shoulder, and no iridescence calls from the shadows.
Maybe it’s harmless. Maybe Folly imagined it.
He reaches the scrubby campground unscathed. Nothing appears amiss. The travel wagons are circled, the tents and stalls shuttered for daytime. Goodfellow’s Marvelous Magical Troupe only operates after sundown, because night is the time of mystery. Daytime is for sleeping off hangovers.
Averting his gaze, Folly passes the bleary-eyed guards. They don’t bother calling out—they’re probably used to him looking frazzled.
Folly’s wagon is parked on the far side of the campground. He usually prefers the distance, but today, each extra step lodges his breath tighter in his throat. The wagon is a small, boxy structure, and the first thing Folly did after moving in was fix an iron horseshoe above the door. He’s safe here.
Probably. Assuming fae hate iron like the stories say. Folly’s never been forced to test it.
Folly fumbles with the key, then hauls himself inside. The wagon creaks with his weight, then again as he collapses into a corner. Curling over his knees, pressing his hands against his face, Folly finally allows himself to feel the panic.
A breath, sharp as a nail hammered between his ribs. Another. It’s not fair. He should have been safe in the city.
With a watery laugh, Folly uncurls. His head thunks against the wooden wall, and he takes in his familiar surroundings. Little more than a pair of bunks slung over storage crates. Folly sleeps in the bottom bunk and uses the top for more storage.
He thought it was nice he got his own wagon when he joined the troupe, instead of having to share. Folly needs time alone to recover and prepare himself for his next foray into society. Except privacy has a price. One more debt tallied on his contract.
Helpless anger draws Folly the rest of the way out of his panic. This wagon may delay Folly’s freedom by an extra six months, but at least nobody else will learn what he’s found today.
Whatever it is he’s found today.
Folly fishes the purse from his coat. It still shimmers, but the magic doesn’t cast any light on the purse itself. The dyed leather is mottled red and purple, not perfectly made, but whimsical. Different. The shell button unfastens easily, and green cotton lines the empty interior.
Frowning, Folly tips the purse upside down—and cool metal falls into his palm.
