Their room is on the fourth floor. The copper griffon hammered into the door matches the token dangling from the key. Magic shivers over Yarrow’s hand as he unlocks the door, the room recognizing that he belongs, for now.
Inside, the room is both spacious and cramped. The rustic barn walls match the rest of Milla’s Menagerie, and checkered curtains shroud the wide bay windows. Half the space is ceded to a massive bed, big enough for four of Yarrow to sleep comfortably. More with some contortion and stacking.
Between the bed and the windows sits the impressive copper tub. Hip-height, with a step cut into the side. Not quite as spacious as the bed—only two could fit comfortably. Three if they squeezed.
“That’s the biggest bed I’ve ever seen,” Folly says, flushing. The little human seems innocent, but his thoughts may be coursing along the same riverbed as Yarrow’s.
“It might be two beds glued together.” Yarrow closes the door. Latches it, then summons the clothing parcel from his carryhold. “You bathe first, so you can try the clothes on. I’ll bathe after dinner.”
Folly exhales as if steeling himself. “All right.”
“I’ll turn around,” Yarrow says gallantly, proud of himself for remembering Folly’s preferences.
But Folly just sighs again. “It’s fine.”
Yarrow’s eyes narrow, because humans can lie. “Excuse me?”
Folly shrugs, hands up. “We’re stuck together for at least three more nights, aren’t we? I’ll be a weird, awkward person no matter what, because that’s just who I am. Whether you’re looking at me or not won’t change that.”
“You’re no weirder than any human.” That sounded more reassuring in Yarrow’s head. He sighs too. “I’ll keep my back turned,” he adds, which is the truth. Almost. A difficult truth. Uncomfortable pressure prickles inside his chest, until he hedges, “Mostly.”
Ears red, Folly scrubs a hand through his hair. “Don’t stare, though. Just. Ugh.”
The bed is the only comfortable spot within twenty feet. Yarrow moves closer and slumps on the edge as Folly approaches the tub. Untying his tattered robe from his hips, Folly hesitates.
“How does this work? I can see there’s magic.”
Yarrow almost gets up to go check. But Folly sounds nervous again. “Is there any sort of rune that looks like wavy lines, or rain drops?”
“Yes,” Folly says. “It’s brighter than the rest.”
“Then touch that,” Yarrow says. “And touch it again to make it stop.”
After a few deep breaths, and muttering under his breath, Folly touches the rim of the tub. Then he yelps.
Yarrow jerks to his feet, axe in hand—as water rains from the ceiling, and a wall of opaque blue air encircles Folly and the copper tub.
Relief doesn’t quell Yarrow’s heartbeat. “Are you all right?”
Folly emerges from the wall of air, eyes wide. “Whatisthis?”
“A privacy ward,” Yarrow answers. He shakes out his hand, and his axe settles beside him on the bed.
“Oh.” Folly waves his hand back and forth through the ward, with the same expression of wonder—now tinged with relief. “That’s convenient.”
The existence of the privacy ward seems to give him new confidence. He bustles around the room, finding robes and towels in the closet, then disappears behind the wall of blue again.
Yarrow should feel relieved too. No chance of accidentally trampling Folly’s boundaries. Instead, uneasy anticipation coils inside him.
“Is it safe to use these… soaps?” Folly asks from inside the ward.
“Yes, they’re not food,” Yarrow says. “Don’t eat them.”
Folly laughs. Quiet, genuine. It’s a nice sound, not at all muffled by the privacy ward or pattering water.
Nor is the sound of fabric sliding to the floor.
Yarrow swallows, blood sinking through his veins. Keen ears picking up every sound of Folly getting into the bath, Yarrow tries to think about Moriath instead.
