Tracking down disappearances might help, if they’re recent enough. Maybe Yarrow can figure out who the stolen shapes belonged to. The copper-eyed fae. The rune-faced human witch.
Water moves softly. Yarrow’s imagination moves with it.
Folly’s skin would be paler on his chest and back than his face. Paler still on his ass and thighs. How much hair does he have? Likely more than any of the true fae Yarrow’s slept with.
“This is much nicer than any inn I’ve stayed at,” Folly says over the unmistakable glide of skin on wet skin. “Are all baths like this in the fae realm?”
“Most don’t have privacy wards,” Yarrow answers, strained. “Usually there’s just enchantments to fill and drain the tub, and keep the water warm.”
“Where does the water come from?” Folly asks.
“The ceiling?” Yarrow answers, feeling strangely inadequate. He needs to find more answers for Folly. “I don’t know. I’m neither an enchanter nor a plumber.”
Except that must be a good enough answer, because Folly laughs again.
Maybe Yarrow was wrong. Abstinence might kill him after all.
Chapter 13
Folly
Folly leaves the water running as he towels off. There’s not much space between the tub and the glittering blue privacy ward; a light spray tickles his bare skin. His hair clings to his forehead, and the clean dampness is a gift. A revelation. Folly hadn’t realized how gross he felt until he scrubbed the sweat and dirt and evil tree sap away.
Yarrow has been silent on the other side of the ward. That part’s eerie—neither seeing nor hearing the fae. They’ve only been bound together for a few days, but Folly’s already accustomed to the flight of white hair in his peripheral vision. The glint of bronze horns in sunlight.
The unexpected sense of security, that someone’s watching out for Folly. Perhaps even more strange and magical than the enchanted bathtub.
Knotting a towel around his waist, Folly peers up along the flow of water. He’d expected some sort of piping system, but there are no holes in the ceiling. Just runes carved into the wooden beams, all gleaming with fae magic. The water seems to appear from nowhere.
Such a simple, ordinary thing to use magic for. Where Folly’s from, magic is rare. Costly. Dangerous. People mistrust witches and fae-touched folk, because who knows what sacrifice they were willing to make for power?
Folly wouldn’t mind staying in a world with magical bathtubs, if it weren’t for all the other dangers. Regretfully, he touches the raindrop rune again. The copper is slick and warm beneath his water-softened fingertips. After a flash of magic, the rain stops, and the privacy ward vanishes.
Folly jumps, startled, even though he did that on purpose. He clutches the edge of the tub so he doesn’t slip on the wet floorboards.
Yarrow looks up from the foot of the bed, then jerks his gaze away. “Do you want to sleep or head down for dinner?”
Sleep sounds amazing, but Folly’s stomach yearns for food that isn’t cooked over a campfire. “I’d prefer dinner first.” Then Folly takes a closer look at Yarrow, and frowns. “Are you all right? Um. You look tense.”
Fidgeting with his armor, Yarrow rises. “I’m fine. You should get dressed. So we can head down.”
A drop of water slides from Folly’s hair, down his neck. He crosses to the bed, fingers the open burlap parcel, and says, “What should I wear?”
Yarrow’s very close. Travel smells better on him than on Folly. Either fae don’t sweat as much as humans, or Yarrow’s just fitter. More accustomed to the weather.
Yarrow steps back, putting distance between them. “What?”
“You’re supposed to tell me what to wear for a week,” Folly reminds him.
“Right.” Yarrow pulls a few garments onto the bed. “If these fit, the rest should too. You can pick your own socks.”
Folly gathers everything as Yarrow retreats towards the window. He stops well within the range of the curse, clasping hiswrist behind his back. Something is off, as if some new worry arrived while Folly was bathing.
But Folly already asked, and Yarrow already deflected. Asking again might strain their tentative rapport. And Folly would rather not have a conversation as he unties the towel from his waist.
The privacy ward crosses his mind, but he would have to turn the shower on again, and that would get everything wet. So Folly just tugs the smallclothes and trousers on as quickly as possible.
Not as quickly as he’d hoped. The trousers are a rich brown fabric close to linen, but subtly different. They’re close-cut enough that Folly has to wiggle into them, but they’re comfortable once he laces them up. Better fitting than his own clothes.
