A glance proves Yarrow is still facing the window. As if his own good manners are another privacy ward.
Putting on the tunic is easier, yet leaves Folly squirming under his skin. The yellow-green garment is softer than anything Folly’s ever worn, and it’s comfortably loose. The hem reaches his upper thighs.
But it doesn’t have sleeves. Folly’s never been so aware of his own arms before. The fine hairs, the weedy muscles. He’s never been preoccupied with his own appearance, beyond the annoyance of his fae-touched eye.
Just. Comparison is easy and unflattering, when Yarrow’s standing across the room. Light from the windows gilds every muscular curve of the fae’s arms.
Last night, Yarrow said he wanted to fuck Folly. But he doesn’t act like it. Not the way Folly’s used to getting interest. There’s been no leering or wandering hands. Nothing more than a guiding touch on his shoulder. No pressure. Casual. Confident. Safe.
Folly isn’t used to people being safe.
Maybe Yarrow’s interest was just a passing fancy. Maybe Yarrow just wants to fuck everyone, in a casual, hypothetical way.
At least the clothes fit well. And there’s something strangely reassuring about knowing Yarrow picked them out for him. Even if, sure, there weren’t many options, Yarrow was picking between two different pairs of trousers.
Had Folly been left to his own devices, he would have dithered for an hour over which outfit would best suit the occasion. As if one tunic or another would protect him from making a fool of himself.
After pulling on a pair of ordinary socks, their chief quality being that they’re clean, Folly buckles his own belt over the tunic. The coin purse sparkles faintly, then darkens.
Folly doesn’t need privacy to pull on boots, so he says, “How does it look?”
Yarrow turns, hands on his hips. Gives Folly a slow, deliberate once-over. That same tension flashes across his face, before melting into a grin. “Do you want an honest answer, or a polite one?”
Shit. Maybe Folly looks stupid after all. “Honest, please.”
Yarrow veers around the copper tub. Light glints off his horns, almost as bright as his eyes, as his rough scent fills Folly’s lungs again.
“You look delicious,” Yarrow says softly.
“Oh,” Folly exhales. And that squirmy self-consciousness doesn’t feel so bad after all.
Yarrow reaches for the pile of clothes. The starry robe spills like a waterfall in his hand. “And you’re missing one thing.”
“I can’t wear that to dinner,” Folly protests, though he’d love to. “I’ll look silly. Like I’m wearing a costume.”
“What’s wrong with wearing a costume?” Yarrow cocks his head, expression subtly shifting from interest to a moretheatrical flirtation. “You can dress up as anything you want, and sometimes that becomes the truth. Lift your arms.”
Folly’s used to being pushed towards things he hates. Not things he wants, with irrational, undeniable yearning.
He lifts his arms, and Yarrow slides the robe over his shoulders. Their skin never touches, but Yarrow’s hands are hot through the soft sleeves. Like gentle kisses of flame through the clouds. The robe is light, the collar a whisper against the damp back of his neck. But the hem swirls out with a satisfying swish when Folly turns.
There’s no mirror in the room, but Folly doesn’t need one. The admiration in Yarrow’s eyes is enough.
The field outside Milla’s Menagerie reminds Folly of his own traveling carnival. A similar mix of people gathers around trestle tables and picnic blankets. Couples young and old, colleagues all dressed the same, children running and shrieking at each other. Except none of these revelers are human. Most are regular fae, with long ears and bright hair. But there’s the occasional flick of a fluffy tail, or ripple of scaled skin.
And magic glitters everywhere. Glamours and charms. The sun hasn’t set, but lights already dance overhead, anticipating the darkness. All the magic puts Folly on edge. A week ago, the sight of one fae would have him running for his life. Now he’s supposed to relax and dine with scores of them.
Don’t apologize. Don’t eat food he hasn’t paid for. Don’t fuck up.
Yarrow was right about one thing. Folly’s starry midnight robe doesn’t stand out among the feathery shawls and glitteringhairpins. People might be staring at him, but it’s because of his species. Not his outfit.
Yarrow struts through the crowd, completely comfortable, and raises his voice. “Hummingbird! Are you here yet?”
“I’m right here, you fool!” Hummingbird calls from a table right behind them. Her iridescent wings blur as she hops onto her bench. “Let me see—oh, thatdoesfit,” she croons at Folly. “Of course it does, I’m an expert. Spin around for me.”
Folly looks instinctively towards Yarrow. Which is silly, because Yarrow isn’t his keeper.
Except Yarrow has the answer anyway. “Ignore her,” he murmurs, then raises his voice. “Are you ready to drown in a pitcher, pixie?”
