The coin flashes bright, then falls dormant. Folly has the strangest sense that it’s alive, and it’s resting.
Folly turns it in his fingers, fascination building. He’s never seen a coin like this before. Twice as big as a gilden. Very old. The embossing is far finer than gildens, the shapes clear and sharp. On one side, a bird spreads its wings in flight. On the other side, a dragon.
Folly’s pulse spikes again. Not with panic. He doesn’t know why, but he’s meant to have this coin.
Chapter 2
Yarrow
Lilting music weaves its own subtle magic across the courtyard. As fae spin around each other and wisps of light waltz overhead, Yarrow pours another goblet of mead. He offers it to his companion with a shameless wink. “Have you ever fucked a wild fae?”
Beneath the stars, it’s safe to take food or drink without direct invitation. Yet there’s a promise nonetheless when the high fae lordling accepts the goblet.
“Is it very different with a wild fae?” the lordling asks with an answering grin. His green hair hangs loose around veiled shoulders, and silver bangles chime around soft wrists.
Yarrow points with his own goblet. “That wasn’t an answer, my lord.”
“Nor was that,” the lordling counters, and Yarrow laughs.
Too loudly, maybe, but he’s drunk and doesn’t care. Each sip of shimmering gold eases his dark mood. The floral breeze feels good through his shirt, which is unbuttoned halfway to his navel.
The green-haired lordling appears to appreciate the show of sturdy muscle.
Today has been a disappointment, but tonight will let Yarrow forget that till dawn. Perhaps the lordling will even let Yarrow tie him up, though likely not. Few partners trust him enough for that. The lordling might think Yarrow’s just trying to steal his bracelets.
Yarrow fits in just fine at this courtyard banquet. He may not be good enough to join the summer queen’s court, but he’s good enough to drink her mead and tumble her subjects into bed—or onto the nearest garden bench. He isn’t picky.
The queen wouldn’t even hear his petition.
Yarrow takes another sip of mead. The sweetness warms his lips. Focus on the drink, and the green-haired summer fae leaning closer. Getting laid will cheer him up even better than the drink. One night in some flower-draped bower, some rope play if he’s lucky, then back on the road.
“You’re thinking about my horns, aren’t you?” Yarrow tilts his head so they gleam in the floating lights. The bronze horns are impossible to miss, curving back above his white hair. “I’ll let you touch them if we?—”
A flicker of presence cuts through Yarrow’s foggy attention, moments before a cool voice says, “Yarrow.”
It’s a voice that demands respect. Obedience. The green-haired lordling freezes, clearly nervous. Reasonably so. Some royal guardians might be fun at parties, but Yarrow’s never seen this one let loose.
Yarrow turns with a lazy grin. “Hello, Lord Nevander. Did you want to join us? It’s the horns, I know. They’re irresistible.”
Nevander’s expression is so unaffected, Yarrow would be insulted if he weren’t too happily drunk. Nevander may be the perfect emblem of the summer fae, all long golden hair and green leafwork armor, but his face is cold as winter.
Hard to believe he once played in Spiritwood with Yarrow and the other young fae. Or maybe it’s easy to believe. Childhoodwas so long ago—though it feels closer, memories brought to shore on waves of sweet liquor.
“Queen Haelwen has agreed to hear your petition,” Nevander says.
Yarrow nearly drops his goblet, memories shattering into the present. “She has?” Yarrow sets the goblet aside before he flings it on someone and incurs a blood-debt. “That’s fantastic. When will she see me?”
Ignoring the green-haired fae sidling away, Nevander says, “Now.”
“Now?” Yarrow repeats, rubbing his ear. He heard Nevander clearly, and fae can’t lie, but surely Queen Haelwen can’t expect…
Without another word, Nevander turns on his heel and heads for the nearest door. Apparently, Queen Haelwencanexpect Yarrow to drop everything for a royal audience, drunken daze and all.
The lordling has fully sidled away, so Yarrow skips the farewells and follows after Nevander in some semblance of his usual swagger. No flowery bower for Yarrow tonight. Just a sway in his step, and honey-sweet liquor bubbling and popping between his thoughts.
Fuck. Yarrow wanted an audience with the summer queen, but not like this.
The halls of Elladar Palace are bright as day, even as twilight shrouds the world outside. Disoriented by the change, Yarrow focuses on the gold and white stones beneath his feet. Elladar mead is strong, but Yarrow’s no lightweight. He can do this.
