“Let’s go down for breakfast,” Yarrow says in his ear.
Folly blinks. “What?”
“If we kiss any longer, I won’t want to stop.” Yarrow’s grasp loosens. He traces Folly’s arms, up to his shoulders. Clasps his face in a delicate cage. “Get dressed. Wear your fancy robe.”
Folly slumps on the mattress, breathless, as Yarrow slides from the bed. “You’re a tease,” he manages, not quite a whine.
“You’re impatient,” Yarrow counters, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “Understandable. I’m a magnificent talent, and if you’re thinking clearly, I need to work harder.”
Yarrow skirts the copper tub and leans at the window. Framed by the gauzy curtains, he looks more spirit than living creature.
Hand around his own throat, lightly pressing the stinging hickey, Folly rolls to his side. Then sits up. Yarrow’sgrandstanding is well-deserved—Folly isn’t thinking clearly. Another kiss, and Folly wouldn’t stop either.
Maybe he wants that. Maybe he doesn’t. He should be grateful for the space to think, though his body hums resentfully in Yarrow’s absence. Even if that space will give Folly’s anxiety room to blossom.
He’s still cursed and trapped in the fae realm, after all. A little worry is good for him. Safer than the distracting exhilaration of Yarrow’s touch. The physical excitement leaves his thoughts too serene.
Not knowing what to say, Folly rises silently. He touches his wrists, then tears his gaze away from Yarrow. Hunger nudges his stomach. Not urgent, but breakfast sounds nice. As long as Yarrow stays close, and Folly doesn’t take food or drink from strangers.
Folly’s clothes are piled on the table, just within the curse’s circumference. Folly pads around, pauses to run his fingers over the carved lip of the tub. He’ll have to use the bath again before they leave the inn.
Just because it’s a really good bath. Not because it could easily fit two. Not because Folly’s mind is wandering towards inappropriate?—
Pain churns through his gut like a handful of thorns. With a thin, choked whine, Folly staggers backwards. Confusion and disbelief sting worse than the pain.
“Careful there,” Yarrow says, barely a hint of pain in his own voice. He turns at the window. “Do I need to put a leash on you? Honestly, I wouldn’t mind that.”
Even that idea can’t distract Folly now. Heart pounding, he looks across the room, between himself and Yarrow. “How far apart are we?”
Yarrow’s smirk fades. “Should be around twenty feet, if you triggered the curse.”
“I’m not the best at eyeballing distances,” Folly says reluctantly. As if speaking the words aloud will make them true. “But the boundary feels smaller than it used to be.”
The alarm on Yarrow’s face is not reassuring, even if he quickly covers it with a smile. “Well, fuck. You might be right.”
“We never measured it exactly,” Folly says quickly. “I might be wrong. Hopefully I’m wrong. Maybe we can get a string or ribbon from Pennyroyal, and we can mark off the distance. So we can track if it’s shrinking.”
“That’s a good idea,” Yarrow says, which is what Folly wants to hear. Then he adds, “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Folly hugs himself. Moments ago, he didn’t want Yarrow to let go of him. Now, the airy, spacious room feels stifling. Like the curse’s shadowy vines tangle around his bare legs. “No,” Folly corrects himself faintly. “I need a minute.”
He sits heavily on the foot of the bed and presses his palms against his eyes. The darkness is the only privacy he can hope for. Even there, he can’t escape the sigh across the room. The wooden creak as Yarrow opens a window, then the tickling breeze.
He needs the impossible, something Yarrow can’t give him: space, alone, a moment to breathe.
The Pyran River whispers beneath an ever-summer sky. The jeweltone waters are nothing like the shallow pools that splashed through Brightwood. Here, the Pyran winds through a deep, dark riverbed, and the opposite bank is farther than a stone’s throw away. Bright green forest presses close, reflecting in the water.
A golden wharf nestles against this side of the riverbank. Clusters of colorful stalls display flowery hats, feathered masks, bottles of ruby wine, and spinning metal devices Folly’s never seen before.
The sight might be festive if there were any shopkeepers or customers. Folly and Yarrow are the only living creatures on the wharf, and the quiet is eerie after three days in Milla’s Menagerie.
The only movements are the rustling trees, the rippling water, and the empty golden ferry, slowly drifting towards them.
Folly hugs himself on the edge of the wharf. He’s dressed for court, per Yarrow’s instructions. A nicer shirt, the leaf-patterned lace woven tightly enough that only glimpses of skin are visible. Folly’s still glad to wear the midnight robe over it. The riverside is cooler than the summer regions Folly’s traveled so far. He’d worried the weather might get warmer closer to the summer palace, but the air and shadows are refreshing.
The past three days have been tense.
Yarrow isn’t to blame. Folly probably isn’t to blame either, though that’s difficult to remember. They acquired a thin silk rope from Pennyroyal, marked with tiny knots every half foot. Every morning and night, they’ve measured the curse’s limits.
