“Let’s talk about this later.” Folly looks down, shy, but doesn’t pull away. He touches Yarrow’s wrist, slim fingers a welcome binding. His next words are even quieter. “I’m not done kissing you, either.”
Now Yarrow’s face heats, as the words thunder through his every nerve. He would happily kiss Folly breathless in front of the guards. More than happily go further, showing off his claim over the beautiful young man. But quiet confessions should be for Yarrow’s ears alone.
“Later,” Yarrow agrees.
An irrepressible grin lights his face until the door to the throne room shimmers again. Nevander returns—and a seed of worry takes root in Yarrow’s heart. Yarrow had thought Nevander cold before. Now he knows the hint of warmth by its absence.
“Your journey was in vain,” Nevander says. “Her Majesty will not hear your petition today.”
The bad news doesn’t sound real. “I would rather skip the song and dance, Lord Nevander.” Yarrow smiles, his friendly drawl compensating for his annoyance. “If she means tonight, or first thing tomorrow morning, tell me now.”
Nevander lifts a golden brow. “You are ill suited to Elladar if you can’t enjoy the song and dance. However, Her Majesty wasquite straightforward. She’s already given you the route to break the curse. Do not return until Moriath is dead.”
Folly touches Yarrow’s hand, which is when Yarrow realizes he’s clenching his fists. Under Folly’s soft touch, he loosens his grip.
“I’ll be able to fulfill the queen’s will better without a human bound to my side,” Yarrow says—because that’s the only thing that might persuade Haelwen. She won’t care that the quest will put Folly in danger. She won’t care that the shrinking curse scares Folly.
But even this isn’t enough, he knows as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Haelwen set him a task. She’s interested in his failure as much as his success.
Nevander remains impassive. “You will have to rise to the challenge, then.” He pauses. In another man, Yarrow would call it hesitation. “Stay the night, and find me in the armory tomorrow. I have some tools that may help.”
Yarrow’s fists clench again. It’s Folly who says, “Thank you, Lord Nevander. Your aid is appreciated on our grand quest.”
Nevander nods to him. “Keep him close,” he tells Yarrow, before returning through the veil.
Leaving Yarrow stunned.
Chapter 17
Folly
New worry echoes in Folly’s heart, outpacing his footsteps in the marble hall. It’s a strange sort of worry, one that doesn’t make Folly want to hide. Because the worry is for Yarrow, not himself.
Two intimidating fae guards escort Folly and Yarrow to guest quarters. Folly would love a chance to study their armor, made of green, metallic leaves. They move with inhuman grace, and magic shimmers along their swords.
Yarrow doesn’t have his axe now, which suddenly strikes Folly as dangerous. Perhaps ‘guest chamber’ is Elladar code for execution, and these guards are leading Folly and Yarrow to their deaths. Or to a prison cell. Or they’ll be tossed into a ravine. Yarrow will be fine, but Folly will fall and break his leg. Unless Yarrow has been hiding healing magic, Folly’s injury will develop an infection and?—
Probably they’re just going into a guest room.
Folly’s used to his own catastrophizing, but he hasn’t seen Yarrow look so off balance before. Apparently, Yarrow truly thought the summer queen would help them. He doesn’t properly ruminate on worst-case scenarios.
They stop in front of a painted green door, the archway pointed at the top.
“This room is yours for the night,” a guard says, her voice cool as flowing water. “You may travel between this hall and the Court of Hours until your appointment at the armory.”
“Thank you for the escort.” Yarrow’s wink looks half-hearted to Folly. “Your diligence is admirable.”
With an elaborate bow, Yarrow waves Folly through the door.
The guest room islavish.
There’s even a balcony, visible through a set of glass doors. Flowers bloom along the railing. Carved vines circle the four posts of the single bed. The wardrobes match the table and chairs, speaking to intentional design rather than using whatever castoffs were available.
Such wealth and magic in a simple guest room is more impressive than the marble antechamber. Folly expects royalty to decorate their own quarters. Not the rooms they designate for people like him.
Yet Folly can only be astounded so many times in one day before the opulence fails to shock him. He’s seen too many fancy rooms today—and he has other concerns right now. Like the wild fae pacing at the edge of their bond.
