“Maybe.” Folly twines his fingers between Yarrow’s. “I’m really nervous, but I sort of want to see.”
A grin warms Yarrow’s face. “Then let’s try it for a minute, and you can see if you like it.” Yarrow’s grin turns wicked. “Besides, Hummingbird gave you exactly the outfit to wear.”
Nervous excitement thuds behind Folly’s ribs. Hopefully the outfit involves trousers.
Folly hovers on the edge of the Court of Hours—no, that’s the wrong word, when there’s a man literally hovering across the crowd. Follystands nervouslybetween the quiet hall and the subtly milling courtyard, wondering if he’s under-dressed or over-dressed.
This banquet isn’t like the rowdy gathering outside Milla’s Menagerie. At least a hundred fae talk and laugh and dance and pluck golden grapes from creeping vines. Disparate voices blend subtly with the harp and flute playing from the stage. A massive clock looms from the northern wall, like a captured moon with its white wood face. The gleaming golden hands rest motionless, trapped at a quarter till twelve.
Food and drink are served from stalls, marked by flagpoles and silk streamers at each corner, but no awning overhead. Stars wink above, while below, sourceless light illuminates ripplingfountains and golden armbands and gowns of trailing silk roses that nobody trips over.
The gathering is a dance, and everyone except Folly subconsciously knows the steps. Everyone except Folly has long, pointed ears and inhumanly bright eyes. A hundred exquisite faces, not all of them the work of glamour.
A man leans against a nearby bar, clad only in a shimmering silk loincloth that brushes his knees. Folly probably isn’t under-dressed.
He probably isn’t over-dressed either. His scarlet silk tunic may flow to mid-thigh, the sleeves fluttering past his wrists, but the neckline swoops far below his collarbone.
And Folly hadn’t known silk could be so sheer.
“Is the clock almost to noon, or almost to midnight?” Folly asks instead of begging to leave. He wants to stay, even though he’s nervous.
Besides. Yarrow’s presence is distracting. When Folly had asked what Yarrow intended to wear to the party, Yarrow had simply winked—then stripped off his shirt.
“Midnight, of course. It’s more dramatic. Fae love their poetry and drama.” Yarrow braces his hands on his hips, the movement rippling through his brawny form. His sun-tanned skin gleams in the sourceless light, from the angle of his jaw to the cut of his hip disappearing beneath his leather trousers. “Come on, little human, let’s drink.”
It should be safe. They aren’t under a roof, so they won’t violate hospitality rules by accident. And Yarrow said Moriath can’t infiltrate Elladar. But a hundred fae dance in the Court of Hours, and Folly only trusts one of them.
Yarrow takes him by the wrist, rubbing casual circles though the silk. “Don’t worry. I’ll taste every glass for you.”
“You don’t have to,” Folly says, embarrassed. But he doesn’t mind being nervous, if Yarrow comforts him with teasing touches against his pulse.
“I want to.” Yarrow winks, and lifts Folly’s hand. Makes deliberate, searing eye contact before feathering a kiss against Folly’s knuckles. His voice lowers. “There. Now everyone watching knows not to touch you.”
Flushing, Folly ducks his head.
Yarrow kisses his hand again, then muses. “Dancing might be a problem. Some of the steps involve switching partners, or separating by a dangerous amount of distance…”
“We’re not dancing!” Folly hisses.
“Excellent solution.” Yarrow tugs him towards the nearest bar. “This way, to the best mead in all of Summer.”
The bartender is the first elderly fae Folly has seen. Deep wrinkles drape from her high cheekbones, and her lips press together like a drawstring purse. But her eyes are bright, her movements quick, and her hair—though so white it appears translucent—falls thick and sleek to her waist.
She looks up, expression neutral. “Back so soon, wild fae?”
“Soon?” Yarrow leans against the white wood bar. “Dear Lady Sevastia, It’s been an entire week since my charming presence last graced the Court of Hours. A pint of mead for my friend and me.”
Sevastia’s neutral expression doesn’t change. “Just the one?”
“For now.” Yarrow pulls Folly closer. “We’re going to share.”
Sevastia raises her eyebrows. “Most unhygienic,” she mutters, but slides a wooden tankard across the bar regardless.
Yarrow takes the first sip, as promised. His eyelids lower and his head tips back slightly, and the stretch of his neck invites tender touch. Gold clings to his lip, and heat fills Folly’s lungs. His own desire feels naked. Overpowering.
“Your turn,” Yarrow says, handing over the tankard. He leans languidly against the bar, his gaze intent.
Folly swallows on nothing. Then he holds Yarrow’s gaze and lifts the heavy tankard to his lips.
