There he goes again, talking as if he isn’t one of them. More and more, Folly can’t imagine a man like Yarrow living in a place like Elladar. He’s far too sincere. But that’s not the matter at hand. “We know how to find the shapestealer now.”
“We do, thanks to someone very clever.” Yarrow tugs him into a kiss—exhilarating for its shallow brevity. “Let’s get out of the palace, Lord Bargainer.”
Preening, Folly follows.
All the bubbly good feelings still linger when they disembark the royal ferry. The goldwood wharf and its empty stalls seem especially charming.
“No time like the present,” Folly says, pulling out the scrying glass.
Yarrow leans over Folly’s shoulder. “Do you know how to use it?”
Folly pauses. “I have no idea. I assume I just look at it?”
“That sounds sensible,” Yarrow says. He doesn’t sound concerned.
Praying he won’t get trapped inside the mirror, or summon a hungry monster, or just find an unexpected pimple right on the tip of his nose?—
Folly opens the golden case. The mirror catches sunlight, then dims as Folly peers closer.
Nothing happens. But Yarrow gets things from trees and rivers by talking to them. So that’s worth a try.
“Show me Moriath,” Folly says.
The mirror ripples, and an image takes shape.
The figure is tiny, but unnaturally clear. Moriath wears his fae shape, visible right down to his copper eyes. He walks with purpose along a forest path.
“He’s alone,” Folly says, watching intently. “He’s in a forest. The trees are all pale gray, with these weird, wispy leaves. There’s mist swirling everywhere. It’s kind of creepy. Um. Oh!”
The vision cuts off.
“Wow.” Folly peers close again, but all he sees is his own magnified eye. “All right, I hope you’re good at identifying forests, because there weren’t any good landmarks. Have you ever...”
Folly looks up, expecting to be praised. But Yarrow’s face is ashen.
“That’s Spiritwood,” Yarrow says. “Where my mother lives.”
Chapter 20
Yarrow
Guilt and panic tumble through Yarrow’s stomach. This is his fault, his carelessness putting Crocus at risk. Folly said Moriath asked about her, and Yarrow dismissed the danger. Crocus can take care of herself, yes. But that thought isn’t reassuring when the shapestealer prowls her territory.
When Yarrow is all the way south, on the summer queen’s goldwood wharf.
“Oh, gods.” Folly scrambles to his feet. “I’m sorry, Yarrow, this is all my fault.”
His pale, tense face snaps Yarrow out of his panic.
“Funny, I was thinking it’s all my fault.” Yarrow scratches the base of his horn, trying to think. “We should have gone straight there, before heading to court. Her cottage is three days away. Maybe two, if we detour to buy horses. Fuck.”
That’s still too long.
Crocus has wards. She’s high fae. She’s not helpless. But Yarrow doesn’t even know how many shapes and powers Moriath has collected. The witch form alone may be able to break a mushroom circle, at least during daylight when its warding power is weakest.
“There have to be other options.” Folly wrings his hands, but the panic in his voice is controlled. “This is the fae realm! Everything is fucking magic here! Is there a traveling inn? Does anyone at court have teleportation magic we could trade for?”
Right. Problems require solutions, not panic. “No traveling inn. Someone at court, maybe—but we’ll waste more time trying.”
