Folly’s gasp echoes in the nothingness. “What the fuck.”
Yarrow tugs him onward. “Keep moving.”
“How?” Folly demands, but when Yarrow moves, he moves too.
Most fae never cross Elsewhere. Those that do speak of its dangers, its ever-changing form. Some find twisting labyrinths in the clouds. Some find a gauntlet of shadowy monsters. Some simply step from one realm to the next, missing the realm between in the blink of an eye.
Neither here nor there. Neither something nor nothing.
With each step, the ground stretches to catch their feet. Trust is the only thing pushing Yarrow forward. Trust that Elsewhere will keep its promise. Trust in his own intuition. The trust that Folly’s placed in him, burning in the vise-grip of their hands.
Gold flares, and they cross a door they cannot see. A forest snaps into place around them.
The transition is jarring in daylight—from nothingness to pale gray trees and wavering sunlight and wispy silver flowersswaying along the roadside. From silence to rustling leaves and mournful bird calls.
From nowhere, right to Crocus’s cottage.
Yarrow and Folly stand in the middle of a narrow dirt road, with Spiritwood behind them and Crocus’s white picket fence before them. Protective mushrooms line the fence, growing from the top board and along the base. White, yellow, red, green, some tall and some tiny. Many of them are new varieties cultivated specially by Crocus.
The cottage itself has a squat, mushroom-like shape, though perhaps that’s just expectations coloring the view. By all appearances, it’s an ordinary cottage. Red paint chipped and faded with wear, and a jaunty yellow straw roof.
There’s no sign of Moriath or any sort of struggle.
Folly still clings shakily. “Is this it?”
Yarrow leans down to kiss the top of his head, without really thinking about it. “Your brilliant idea worked. Thank you.”
The compliment flusters Folly but doesn’t distract him. “Which means we’re near the shapestealer.”
“Right.” Yarrow reluctantly releases Folly’s hand. If only Folly could scry again, but Yarrow’s not about to push his little human into exhaustion. He lowers his voice and gestures. “We should circle around to check the perimeter. Her wards look intact here, but the shapestealer could have entered through the back.”
Folly nods, his expression serious.
But before they can move, the cottage door swings open. The sudden movement sends Yarrow’s axe into his hand, and he braces for attack.
Crocus stands in the doorway, wearing a stained apron and heavy gloves over her pink gingham dress. Her long white hair piles in a messy bun, threatening to topple as she tilts her head.
“Are you coming in or what?” Crocus demands, stripping off the gloves. “If you stand out there for too long, you’ll grow mushrooms for toes.”
Relief crashes into Yarrow, followed swiftly by primal dread. His mother is fine—and Yarrow is inadvertently visiting.
With a curse-bound human and a petition to the summer queen in tow.
“I can come back another time if you’re in the middle of something,” Yarrow says hopefully. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
Crocus waves a glove. “Don’t be absurd, the bitecaps can wait, and I always have time for my favorite son.” Her grin turns sly. “Come in and introduce me to your new friend.”
She disappears inside as the gate creaks open on its own.
“Do you think she’s the shapestealer?” Folly whispers.
“Nobody else says the thing about mushrooms for toes,” Yarrow whispers back. “If he can imitate her that well, I’ll just give up and call him Mother.”
Folly chews his lip. “She isn’t under attack.”
Yarrow tries to muster his earlier filial concern. “No.”
“Fae can’t lie, so was she serious about us growing mushrooms for toes?” Folly asks.
