“That sounds like something we talk about later,” Folly says, hoping Crocus isn’t mad at him for changing the subject.
On the contrary. Crocus’s smile only widens. “Of course. Let’s talk about where you’re going to live. I can’t imagine Yarrow living in the human realm, plus he would visit me even less. You can’t very well live in Elladar. That pack of rabid bears would eat you alive. Which means the only logical solution is?—”
“Nice try,” Yarrow says, gesturing with a scone. His mood seems improved. “I’m not moving back in with you.”
Crocus sighs dramatically, still smiling. “It was worth a try. I suppose you’d better get on with your big quest for Haelwen. Which I disapprove of, to be clear. But first, I have something for you. Wait here.”
Teacup in hand, she waltzes into another room.
Yarrow pats Folly’s knee. “Sorry about this. She can be… overbearing.”
“Don’t apologize lightly,” Folly teases, leaning against Yarrow’s shoulder. The armor’s uncomfortable beneath his cheek. He doesn’t care. “Besides, I think I like this.”
Relaxing, Yarrow pats Folly again. “That’s good.”
Folly’s not so sure. This might be easier if Crocus were terrifying. If Folly couldn’t so easily see himself slipping into this family. He and Yarrow could share a few nights, work it out of their system, then part ways. Folly could return to his world and his life with nothing but memories, and all the space he needs.
One night together shouldn’t affect Folly so deeply. But it’s more than last night’s incredible connection, which still aches inside him. Folly can’t remember anyone else caring for him like this. Neither ignoring nor hating nor abusing his difference.
He can’t remember wanting to care for someone in turn, either. Folly can’t do much compared to Yarrow. But he figured out how to reach Spiritwood faster. That felt good.
Crocus returns brandishing a scroll of paper. “Someone left this for you, darling son. I haven’t read it.”
She sets it beside Yarrow’s teacup, then heads to one of the pantries. A length of twine holds the scroll closed, and the yellowed paper looks ominous. Crisp ink flows in letters Folly can’t read, but must spell Yarrow’s name.
“Who gave this to you?” Yarrow asks, without touching the scroll.
“I have no idea.” Crocus lifts a jar of blue liquid to the light, then replaces it on the shelf. “Someone left it on my gatepost early this morning.”
Folly looks at Yarrow, whose eyes reflect Folly’s suspicion.
“Let me guess,” Yarrow says. “You waited to give me this after tea on purpose.”
Crocus shrugs, unrepentant. “What’s a mother supposed to do? You never visit.”
Yarrow sighs. “Folly, is this magic?”
There’s no obvious shimmer, but Folly peers closer, right eye closed, just in case. “There’s no magic.”
“Thanks.” Yarrow slips the paper from the twine. His brow creases as he reads. “Right, this has to be Moriath. ‘I will wait in Cerulean Glade for the next week. Bring me the fae-touched human, and I’ll lift the binding. Elsewise, I’ll collect him myself, and break the binding with your blood.’ Rather dramatic fellow.”
Fear lances through Folly, as much from Yarrow’s serious tone as the threat. This is a creature who’s bested them twice. “This has to be a trap.”
“We’re already trapped.” Yarrow tucks the letter away and stands up. “But we have an advantage. Cerulean Glade is two days away. If we go Elsewhere now, even with a thirteen-hour delay, we can beat Moriath to the glade.”
Crocus returns to the table with an armful of alarming jars. “Lovely spot to meet someone,” she says, setting the jars down.“I used to have picnics in Cerulean Glade all the time. I know, you don’t want to hear it. What supplies do you need?”
“I love you, Mother,” Yarrow says, getting up to inspect the jars.
Crocus flicks his horn. “As you should.”
Folly remains seated, stirring his cooling tea, as Yarrow and Crocus discuss which spores and powders might be useful against a shapestealer. Yarrow remains safely within range of the curse, but each step of distance tugs at Folly’s heart.
This isn’t like petitioning the queen. There’s no chance of refusal. Either Folly and Yarrow will kill Moriath, or Moriath will kill one of them. Or Moriath will lift the curse as promised, but some of his shapes can pen falsehoods. Folly would lay a hundred gilden against that promise being true.
The curse will be broken, and Folly’s heart wavers at the crossroads, afraid of success as well as failure.
Fuck them and leave them, Crocus said.
