Chapter 1
Folly
Folly’s nerves build as he unfastens his eyepatch. He blinks, adjusting to his full range of depth and peripheral vision. A glance behind him reveals an ordinary, grubby alley. Nothing strange lurks in the shadows.
Roland grunts next to him. “Don’t know why you bother. You look weird with the patch, too.”
Ducking his head, Folly tucks the patch away. His handful of iron nails jingles in the same coat pocket. His threadbare brown coat, not his bright performance robe. Folly hates drawing attention to himself, not that Roland would understand. The eyepatch draws only fleeting glances. It’s strange, but in a way people are used to.
People aren’t used to Folly’s left eye.
Roland shifts his weight. He’s an average man in most ways—average height and weight, which makes him several inches taller than Folly. Not obviously rich or poor. A middling brown beard. He likes a drink but doesn’t overindulge. Remarkable only in his temperament.
Though perhaps the charm he uses on clients balances out the harshness he reserves for his employees.
“Make sure you get a good look at things,” Roland continues. He doesn’t need Folly’s input. “So you can give me a good description. Last shop had two silver rose bracelets, and I had to buy both of them. We can’t make a profit if we’re buying all this extra trash.”
Maybe if Roland didn’t make Folly so nervous every time, Folly would do a better job. But Roland definitely doesn’t want that input, and Folly feels too small and foolish to speak up.
Wrong move. “Are you listening to me?” Roland snaps.
“I’m sorry,” Folly says quickly. “I understand. I’ll give you a better description.”
“Good man. We’re going to be rich, you and me.” Roland’s friendly slap stings Folly’s shoulder. “Get going and stop your fucking worrying.”
Folly rocks with impact and takes off down the street. Roland always says it like that—they’re going to be rich, both of them. But Roland owns the whole troupe of charlatans, and Folly’s just the fortuneteller. All Folly’s money goes towards his employment contract. He owes Roland for food, his wagon, the clothes on his back, the tent he performs in. An ever-shifting debt, and the math never quite adds up.
Maybe it would add up faster if Folly gave Roland what he really wants.
Half a block from the variety shop, Folly pauses to gather his nerves. Crumbly gray brick supports his shoulder in a hopefully casual lean, while tattered gold fringe waves tauntingly from the variety shop awning. It wouldn’t do to linger right outside—the shopkeeper might think he was up to no good. Or worse, she’d realize how nervous Folly is.
The eyepatch would make this easier. People get funny about the eyepatch, sure. It’s still better than showing his left eye, all freakishly gold next to his normal brown right eye. But Follycan’t wear the eyepatch if he wants to find anything worthwhile today.
The town of Forwick is big enough to have a variety shop, which means mid-morning is a busy hour. If anyone looks askance at the lurking stranger, Folly can’t tell. All he can see are his scuffed leather boots.
One more year of this. Maybe half a year, if he’s lucky. If Roland loses interest. But it’ll be forever if Folly can’t muster his nerve to walk into the variety shop.
“People walk into shops every day,” Folly mutters to his boots. “This isn’t hard.”
His boots don’t reply. They never do, gods be thanked. Folly takes a deep breath and looks around. Quick, sweeping glances. Never linger on the shadows, in case the shadows look back.
All clear. Folly darts across the street, dodging collisions and eye contact. The trouble with cities is the people, but there are perks. Dark iron gates and window latches keep the glittering shadows away.
Above the awning, a sign proclaims Forwick Variety of Fine Things and Curiosities. The fringe dangles low enough that even Folly has to duck through.
Dust shrouds the shop’s crowded interior. It drapes in artful layers over lanterns and shelves. Rubbing above his lip, Folly holds back a sneeze. He can practically feel the grit building up in his messy dark hair.
The grime will be worth it. Even the pale dust can’t hide the faint stars of magic scattered throughout the shop.
The counter is the one gleaming island in the sea of dust. “How can I help you today?” the shopkeeper asks in practiced cheerfulness—then falters when she meets Folly’s gaze.
Folly’s heart seizes unreasonably. Seventeen years since the incident, he should be used to this reaction. “I’m just browsing.”
Leaning on one ruddy elbow, the shopkeeper fishes a piece of candy from an open sack. “Sure, just browsing with that magic eye of yours.” She tosses the candy into her mouth, then grins around the crunch. “Are you with that troupe of charlatans?”
This is why they run the scheme in two shifts. Real bargaining doesn’t work with Folly’s golden eye—it makes people suspicious. Folly is just the scout. Roland will follow tomorrow to buy the treasures.
“I’m with the magicians’ troupe,” Folly says, because they aren’t supposed to admit they’re charlatans. Folly fits in well with the other performers. His eye might be magic, but it doesn’t do what he says it does. “Do you have anything special today? Anything bewitched?”
