Folly’s fingertips flex against the path. He sits carefully back, touching the dirt ground into his palms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see the root.”
Yarrow approaches, a looming figure in the darkness. “How did you not…” Yarrow hisses through his teeth. “Fuck. You can’t see in the dark.”
“And you can?” Folly demands.
“Of course.” Yarrow crouches in front of him. He’s barely more than a shadow in the darkness, except for his long hair, so white it gleams with the faintest light. “I forgot humans can’t.” Gentle fingertips graze Folly’s cheekbone. “And you’re exhausted.”
Folly barely breathes beneath the touch. Terror. Tenderness. Both. “I’m sorry.”
“The fault is mine,” Yarrow says easily. “I’ve never had a pet human before.”
Stunned out of his misery, Folly jerks away. “I’m not a pet!”
Yarrow laughs. The sound is musical, piercing, heard from heart and ears alike. “I suppose we’re both wearing the leash.” Yarrow stands, then bends down. Without asking, he grasps Folly by the forearms and helps him upright.
Folly can’t help a pathetic little whimper as his knee straightens out. Not broken, he’s sure when he puts weight on it. His trousers haven’t even torn. He’ll just have a hideous bruise by morning.
“Can you walk?” Yarrow asks.
Folly shouldn’t bristle at the question. It’s not an insult. But his heart feels even more bruised than his knee. “I’m fine.”
If Yarrow hears the tension, he doesn’t show it. “We’ll camp nearby,” he says, and lets go of Folly’s arms.
Folly hobbles after him, the pain easing with movement. He misses his rented wagon. He misses cities. He misses the jarring potholes. Even Roland, in a twisted way. Roland may be awful, but at least he thinks of Folly as a person.
Not just a pet human.
Yarrow pauses on the side of the road. Moonlight reflects from a flowering vine to catch in his hair. His hand curves beneath a delicate blossom as large as his palm.
“May I have a flower?” Yarrow asks, as if talking to vines is normal. After a moment of stillness, the blossom loosens from the vine and falls into Yarrow’s hand. Its light brightens between his fingers, and he offers it to Folly. “Since you can’t see in the dark.”
Folly carefully takes the flower. Its myriad narrow petals are cool, slightly damp. Reflection shines brighter around the edges, even though Folly’s shadow should block the moonlight.
“Thank you,” Folly manages quietly.
“Stay right behind me,” Yarrow warns, and heads into the forest.
The soft glow illuminates the forest floor as Folly trudges after him. Trees rise hundreds of feet, crowding out the stars but leaving plenty of space between their massive trunks. The forest debris is soft. Folly’s clumsy human feet make so much more noise, while Yarrow moves like a leaf on the breeze. He belongs here in the dark of the woods.
Folly doesn’t.
The flower’s fragrance is cloyingly sweet. Folly wishes he could drop it, but he needs the light, and it was a kind gesture. Or a practical one. Yarrow must not want Folly to slow himdown. Either way, Folly should be grateful. Not resentful for the reminder that he’s powerless, completely dependent on this fae.
He should be grateful, as long as the kindness lasts. Sooner or later, Yarrow will tire of granting favors, and require compensation.
Yarrow stops. Not suddenly, but Folly’s reflexes are so exhausted that he nearly stumbles into him anyway. Before them stands the biggest tree Folly has ever seen. Wider around than his traveling wagon, and its leaves are too thick to see the top. The bark is smooth and dark without moonlight, paler gray where Folly’s flower reflects against the roots.
“This will do.” Yarrow steps between the hulking roots and lays his hand flat on the trunk. “Would you mind letting us in for the night?” He pauses. Leaves rustle. “You also have to let us out in the morning.”
Leaves rustle again. Yarrow steps back and reaches out. Something thuds against his palm, and he closes his fist. “Thanks.”
The tree yawns open.
Folly startles back, nearly dropping his flower. The soft light wavers over the tree’s gaping maw and the vast hollow inside.
There’s no glimmer of magic as the tree moves. Which means it’s not fae magic, but something Folly can’t see. Perhaps something inherent to the living tree itself. The thought heightens Folly’s nerves as Yarrow steps into the hollow.
“Is it safe?” Folly asks nervously. He moves closer, because he has to stay next to Yarrow, but remains outside the threshold.
