Yarrow waves his left hand. “This ring is a carryhold. It lets you store things in another space. Like a haven, but just for things. Fresh food doesn’t keep, though, and I’m low on water. Are you ready to go?
Any other day, Folly would be astounded by this magical item. But Yarrow’s words bring Folly’s awareness back to his own body. The night’s rest only deepens his aches and pains, the growing hunger. And other biological needs.
Folly hates to mention it, but the situation will only grow more uncomfortable and awkward if he waits. “I need to relieve myself.”
“All right,” Yarrow says, twisting the wilted summerstar between his fingers.
Folly waits, but Yarrow doesn’t move, until Folly forces himself to ask, “Could you, um, not look?”
“Is modesty a human cultural practice, or is that a personal preference?” Yarrow turns without waiting for an answer. “Don’t stray too far.”
Chewing his lip, Folly regards the golden glade with trepidation. He doesn’t want to stray into the fae woods, even without the curse binding him to Yarrow.
How far is twenty feet, anyway? Folly takes each step expecting agony at the other end. Leaves and earth compress quietly beneath his feet. He must be nearly at the end of his invisible tether when he stops, but he can’t feel anything.
Or maybe he’s already gone twenty-five feet, and he’s just terrible at distances. What if the curse isn’t real? What if it’s worn off?
The idea is strangely frightening. Yarrow hasn’t killed Folly—so far—but if they aren’t bound together, will Yarrow simply abandon him in the fae realm?
“A few more feet should do it,” Yarrow says.
Folly whirls to find Yarrow still near the tree, but glancing over his shoulder.
“I said not to look!” Folly protests.
Yarrow just waves and turns away. “Just move until you feel the first twinge. There’s a bit of discomfort before it really hurts.”
Sure enough. Two more steps, and pain twists through Folly’s stomach. Different, deeper than hunger. He rocks back, gasping, and turns.
Yarrow’s still looking away, without any sign that the pain affects him the same way. Maybe Folly imagines the tension in his broad shoulders.
Maybe he doesn’t.
Folly sighs and faces the empty woods before him. Unlaces his trousers. Then pauses again.
Gods. This shouldn’t be a problem. He works in a traveling carnival, for fuck’s sake. Everyone pisses on the roadside.
Never mind that Folly’s anxious at the best of times, and tries to find as much privacy as he can on the road too. And this isn’t a road between villages. This is Brightwood. Part of the fae realm.
“Are you taking a shit?” Yarrow asks from twenty feet away.
Folly hates everything, from himself to the gilded trees. “Will the plants... get angry about this?”
Instead of laughing like Folly expects, Yarrow says seriously, “That’s a great question. No, these ones won’t.”
The specification is not reassuring.
“Awesome,” Folly mutters, and musters his nerve.
Chapter 8
Yarrow
“Slow down.” Yarrow pulls a sliver of fish from his own makeshift skewer. “You’re going to choke yourself.”
Folly flinches as if he’d forgotten Yarrow was there. Moisture glistens at the corner of his lip, and he swallows his mouthful. “Sorry. Um. Thank you. I meant to thank you for breakfast.”
“No need to thank me.” Yarrow licks his fingers. “Just tell my mother what a great cook I am, if you ever meet her.”
