Folly’s mouth drops open. “I wouldn’t!” But humans can lie, and his gaze goes shifty. “I mean, I don’t even know what your mother looks like.”
“She resembles me.” Yarrow smirks. “Without the horns and incredible shoulders.”
“Do you see them often?” Folly asks, wistful.
Yarrow’s smirk fades. “I’ve never met my father. Satyrs aren’t much for family life.” The absence has never weighed on Yarrow. Crocus was present enough for three parents. Perhaps a father might have kept her occupied, allowing Yarrow more freedom to get into trouble. Though she wasn’t without suitors either. “I see Crocus plenty. She’s an herbalist, so I get all my magic spores with a family discount.”
Yarrow taps the bag at his hip, though Folly likely can’t see the gesture in the dark. The bag is nearly flat, which reminds Yarrow that he hasn’t visited Crocus in months. Not since he decided to petition Queen Haelwen. He hopes to delay that conversation until the deed is done.
Crocus was banished from the summer court after she became pregnant with Yarrow. She’s never admitted it, but she’s dodged the question enough. It’s Yarrow’s fault she had to leave Elladar.
Folly’s innocent fascination is much more pleasant. “I never thought of fae having jobs before. What do you do?”
“Ouch.” Yarrow clutches his heart in mock pain. “I’m only seventy-seven. I don’t need a job yet.”
“Seventy-seven?” Folly exclaims, then covers his mouth. Adorable. “You don’t look a day over thirty.”
The reaction is charming. Nobody’s ever been surprised by Yarrow’s age. Of course he’s under a hundred, with his wandering and philandering. He earns coin through odd jobs when he needs it, hunting a dangerous monster here, hunting a different dangerous monster there.
“Our seventy-seven is different from yours, though you’re welcome to venerate me as an elder.” Yarrow grins. “I work here and there, wherever the wind takes me. What about you? Are twenty-four-year-old humans old enough to work?”
The question is supposed to be easy, but Folly flinches. His curiosity dims, his shoulders hunching and defensive. “I’m a fortuneteller.”
“Can you see the future?” Yarrow asks.
“I’m afakefortuneteller,” Folly clarifies. “A charlatan. It’s just a performance. The golden eye helps make me look mysterious.”
“So, you lie to people,” Yarrow says, impressed.
The compliment doesn’t help. Folly shrugs in on himself. “It’s a living. I work for a traveling fair. Well, I used to, at least. Roland’s probably left town already.”
Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Yarrow that the human would have friends. Family. Companions. That Yarrow had wrenched him from an entire life and career.
In Yarrow’s defense, the past two days have been rather chaotic.
“Who’s Roland?” Yarrow asks, then stops himself. “You don’t have to answer. You’ve already paid your dues in information.”
Folly inhales. Holds his breath a moment. Then lies back as he releases his breath. Spread out on the ground, like he’s surrendering to the stars. “Roland owns the traveling fair. He gave me a job even though I’m a freak, because I slept with him the night he hired me.”
The wordfreakrolls so naturally off his tongue. No bitterness, just alarming acceptance. Folly’s sadness and frustration weave together like a curse, heavy in the night air. Yarrow can’t imagine meeting this little human without wanting to take care of him.
But clearly far too many people have neglected him, or worse. “Is that why you thought I wanted to fuck you?”
There’s a long silence. Yarrow can’t see Folly’s face from this angle.
“I guess,” Folly says eventually.
Perhaps Yarrow will get the chance to kill Roland someday. It will have to be an accident, since Haelwen has rules about murdering mortals and meddling between realms.
Yarrow sighs and shifts around until he can lie next to Folly. Just a few feet away. Soft grass tickles the back of his neck through his hair. He focuses on the stars winking through dark branches, instead of afflicting Folly with eye contact.
“I do want to fuck you,” Yarrow says matter-of-factly. “I’ve never played with a human before, and you’re fascinating. But the only thing I ever trade for sex is sex. I might trade a kiss as a favor, because that’s all in good fun. But nothing more.”
There’s an even longer silence before Folly says, “You’re very forthright.”
“One of my innumerable charms.”
Then they simply lie there, safe in the magic circle, as the night moves around them. Yarrow’s mind clears with the subtle dance of clouds overhead. He’s spent many a night in the woods, but he’s usually alone.
