“Hello, dear travelers. My name is Pennyroyal, and I’m happy to arrange things for you. A room with a bath could be available.” Pennyroyal blinks, vertical pupils narrowing. He lifts a gaudy purple quill over the open book. “What are you trading—coin, goods, or… services?”
His gaze lingers on Yarrow, who grins. “Heard of me, have you? Did I seduce your sister or a cousin?”
“Both, though not at the same time.” Pennyroyal taps the quill to his lips. “The threesome was with my sister and her lifemark.”
Right. That was a good time. The memories are warm, as is the certainty that Pennyroyal would gladly make new memories with Yarrow tonight. Yarrow could use some stress relief, and he wouldn’t mind tugging on that fluffy tail.
But Folly’s practically vibrating with nervous tension at his side. Yarrow’s hardly about to let Folly out of his sight. As for keeping Follyinhis sight while he fucks Pennyroyal…
No, too awkward and risky. Pennyroyal’s eyes slide over Folly with far too much interest. What if this is all a ploy to kidnap Yarrow’s human? The curse would complicate any abduction attempts, but Yarrow would rather not fight in the inn.
“Maybe another time,” Yarrow says. “I’ll pay in coin, and don’t try to cheat me. I know your rates.”
“Me? Cheat?” Pennyroyal gasps—which isn’t a denial. “All right, names?”
“He’s Folly, and I’m Yarrow.”
Pennyroyal’s pen dances across the page. “One human, and one… what are you, again?”
Discomfort dampens the pleasure of flattery. “Fae and satyr,” Yarrow answers smoothly, as though the question doesn’t rankle. It makes sense. Having so many strangers under one roof, the innkeepers need to know the abilities of their guests.
The question just always reminds Yarrow that he’s different. Not quite one thing, not quite the other.
“Hm, we had a satyr around last week, I think.” Pennyroyal procures a key with a dangling copper charm. “How many nights?”
“Which direction are you traveling?” Yarrow asks.
“Three nights north, and we’ll turn east at the palace,” the fox fae answers.
Yarrow fishes the correct change from his purse. “Three nights then.”
After the usual transaction details—clarifying that nights include days, and explicit permission to eat any food they purchase—Yarrow heads for the stairs.
Folly sticks close in the growing crowd. Clears his throat a good twenty seconds before saying softly, “Sorry if I, um. Got in your way, there.”
“Another day of abstinence won’t kill me,” Yarrow says cheerfully. “Rain is always sweeter after a drought. Hey!”
The nosy fae veers away from Yarrow’s glare, and Yarrow grabs Folly by the wrist. In a crowd like this, keeping Folly as a pet would be easier. At least then Yarrow could put a leash on him.
“What did you mean, about which direction the innkeeper was traveling?” Folly asks. His wrist is warm in Yarrow’s palm, his pulse rapid despite the relative composure in his voice.
“Not the innkeeper,” Yarrow says. “I said this is a traveling inn, didn’t I?”
Folly’s step falters. “Wait, you don’t mean—I thought that was just a weird way of putting it!”
“It’s very self-explanatory.” Yarrow gestures with his free hand. There’s nobody else around the stairwell, so he gets a good sweep of his arm in. “This is a traveling inn. It travels.”
“Of course,” Folly says faintly. “Silly me.” His hair brushing Yarrow’s shoulder, he swivels around as if enraptured by the ordinary stairs and walls.
Without a crowd, Yarrow doesn’t need to hold Folly’s wrist, and it’s awkward on the stairs. So he lets go, missing the convenience of a leash.
Yarrow never gave much thought to the magic of traveling inns, or how wondrous they must be to someone whose inns all remain rooted in place. Almost as wondrous as the look in Folly’s eyes, when he’s so delighted he forgets to be afraid.
“They move after midnight,” Yarrow says, wanting to feed Folly’s sense of wonder. “You’ll see villagers jumping off the porches when it starts to move, if they lose track of time. Some inns have legs, so they can walk anywhere the navigator directs them. But some inns hover, following the leylines. They’re stuck on certain routes, but the journey’s smoother.”
Folly touches the railing. “Which kind is this one?”
“The latter. You’d have seen the legs outside, if there were any.”
