They both gasp, and the green-eyed child asks, “Really?”
“No.” Folly winks his golden eye. “All humans can lie—like I did just now. I can’t even see the future like I said. Unless that’s a lie, too.”
They gasp again. “Doesn’t it hurt?” the orange-eyed child asks.
“Are you evil?” the other chimes in, as if being evil is the coolest thing they can imagine.
“I’m probably not evil.” Bolstered by the admiration, Folly settles in. “But I could tell you a story about someone who might be.”
A few more fae gather around as he begins. Most of them are young, but one fox fae woman wipes her hands on her apron as she listens.
His tale about the Great Folarius, the most powerful fortuneteller in the land, isn’t true, of course. He never fought monsters, and he never told fortunes for kings. But as the evening deepens and his story grows wilder, Folly’s nervousness subsides. If he could perform like this all the time, flashy robe billowing with each gesture, Folly wouldn’t be so afraid of everything.
As he talks, Yarrow drags up another chair to sit beside him. The wild fae’s gaze is just as attentive. Just as impressed. Somehow, that thrills Folly even more.
“Does the Great Folarius have any amazing companions?” Yarrow asks, teasing, during a lull in the story.
“I don’t know.” Folly strokes his chin thoughtfully. “He has a companion, at least.”
Yarrow’s grin widens in delight. But before he can answer, a fae man bustles up to usher the children away.
“I’ll order us another round,” Yarrow murmurs in Folly’s ear, leaving him to bid his young audience goodbye.
Goodbyes take a while. Folly isn’t used to being the most interesting attraction at the carnival. When the children aregone, Yarrow is about fifteen feet away, quietly talking with Pennyroyal from the front desk.
Nervousness tugs at Folly again. Maybe he’s emboldened enough to interrupt. But would Yarrow welcome that?
“Your man paid for this already,” says a light, feminine voice at Folly’s shoulder. The fox fae from his audience sets a tall mug on the table. “He’s still talking with Pennyroyal. Call me Oleander, by the way.”
Folly forces a smile, covering his surprise. The phraseyour manis… flustering. “Thanks.” He reaches for the mug—then pauses. A hint of magic glitters on the golden surface. “Um, what is this?”
“It’s clever to be cautious.” Oleander laughs, her short reddish hair tossing. “This is ale, but there’s a bit of magic.” She lowers her voice in a theatrical whisper. “The magic makes it taste good.”
Folly still hesitates. His throat is dry from all the talking, but what if this fae is trying to trick him into a life of indentured servitude? That would be—all right, not much worse than his life in the human realm. But very inconvenient with Yarrow tied to him still. And the fae could be a worse master than Roland…
Oleander sighs dramatically and picks up the mug. “Look,” she says, and takes a sip. Her next sigh is happy. “Mmm, that’s good. See? No effect on me.”
Folly takes the mug, still hesitant. Even though the ale smells very good. There’s a tempting hint of sweet apple. And Folly’s very thirsty.
From their small distance, Yarrow turns and meets his eyes. Waves, then returns to his conversation with Pennyroyal.
Reassured, Folly takes a sip. The liquid is just as refreshing as he’d hoped, the sort of drinkable sweetness that lulls the drinker into forgetting the alcohol. One mug of this should be enough, Folly cautions himself, as he downs a second gulp.
“Perfect.” Oleander’s ears flick. “What’s your real name?”
“Philostrate,” Folly answers without thinking, then jolts. Usually he just answers Folly, or some nonsense about the Great Folarius. But it’s not like it’s a secret. He sips the sweet ale again. “Um, I prefer Folly.”
“So do I.” Another light laugh. “What does your golden eye really do?”
“It lets me see magic.” Folly sets the mug down, confused. He’d meant to spin a better story. “Just fae magic.”
Oleander nods. “Unfortunate limitation, but still very powerful. What can you tell me of Yarrow? Where does he come from? Who are his parents?”
“I don’t know where he’s from. His mother’s name is Crocus, and she lives somewhere called Spiritwood.” Folly bites back the other details. They press against his teeth, eager to jump out. Fear twists through him. “What did you do to me?”
“Nothing permanent,” Oleander says breezily. Her hand waves, flickering with magic. “That wasn’t permanent either—it’s a fox fae trick, so nobody will look or listen. Now, tell me more about your wild fae friend.”
“Yarrow!” Folly shouts, panic driving him to his feet.
