Sweetness bursts over his tongue. Subtle floral notes aren’t subtle at all on the second sip. Folly can’t taste the alcohol, but it dizzies through his bloodstream.
And Folly relaxes.
So suddenly, he would be startled if he weren’t so thoroughly at ease.
“Oh, wow,” Folly breathes. “This really works.”
He reluctantly allows Yarrow to retrieve the tankard. “I knew you were tense, but I didn’t knowhowtense.” Yarrow takes another sip. The liquor affects him, but not as much. Either because he’s fae, or because he’s not a wreck of nerves like Folly. “Let’s slow you down, until we see how you like the feeling.”
Folly would complain about Yarrow watching his consumption, like he’s an irresponsible child. But he’s too relaxed for petty complaints. And besides. It’s nice to let someone else do the watching and calculating sometimes.
“What next?” Folly asks.
“We stay here and drink,” Yarrow says, which is exactly the answer Folly hoped for. “Watch the party until this tankard’s empty, then decide if we want another, or if we want to go dancing.”
“No dancing,” Folly says quickly, and Yarrow laughs. Unexpectedly, he seems as happy to stay on the outskirts as Folly is.
The lighting shifts as the evening passes. The gradual changes don’t follow any pattern Folly can determine. Sometimes the light cools, then warms, then brightens, then dims. With each sip of sweet mead, the music sounds moreresonant. More vital. Each melody carries an emotion. Joy, lust, regret, hope.
An open space clears amidst the whirling dancers. Two fae with sweeping green hair take the center. Their dance is quick, vivid, punctuated with flying scarves and metallic clangs. They wield daggers in each hand.
A bear sits on the edge of the stage. Little white flowers pepper its shaggy fur, and it sways in time with the music.
The fae in the loincloth leans against a lamp post without a lamp. Another male fae kneels in front of him and pulls the loincloth aside.
“Is that, um. Typical here?” Folly asks.
Yarrow’s so close, his laughter vibrates through them both. “Do humans never fuck at parties?”
“Not the parties I’ve been to.” Folly’s face heats. “People usually at least find a dirty alleyway.”
Yarrow tucks a lock of hair behind Folly’s ear. He leans close to murmur, “That sounds dreadful. You’re far too gorgeous for a dirty alleyway. I’d rather fuck you in a meadow of summerstars, or the shallows of the Pyran, or that floral swing over there. Even the flowers would dim against your beauty.”
Folly stands frozen, the tankard an inch from his lips. Flattery pours sweeter and more intoxicating than any liquor. “You’ve had too much to drink. I’m not gorgeous.”
“One of us only speaks the truth, and one of us lies.” Yarrow retrieves the tankard. “Who should we believe?”
Belief isn’t a matter of truth. Whether or not Folly is beautiful is far less important than the floral swing swaying across the crowd. Folly is a breath away from tugging Yarrow forward, when a young man rushes up to the bar.
“A small glass of mead for a thirsty spirit?” the young man asks Sevastia, breathless with laughter. A crown of white flowersbalances askew on his dark blond head, and his pale green tunic clings with sweat.
Sevastia wags a thin finger. “You know I won’t give you mead, naughty boy.” But she pours a small glass, then deliberately turns her back. Towel in hand, she begins cleaning the other end of the bar.
The young man leans across the white wood surface—and instead of the cup, snags the bottle.
He’s shorter than Folly. The shortest fae Folly’s seen, except for children and Hummingbird, who’s part pixie. And when he swigs from the bottle, his hair shifts back, revealing small, rounded ears.
“You’re human,” Folly blurts out.
The young man coughs. Glaring, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Excuse you.”
Folly’s too stunned to worry about breaching etiquette. “Sorry, it’s just, I haven’t seen another human since I got here. Um. I’m Folly. This is Yarrow.”
Silver paint gleams around the young man’s eyes. No, the boy. He looks no older than sixteen or seventeen. Most reasons for a human to be in the fae realm are terrible, and Folly’s stomach twists with concern. The boy could be enslaved or trapped by a curse just like Folly.
“Hello, Folly and… Yarrow.” The boy’s gaze lingers on Yarrow’s bare chest, then lowers. A smile brightens his face. “I’m Tansy.”
A human boy with a fae name. “Have you been in the fae realm long?” Folly asks, trying to ignore the way Tansy looks at Yarrow.
