The normalcy might be more shocking than anything else Folly has encountered in the fae realm.
Setting aside the mushrooms growing on the windowsills—and around the sink and under the rafters—tea with Yarrow’s mother is so… ordinary. Crocus bustles around, magic sparkling at her fingertips, bringing out scones and dried fruit as the utensils fly around the table. All the while, she interrogates Yarrow about the curse and the shapestealer.
Yarrow grumbles like a sulky child, but answers.
“It’s sweet that you worried, but really, I’m safe as a boarbear’s baby here. Folly, dear, you can eat this and this,” Crocus pauses to specify, setting down a plate. “And you can drink the tea.”
Yarrow grabs a dried fig without invitation. This must still count as his home, which is difficult to imagine. The place is small. Yarrow’s horns rise nearly high enough to hit the herbs hanging from the rafters.
Everything is so domestic. Folly can’t remember having such a relaxed family meal. His mother would be more polite than Crocus—no chiding, no rude sayings about fish teats. But beingpolite wasn’t worth much, when she wouldn’t look at him without his eyepatch.
Maybe he used to have nice family meals before his eye changed.
Folly tenses, his teacup nearly to his lips. Crocus hasn’t once commented on his eye. Hasn’t flinched or gawked while looking at him. And Folly’s been so long in the fae realm, he’s getting used to that.
Returning home will be a rude awakening.
“Did I forget to invite you?” Crocus finally sits across the table. “You’re welcome to drink any or all of the tea.”
“I was just thinking of something,” Folly says, cutting back the reflexive apology. Crocus seems nice, but she’s still a strange fae. “I appreciate the hospitality.”
Crocus beams. “Yarrow has never brought home such a nice boy before.”
Folly pauses again, his teacup half an inch closer to his lips.
“Crocus,” Yarrow complains. “I’ve never brought homeanyboys.”
“My point stands,” Crocus says loftily.
Folly hadn’t been concerned, but he likes that Yarrow wants him to know he’s special. Warm and happy, Folly sips the tea. Rich, floral flavor coasts through his senses.
“I know my son prefers to fuck them and leave them,” Crocus continues, forcing Folly to choke on his second sip. “Like mother, like son.” Yarrow chokes at that too. “But unlike me, I’ve always thought he’d do better with companionship.”
Yarrow rests his elbows on the table and covers his face. Folly’s tempted to hide too, but Crocus is staring right at him. A strand of long, white hair falls in front of her face, but she doesn’t move.
Folly tries not to fidget, but his fingers move on their own to fiddle with the teaspoon. “You’re not bothered that I’m human?”
Crocus shrugs. “I don’t shock easy. I fucked a kelpie once.” As Folly tries to remember what a kelpie is, Crocus’s thin lips purse into a frown. “Wait a moment—how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” Folly answers, as Yarrow drops his forehead to the table. Folly moves Yarrow’s plate and teacup aside, so his hair doesn’t fall in the buttered scone.
“Twenty-four,” Crocus repeats, still frowning. “I’m not familiar with human years.”
“He’s an adult,” Yarrow says, muffled and aggrieved.
Crocus’s smile returns. “Perfect, that’s perfect. Now, I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but what point are you at? Just fooling around? Getting serious? Moving in together? I don’t see a lifemark, though you could be hiding anything under that robe.”
“None of your business,” Yarrow says, still muffled, as Folly asks, “What’s a lifemark?”
Crocus spreads a bright pink jam over her scone. “Have you told him anything, Yarrow? Never mind. A lifemark ritual binds two lovers together, for as long as they both live—or unless they destroy the lifemark. It’s quite the commitment, and most fae don’t do it. Best saved for royal alliances and such. But for relations between fae and mortals, I’d consider it essential.”
Folly turns his teacup in its saucer. “Why is that?”
Yarrow straightens in his seat. “Because it binds the lifemarks’ lifespans together. They don’t die if the other dies prematurely, but a lifemarked human would age like a fae.”
Folly’s mind races. He’d never considered that a possibility. Living like a fae, bound to Yarrow forever. There are downsides, of course. Folly’s good at thinking of downsides. What if Yarrow tires of him? What if Folly ruins Yarrow’s plans to live at court? Folly would outlive all his friends and family, too.
But—what friends? What family?
