“Let me do the talking,” Folly says in a hushed tone. “You just stand around and look intimidating.”
“I think I can manage that.” Yarrow interlaces his fingers and stretches, cracking his knuckles. After a pause, he adds, “Are we waiting for something before we go in?”
They had gotten distracted while crossing Elsewhere earlier. What was supposed to be a quick stroll turned into hand jobs and a much-needed nap. Now, the horizon promises dawn, but the campground is dark and quiet. Folly and Yarrow lurk behind one of the wagons.
Being back in the human realm is eerie. Most things are the same as Folly left them. Goodfellow’s Marvelous Magical Troupe still huddles outside Forwick, with wagon guards nodding off beneath the banner. The air still smells of grass and sky and manure from the horses, all refreshingly dull after the richly floral scent of Summer. No ominous fae magic glitters between the distant trees.
There are a few differences, like the heavy blocks chained to the wagon wheels. Presumably Forwick’s mayor has questions about the random fae attack. While Folly feels bad for the rest ofthe troupe, he hopes the situation is as inconvenient as possible for Roland.
Folly is also the same, in some ways. He’s still nervous. Jumpy. Distrustful. His relationship with the truth has gotten delightfully worse, if anything.
But maybe he’s amazing, too. And if he ever forgets, Yarrow will remind him.
“I need to panic for two more minutes,” Folly explains. “Then we can go in.”
Yarrow nods seriously. “Take your time. We’ve got all day—or at least until the city guards swing by with pitchforks.”
Concentrating on his scuffed boots, Folly counts out two dozen breaths. Then another dozen. Being scared is all right. He can do it anyway.
Especially because Roland is about to be much more scared than Folly.
“All right,” Folly says, and darts forward. Yarrow follows, a reassuring presence at Folly’s heel.
Roland’s wagon is the largest in the circle, parked closest to the mess tent. Sturdy folding steps lead to a solid wooden door. It’s usually locked and latched, but that shouldn’t be a problem.
“Could you kick the door in, please?” Folly asks, stepping out of the way.
“With pleasure,” Yarrow says, and rushes up the stairs.
The door bursts open in two sharp thunderclaps: the latch breaking, and the door slamming into the wall. Folly jumps up the stairs, towards the yelps and thrashing.
Barely visible in the darkness, Roland struggles upright. “What the fuck is going on?” he barks, fumbling for something. “I’ve told you a thousand times, if you need me before sunrise, you’ll wish you fucking didn’t. I…” With a click and a hiss, a lantern lights up the wagon. Roland’s sleepy scowl melts into shock at the sight of Folly.
The wagon is twice the size of Folly’s, but Roland’s filled it with four times as much stuff. More clothes pile on the ground than in the trunks. A table full of bottles reeks between the door and the bed. Looks like Roland’s stay in Forwick has been stressful.
Roland would never cut it in the fae realm.
“Hi, Roland,” Folly says, only trembling slightly.
“Folly? What are you…” Roland rubs his bleary eyes, then laughs. “They said you got carried off by that fae monster. Knew they were full of shit.”
Folly forces a smile—Roland won’t know the difference. “That would be ridiculous.”
Roland sits heavily on his bed. “You know there’s a fine for missing work without leave. But you’re one of my favorites, so I’ll only add half to your…”
The wagon rocks with heavy footsteps. Roland stares over Folly’s shoulders, his eyes widening like saucers.
“Don’t mind the fae monster,” Folly says, and his smile isn’t forced at all anymore. “I’m the one here to collect.”
A big, solid elbows rests comfortably on Folly’s shoulder.
Roland’s expression undergoes so many twists and flips, the acrobats would be impressed. For all his faults, he isn’t a stupid man. His calculation is quick. “I’ll forgive the rest of your contract debt if you leave at once.”
That was annoyingly easy. Folly should have threatened Roland with a giant fae months ago. “I don’t care about my debt,” Folly says sweetly. “I want five hundred gilden.”
Roland’s laughter chokes off when Yarrow shifts his weight. He scrubs his hands over his face. “Folly, be serious. That’s at least twice what I…”
“What you swindled from me?” Folly asks. The silence is answer enough. “I don’t care about your malevolent math either. I just picked a number that feels good.” Folly braces his hands onhis hips, considering. “You know, six hundred gilden feels even better.”
