29. A Small Token
A Small Token
Seren had barely adjusted to the finery of his quarters over the past month. Now his rooms are made strange again as Folly gawks around the parlor. Goldwood crown molding. Crystalline bear statues. The family portrait above the mantel. The squirrel hopping from planter to planter.
“And I thought the rest of the palace was nice,” Folly says, peeking through his fingers with his golden left eye. A silk-wrapped bundle rests under his other arm. “It’s blinding in here.”
“I’m still not used to it,” Seren confesses. “Though at least I can’t see the magic.”
“My old boss would piss himself over this room.” Folly lowers his hand, adjusting to the light. “Gods’ gnawing teeth. I used to think Alard was fancy with real glass windows in his workshop.”
Seren laughs.
Talking to someone normal is an unexpected relief. Folly might have one magic eye and a dramatic starry robe, but the glitter on his cheeks is makeup, and his ears are round. He understands where Seren came from, and how strange all this fae stuff is.
Seren’s been getting too desperately comfortable, surrendering into Nevander’s arms every night.
“Have you seen the library?” Seren asks. “It’s amazing. One of the libraries, at least. There are several.”
Folly sets the bundle on a brocade armchair. “I’ve mostly just seen the courtyards and throne room. I’ve only been here to petition…”
He glances at the portrait, falling silent.
Seren is used to the mental tripwire. “You can say her name. Everyone else does.”
“Fitting with her talent for memories,” Folly says. “Stands to reason she’d leave a strong one.”
“I wish I’d met her,” Seren says, looking at the low fire. Not the portrait above.
Awkwardness falls. Seren shouldn’t be opening up like this. Growing up in the same village doesn’t make them friends. Before Seren knew how to shield, he would have flinched from this interaction.
“When I was young,” Seren says instead. “My parents told me to avoid you.”
Folly snorts. “Them and everyone else’s parents.”
“They said you were fae-touched.” Seren fingers his own pointed ear. “Funny, considering.”
“Did they know about you?” Folly asks, mirth fading.
Seren shrugs.
“I’m sorry.” Folly gestures. “This place suits you, at least.”
Seren hadn’t expected that. “Does it?”
Folly stares like Seren’s lost his mind. “You’re a fae prince,” he says bluntly. “You fucking sparkle. You’re wearing twenty expensive rings and you’re not fidgeting with any of them. Every time you move, those lilies turn towards you.”
“There’s only three rings,” Seren protests, because he can’t deny the rest. “This is my carryhold, and this amethyst calls for a tidingbird, and this…” Nevander slipped the topaz on his finger this morning, with a soft kiss to his knuckles, and a murmured, Happy threshold.
“I’m sure it does something. Is it traditional to give gifts for thresholds? ”
Folly continues staring. “It’s a time of transition. Fae mostly give threshold gifts if their relationship with someone has changed.”
Please, false gods, don’t let Seren blush. “Could you do me a favor?”
Folly’s head tilts craftily. “Are you asking as Prince of Summer?”
“As your former neighbor,” Seren says. “Can you talk to Tansy?”
“I’d rather not.” Folly wrinkles his nose in deliberate disapproval. “He keeps trying to seduce my lover.”
“He tries to seduce everyone’s lovers,” Seren says, which is a mistake, because Folly perks up like a gossip-seeking hound. Seren soldiers on. “Tansy refuses to go back to Wymond. I worry I won’t convince him before this realm-sickness takes hold.”
“He’s just a human.” Folly touches his own rounded ear. “A particularly silly human. You could clap him in irons and toss him through a portal. Well, not irons, I suppose. Some other kind of chain. Just rope would probably suffice. He doesn’t seem very strong…”
Seren feels unfairly frustrated at Folly’s rambling. “Tansy’s already been stolen between realms. He deserves a choice.”
“As long as he makes the choice you want?” Folly asks.
The contradiction prickles. Seren inhales the discomfort but doesn’t let it sway him. “Edith and Alard miss him. Their grief is… agonizing.”
Folly isn’t fae. His control over his mental boundaries is messy at best. But the sudden surge of compassion doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t pity Seren. He just understands what it’s like to grow up different.
“He won’t listen to me,” Folly says. “But I’ll talk to him.”
Seren exhales. “Thank you.”
Folly shakes out his starry robe, like he’s shaking off the awkwardness, and picks up the silk bundle. “I brought a gift! It’s from me and Yarrow, and Hummingbird would throw a tantrum if I forgot to mention her. Be sure to name her if anyone asks—if it pleases Your Highness, and so on.”
Seren accepts the bundle with some trepidation. “Hummingbird is the seamstress I was supposed to meet?”
“That’s the one.” Folly grins. “You obviously have plenty of fancy clothes, but you need something special today. Festivals are a performance.”
“I don’t have your knack for theatrics,” Seren says, with growing alarm. Especially thinking of everything he’s seen fae courtiers wearing. Or not wearing, as it were. “I’m barely used to these clothes.”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing crazy,” Folly says earnestly. “Hummingbird knows you’re not a carnival dropout like me. Besides, Nevander gave strict orders not to make it slutty.”
Nevander’s involvement is a relief. “Oh, that’s good.”
Folly’s eyes narrow. “You don’t sound surprised.”
“Why should I be?” Seren asks.
“Royal guardians don’t usually supervise the king’s wardrobe,” Folly says, like it’s obvious.
Seren has become so swiftly, completely accustomed to Nevander’s involvement in his life. Sometimes the dependence is frightening. Sometimes it’s nice. Seren’s never had the chance to depend on someone before.
“There’s nothing usual about my position,” Seren says, chin lifted so he doesn’t look away bashfully. “Nevander has been very helpful.”
After a pause, Folly simply says, “That’s good.”
Folly doesn’t push. They’re not friends. Just old neighbors, mostly strangers. Misfit village brats, now the fae-touched Lord of Elsewhere and the changeling Prince of Summer. Pushing would be impolite.
Seren’s confession spills out. “We’ve been involved.”
Folly lights up with glee. “That’s fantastic! Wonderful! Superb!”
“Is it?” Seren asks, taken aback. He thinks it’s superb too, of course, but Folly’s enthusiasm forces Seren to tighten his shields defensively.
“Quite superb,” Folly says. “Yarrow owes me a favor.”
“A favor?” Seren’s shields waver. “Wait, you were betting on us?”
Folly winks. “One of many things fae and carnival folk have in common. We love a wager. Yarrow thought Nevander was too responsible to bed you, but that’s just because he’s known Nevander too long. Too many preconceptions.”
“Are we being irresponsible?” Seren asks.
Folly’s expression turns complicated. “You shouldn’t listen to my rambling. What’s irresponsible about bedding a tall, handsome fae warrior? Go get dressed. I mean, if it pleases Your Highness. I’ll just be snooping through your parlor.”
Seren hesitates, caution prickling through his emotional daze. The palace has been rife with unexplained security concerns. Letting this self-described carnival dropout snoop unsupervised is probably unwise.
But Seren’s awareness tugs, like a sound he hears with his magic. A familiar connection with the inner palace wards. Folly has half a minute to get in trouble before Nevander arrives.
“Have fun,” Seren says, and retreats upstairs.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Folly calls out. “Hummingbird said not to worry about the buttons!”
That’s concerning. Seren wouldn’t have worried about buttons without that reassurance.
He twists his new topaz ring as he enters his bedroom.
The one without magic, that somehow gleams brighter than the others.
A threshold gift. A token of change. Seren hasn’t prepared anything for Nevander, and he casts aimlessly for something to give.
He has so many things now, but so few feel like his.
Inside his closet—and it’s still strange having a closet big enough to stand in, with a mirror and vanity—Seren unwraps the bundle.
A pile of deep berry silk and cool brown leather greets him, lustrous in the lantern light.
Seren untangles everything carefully. The knee-high boots are easy to identify, brown leather with gold and lavender ornaments.
The rest is more mysterious. He sorts it out with trepidation.
Folly was right. The buttons are worrying. They’re pretty enough, pale gold rosettes. There’s just hundreds of the tiny things. Seren will have to call for help. Nevander wouldn’t mind lending a hand.
Except Folly said not to worry.
Seren unfastens the first tiny button. Its neighbor helpfully untwists from its own buttonhole. The rest follow suit, unbuttoning in a rustling flurry.
“Aren’t you clever,” Seren says, delighted, and begins changing.
The buttons turn out to be the simplest part. When he fastens one, the rest fasten in turn. The strappy leather parts aren’t as complicated as expected either.
Everything is just so tight.
The dark berry silk is opaque beneath the matching floral lace, covering Seren from wrists and ankles all the way to his chin. He barely shows any skin, but the suit exposes the precise shape of his body.
At least the undergarments are secure. He doesn’t need to give that much of a show.
As it is, Seren considers switching last-minute to more familiar finery, festival be damned.
But that would insult Hummingbird and the Lords of Elsewhere, and sunset is nearing.
Seren doesn’t have time to make new decisions.
He feels more dressed after magically buttoning the knee-high boots and matching elbow-length gloves. He’s never felt leather as thin and supple as these gloves, adorned with gold and lavender flowers. There are even small slits above each finger, so the gems of his rings show through.