Tidings

It is the middle of the second hour. Folly is engaged in animated conversation with Baron Kaliq and a couple of off-duty musicians when she spies a dark-helmed figure heading her way from the direction of the gardens. She smiles.

But as she tracks him out of the corner of her eye, she becomes aware of the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head as he greets the ever-present throng of well-wishers with only as much attention as is dictated by politeness. It is his "studiously neutral" posture.

[One of the things she can see is that he is looking at her. A significant disadvantage of the swan-helm is that it limits Martin's field of vision. He's looking wherever the swan-helm is pointing.]

Something unpleasant has happened, Folly is sure of it. She excuses herself from her companions and tries not to think uncharitable thoughts about Jerod's sister as she closes the distance between her and Martin.

Martin excuses himself from the knot that is gathering around him and makes his way towards Folly. He greets her wordlessly, touching her upper arm just above the top of her opera glove with his hand. The gesture might appear casual to an outside observer, of whom there are many nearby. Or it might not.

Knowing they're being watched, Folly tries to keep her reactions in check; but the tiny smile, the brightness in her eyes, the warm glow of color spreading across her cheeks -- it's the stuff rumors are made of.

Martin doesn't even seem to be bothering to hide his own smile.

"I was wondering where you'd gotten off to," Folly says, masking tenderer feelings behind a lopsided grin of friendly good humor. "I was beginning to suspect you'd been eaten by sharks." _Or other denizens of the deep._

"Even if I'd fallen in, I'm used to swimming in the deeps," Martin says. "People who don't know me occasionally forget that. But I didn't fall in. I was just out on the porch talking to a red-headed dragon."

Folly nods as she takes this in, glad that Valeria apparently didn't cause Martin as much grief as Folly had feared; but then....

Oh.

Her mask doesn't quite hide the crease of concern between her brows.

On the pretense of needing another beverage, Folly loops her arm through Martin's and makes for the door to the side rooms.

"You... you didn't get burned, I hope -- you or the dragon?" she asks as they move out of the thick of the crowd.

"It was ... complicated," Martin settles for saying as he steers the two of them towards the side room where the bar is. Apparently complicated enough that Martin wants whiskey instead of another glass of champagne.

Folly collects more champagne for herself and then heads toward a reasonably private nook.

Martin trails along with a nice double.

She has a "do you want to talk about it?" look on her face, but what she asks is, "Is she OK?"

Martin shrugs in response to one or the other of the questions. "After I put my foot in my mouth on the way out, I'm afraid I didn't stop to see. I can't tell how it went before that. Half really bad, half really good. And the most honest thing I said was the bit at the end, where I may have just screwed things up worse."

He takes a careful gulp of his whiskey.

Reflexively, Folly lays a comforting hand on Martin's free arm. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll check in with her in a bit, after she's had a chance to...."

Calm down? Cool off? Reflect?

She looks up at Martin. "Uh... just what did you say to her, anyway?"

Martin grimaces beneath his helm and takes another gulp of whiskey.

"She told me not to wait to tell you how I feel about you, and it kind of startled me. So I said the first thing that came into my head, which is that I already did. Tell you, that is."

He hesitates for a moment, glances about with a broad sweep of his swan-bill to be sure no one can hear, and drops his voice before completing the thought. "That I love you."

Folly nods slowly as the implications sink in. Then she sets aside her champagne flute and takes his hand between both of hers.

"It's probably good that she knows," she says quietly. "I -- I sort of glossed that part when I talked to her before, but... better that we be honest about it." She smiles up at him tenderly; but he can see the hints of concern, for Paige and for him.

"It wasn't yours to tell her, or to have to tell her," Martin says firmly. "It was mine."

Folly nods in agreement.

"And we said--other things, that needed to be said between us. I think she still hoped that she and I might work things out. That's not going to happen, and now she knows that."

He adds: "She may think it's because of you, but she's wrong if she thinks so. It's more complex than that."

"I know," Folly says quietly. "And I think she knows it, too. I mean, she knows that I want both of you to be happy, that I would never...." She trails off with a shrug. "On the other hand, what she feels may interfere with what she thinks."

Martin sets down his tumbler of whiskey next to Folly's glass of champagne and places his hand on top of both of hers, so that his hand is clasped around one of hers just as hers are clasped around one of his.

"And now we've completely reversed places, because the last time we had this conversation I was the one reluctant to speak of it to her because I didn't want her to take it out on you, and you were the one who thought she was owed an explanation." He smiles, a little sadly.

"And I still do, really -- even if it is somewhat... challenging in the short term," Folly replies with conviction. "Honesty is the best policy."

A beat later, her eyes twinkle with an amusement she can't quite repress. "In bed," she adds, a bit sheepishly.

Apparently the Fortune Cookie game is a cross-Shadow phenomenon.

Martin snickers and changes the subject. "She told me she has a trump of Brennan's homeland and she wants to go there." His voice is a little flat, but Folly can sense what's underneath the flatness.

There is no amusement at all in the look that crosses her face. "Why?" she asks, although it's not really what she means -- the gist of which falls somewhere between "did she at least offer up a plausible rationale for that choice?" and "is she buggin'?"

Martin shrugs. "I didn't ask," he says, which could be an answer to any of the questions, spoken or unspoken, or even one Folly didn't think to ask.

Folly nods slightly, taking it as an answer to all of them.

"I wanted to talk to her tonight anyway, just -- y'know, to touch base before I leave town. I... I'll keep an eye out for her." From Folly's tone, it's clear that she's not going to force Paige into conversations she doesn't want to have -- but she's hoping Paige will be in the mood to talk.

Martin nods, slowly, and his grasp on her hand tightens gently.

"If you need to catch up with her after the party breaks up, we can wait that long. I've got a couple of things I could do before we leave."

"Yeah. Maybe. We'll see how things go the rest of the evening -- I might be able to catch her before then." Folly gives Martin's hand a gentle return squeeze and smiles up at him. "Thanks, sweetheart."

Then it's her turn to change the subject.

She has been speaking in soft, intimate tones, quiet enough not to carry but still conversational. Now, though, her voice drops to a low murmur, barely louder than a whisper.

"So, who are the wolves?" she asks. She doesn't need to add that they give her the creeps; that much is evident in her expression.

Martin's expression goes flat. "Bend and Montage," he says quietly. "Grandmother's dirty tricks squad. Montage was one of my minders for a while after--you know. If either of them approaches you, let me know."

Folly nods. "Jerod intercepted the grey after you went off with the mermaid. I don't know whether.... He may have thought he needed to. I don't know. The whole thing was a bit... disconcerting."

She blinks and looks up at Martin as another disconcerting thought occurs to her. "You think they're planning... dirty tricks... to get you back to Rebma?"

Martin shrugs. "Not yet, although it's a consideration in the long term. Until Moire takes an official stance on Dad's regime, they won't want to risk antagonizing him that way. I'm more concerned about you."

He lowers his voice again, "Whether I remain here or return to Rebma" _which I have no intention of doing_ "the woman I love is a political figure on the Rebman scene, for good or ill. Bend and Montage are clever enough to see how the tides rise between us. I don't think you're in danger, but I want all my bases covered."

He adds, flatly, "Anyone who hurts you will end up floating back to Rebma. I need to make that clear to Montage." And his grip tightens again on her hand, gentle but strong.

Folly lets out a grim little sigh. "Some days I wish we were normal, y'know?" she says, sounding frustrated and a little overwhelmed.

But a moment later, her expression softens. "The rest of the time," she adds, regarding Martin with a wistful smile, "I forget we aren't." She takes a deep breath, fighting the impulse to pull him into a closer embrace.

Martin looks like he's about to say something, but ...

Forcing her mind back to the topic at hand, she continues, "But I promise I won't let the wolves lure me alone into the woods. Those stories usually end badly, anyhow -- for the wolves and the girl."

... instead lets Folly finish her thought.

"It's too soon," Martin says after a moment of thought. "They only need a threat if they think I'm not going to comply." He shrugs.

Folly arches an eyebrow, barely visible above her mask. "They've presented you with a plan, then?"

"I've been presented with a plan, yes. Who the 'they' behind it is isn't necessarily clear yet," Martin says, one corner of his mouth quirking into a wry smile.

Folly smirks. She's got a guess now.

"But we'll discuss that later, where there are no other ears to hear it."

"Yeah -- 'cos, hey, road trip!" Folly's hands tighten around Martin's, and she grins. If he was at all unaware of the giddy eagerness with which she's been anticipating their brief time away from scrutiny, he has no doubt of it now.

"In the meantime, though," she adds, less eagerly, "I suppose we ought to go back out there for more parading around for the tightly-laced masses."

Martin tries not to look too glum at the prospect, and relinquishes Folly's hands. He consoles himself by finishing his whiskey before offering his arm. "I suppose so," he says, adding "At least the broadsheets don't have gossip columnists. It's only the old biddies we have to worry about."

"Let 'em talk," Folly says quietly, slipping her arm through his. "At the end of the night I get to leave with you. A wagging tongue or two is a small price to pay."

She thinks about that for a moment, then grins impishly. "Or, in a slightly different context, something to look forward to."