Page 54 of Trick

I met Poet’s leery countenance. “I will not utter a word to anyone. I swear it.”

Because I never gave my word of honor rashly, I might as well have carved it into stone.

His eyes riveted on me, many things cluttering within that look. Witnessing him like this—defensive, protective, vulnerable—distorted every previous conclusion I’d made about him. Here was the jester, absently touching a particular ribbon at his wrist, which matched the one worn by that child.

This whole time, I’d been wrong to assume. I did not know him at all.

For no explicable reason, I wanted his trust.

Perhaps it was the Royal in me. Maybe I understood what it was like to conceal myself from others. Or perhaps I could not explain it.

Poet waited for several heartbeats before saying, “He’s four.”

“And may I ask his name?” I broached.

Again, it took him a moment to answer. “Nicu.”

“He has your eyes.”

“Nature knows what’s best.”

Still vain as a peacock. We chuckled, but the laughter vanished quickly, as if sliced in half.

I lifted the spoon to my lips, the velvety blend of carrots and cream melting on my tongue. A small noise of appreciation curled from my throat. But the instant that sound twined into the room, Poet’s concentration faltered. His eyes sank to my lips, the weight of his attention palpable, like a warm caress, which rose several degrees and simmered across my flesh.

My mouth tingled. And when my neck bobbed, he watched that, too.

A muscle thumped in his jaw. The jester lurched his gaze toward the window.

I did the same while quickly finishing my food.

“Delicate things and fierce things,” he mumbled, raindrop shadows dappling his face, candlelight illuminating the rest of him.

“Nicu is …” I dared not finish, because this story belonged to the jester. I was a breath away from finding out the truth, but if I made the slightest mistake, I wouldn’t.

Poet slid his gaze back to me. “Here’s a tale of a kindly child who loves making up songs, whispering to the rain, licking sugar off his pinky, and playing word games. He sees and speaks of this world in iridescence. His sidekick is a rather demanding ferret, his favorite color is ‘happy orange,’ he thinks dust motes are sprites, he’ll eat anything so long as it doesn’t have a filling, he adores fauna and people, and he wouldn’t harm a soul. What else about him matters?”

“I’m not the bigot you imagine me to be.”

He canted his head, expecting me to repeat myself.

“Mother treats everyone with benevolence,” I explained. “She and my father taught me to do the same.”

This couldn’t be news to Poet. Although the same social laws prevailed in Autumn, we acted less harshly toward born souls than the other kingdoms. It hardly excused us, but everyone knew Autumn was not violent, except in matters of defense.

What Poet didn’t know was that my parents also raised me without prejudice. Like them, I abhorred the injustices leveled at those whom Autumn claimed as property. However, we’d voiced this only behind closed doors while remaining stern in public, my parents having believed few options existed to contest the matter.

I seldom groused about the decisions Mother and Father had made. This was one of the exceptions.

“Princess,” Poet deadpanned. “This is not a poem or a song. This is not negotiable. If there’s any chance you’ll betray my trust, indulge me now. I won’t take this step lightly.”

I nodded. “I never take any steps lightly.”

“Of course not. You would fall.”

“Very funny.”

“If what I tell you leaves this house, and it harms a hair on my son, I will retaliate. Wherever you stand, I will not hesitate.”

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