Page 82 of Trick

“It’s merely a scratch,” I told him. “I’m more durable than the other princesses you know.”

“And you weren’t scared.”

“Not with the jester as my shield.”

At the mention of Poet, Eliot peered at me. “So he’s ensnared you, too.”

I composed my features. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You don’t want to tell me what happened, so it must be the sort of trauma worthy of songs. In which case, he must’ve had time to influence you, if you’re using jokes to hide the truth, but I can take it, believe me. You don’t have to protect me from the gory details. Not that it won’t bruise my soul to know the turmoil you went through, but you’re my friend, and I want to know so I can comfort you. I mean, if anything else happened worth mentioning, I’ll stomach it. I’m a big guy—well, not a giant, but you get my meaning.”

Remorse gnawed on my ribs. In eight years, I had shared with him every possible truth.

I leaned back and gazed at him. “There’s nothing more to tell.”

***

The castle had two training grounds. One for knights. One for performers.

I passed the latter with Mother during a morning walk, a rare moment of freedom for her as the sun crawled into the sky and spilled gold across the verdant turf.

She vented about something the Queen of Summer had said. “And I asked her to clarify what she’d meant … and she had the audacity to suggest … and I couldn’t believe …”

My head slanted toward the adjacent lawn, where railings enclosed the practice field. Spring’s resident troupe practiced on the green. Twelve limber bodies rotated staffs and danced, their scantily clad forms spinning like disks. They balanced on low beams and flipped with their graceful limbs extended.

Six women. Five men.

One jester.

He dangled from a tree, using his arms to pull his body upward until his chin passed a branch, then lowered himself again. He did this repeatedly. Up and down. Down and up. His arms and torso flexed, ropes of muscles shaking with exertion and covered in a layer of sweat.

A bead of perspiration drizzled passed to his navel and into the low waistband of his pants. His biceps inflated, contracting with every repetition. Shadows accented the grooves of his spine, which swelled into a taut backside.

I had straddled that lap and strung myself around those arms. I’d felt the urgency and strength of those hands when they tore through my hair. I clutched those panting lips with my own. I had felt his length strain, hard and firm against me.

On an exhale, the jester dropped to the ground and swiped a skin pouch from the grass. Uncorking it, he tipped his head back and drank. As his throat pumped, my mouth watered. A deep-rooted ache burdened me, the pulse in my core making it difficult to walk with grace.

The jester’s abdomen constricted as he twisted and flung his arm in a wide arc, tossing the skin sideways over his head to another acrobat. He did this without warning, but the female caught it without breaking her twirl.

They laughed. Poet strode over to her, aimed his pointer finger to ground, and circled it in a silent request. She winked at him and obediently executed another spin while he tilted his head and assessed the motions. Despite her saucy gesture, there was nothing flirtatious about the scene. They took their craft seriously, their expressions as concentrated as the rest of the troupe.

Poet spoke to her, offering some form of guidance while using his hands to describe a complex movement. And after she mimicked his instructions, the woman bumped her elbow against Poet’s and said something that made him smirk.

“Briar?” Mother inquired, the weight of her stare heavy. “Briar, are you listening?”

I blinked and was about to swerve her way. I needed to apologize and recuperate what remained of my concentration.

Except we had crossed into Poet’s line of vision.

His body tensed, arms and back locking like mechanisms. Anticipation flared within me, a disastrous and self-indulgent impulse if there ever was one. His head tilted a fraction over his shoulder, so that his rigid jaw became visible, as though he might glance my way.

My breath stalled. But after a moment, his frame unwound, as if ridding himself of an unwelcome crick. Poet continued advising the female without affording me a glance.

As I promenaded, the distance between us grew again. But then I craned my head when I thought he wasn’t looking. And at that exact moment, he did the same.

Our eyes stumbled across one another like thrusts of lightning, sudden and perilous. In those fleeting seconds, our gazes held fast. They collided, like fists and lips.

***

---