Page 88 of Trick

Yet after I saw him with that lusty nobleman, the jester felt compelled to explain in a note that nothing untoward had occurred.

Because of me? Or because of Eliot’s feelings?

Did I hope for the latter or for both?

Except for that incident, Poet hadn’t put his lovers on display. Since rejecting my friend, he had refrained from having public flings.

He cared about Eliot. He cared about me, too.

I thought of what I’d done to myself in bed the other night, how violently I’d brought myself to orgasm. The memory thrust heat into my face. Poet would never be able to guess the source. Yet I felt unmasked, as if he might see a candid difference in my features, as if he might discover I’d climaxed to fantasies of him.

Poet.

I shouldn’t.

I can’t do this.

So stop me.

Please, just stop me.

I squirmed, got my bearings, and disentangled myself from his arms. “Good day, jester. Thank you for your assistance.”

For the second time, I fled. Only this time, I did not run.

***

I couldn’t sleep. Beyond the window, a thicket of clouds bunched together, and a nightingale sang. Sadly, the lullaby failed to sedate me.

Moonlight speckled my duvet as I twisted in frustration. The fabric chafed my limbs, the mattress felt too hot, and the room seemed smaller.

When my father was alive, he used to pluck me from my suite at night and take me exploring. His hand would cradle mine as we ghosted through the network of Autumn’s towers. We’d hunt through the weavers’ workroom and investigate a vault brimming with relics of old. I’d play hiding games with Father, believing us invincible and that no harm would ever come to our family.

It had been years since I had explored a place. Never without him.

I had fled from Spring’s dungeon—this time. I would not allow myself to do that again, to quail from the darkness or the cries of its inhabitants. Until then, I could pace my wits and seek out other uncharted spaces.

But why wait?

I lurched up and swept aside the covers, refusing to analyze this. My feet hit the floor and carried me across the chamber to my wardrobe.

22

Briar

With my suite patrolled by night sentinels, I would have to get sneaky. I dressed in a rosemary cashmere gown with capped sleeves and a matching cloak, then plaited my hair into a loose bun at the nape. After pushing through the camouflaged wall panel, I slinked into the private passage and ventured down the chilly artery, letting my appetite for space and freedom guide me.

I traveled at a fixed pace, having memorized my usual routes. Normally, I’d take the path to the garden ruins. But a series of turns later, I exited through a different partition, still in the Royal wing but far enough to have bypassed my guards.

I emerged into a vacant lounge filled with push seating and giant lupine pots. The absence of noise in the south corridor seemed promising, so I stepped in that direction.

“May I help you, Your Highness?” inquired a male baritone.

I whirled, my cloak dashing around my limbs. A strapping watchman of possibly forty, with maroon irises and a hoop piercing his lower lip, stood post at the hall’s archway. Steel panels rode his shoulders, and he looked to be made of rocks beneath his breastplate.

In contrast to the armor, his obliging expression and dimples settled my nerves. When Father and I had romped through Autumn at night, we had done it candidly, because we’d reigned over those halls. As Royals, we had that liberty. Demonstrating otherwise—with a ducked head or a hesitant gait—would have given the residents pause.

Although flippant Spring wasn’t the type of court that spurned adventure, the world nevertheless credited the Princess of Autumn for being straitlaced. A female with a reputation as pure as cream, a disposition as dry as flint, and not a daredevil bone in her body. Being caught roaming without an escort was out of character for me, and that would cause talk. Oftentimes, Spring liked to invent stories rather than settle for the truth.

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