Page 108 of Trick

We ransacked time. Every encounter was fraught with risk, every tiptoe a hurricane resounding in the halls. That made the quickness necessary. And that fueled us.

He was impulsive. I was calculative. We were careful.

Poet was a sly one, for certain. Whenever he wanted me, messages would turn up in my room without any indication of how they’d gotten there. Usually they would contain verse, riddles, or blatant flirtations.

Either that, or I’d find a ribbon affixed to a blossom in one of the gardens, the clue located beside a path that guided me in the right direction. Always, the signs arrived at dawn or dusk, when it was easier to skulk through the passage leading from my suite.

Every time, a terrible thrill raced through me. Upon finding the envelopes or bands of fabric, my grin became increasingly difficult to suppress.

It had to be a violation of nature, these turbulent sensations. I didn’t recognize myself. It was like awakening to nightfall instead of daybreak.

It was effortless, elemental. My body knew what to do and how to do it. When he got his hands on me, I turned into a nymph of the highest order—daring, liberated, wild.

I savored how he held me. More than that, I relished how I held him back.

***

In the interims, the trepidation, remorse, and exhaustion surfaced. Constantly, I glanced over my shoulder, anticipating shrewd gazes or watchful eyes.

***

Poet tucked my back against his chest. His limbs flanked me across the oversized chair in front of his roaring fireplace, one foot propped on the cushion, the other stretching out lazily. Midnight poured deep blue across the room, and the flames lapped at the shadows.

Absently and repeatedly, he massaged my shoulders, rolling his thumbs into me and easing my tension while I vented. Frustration over my exclusion from the Peace Talks had gotten the better of me. He listened, challenging my rant with sarcasm and frankness.

Afterward, I listened to his stories about raising Nicu. My favorite was how when the child first began to crawl, he became obsessed with hunting windblown leaves across the grass.

The circumstances also held their share of grimness. The confessions poured out as if from a tap, as if Poet had grown sick of holding back. His features warped while he admitted how petrifying it was, panicking about Nicu wandering beyond the cottage to where someone could discover him.

Worrying about his son’s fate wore Poet out, to the point where he yearned to scream. Once, he fled to the woods and unleashed there.

I listened, then whispered comforts and encouragements. I reminded him about the progress he was making with the monarchy, reassured him of how much effect he was having on Spring’s Royals.

Often, I could not wait to share whatever ideas or random thoughts consumed my mind. After that, I would offer objective feedback on an epic verse he’d been working on.

We debated and mused. We argued and confessed. We murmured about the day and the people who had filled it.

I kept thoughts of Mother and Father to myself. Not because I didn’t want to share, but because I suspected Poet would see through me, hear the parts I omitted, the fears that came with them.

***

Mother and I strolled through the corridors with a band of guards. From the opposite end of the hall, Poet appeared.

My pulse turned into a violent, thrashing thing as he sauntered toward me, surrounded by an entourage of performers. The dancers, aerialists, acrobats, and musicians walked on either side of him, some as toned as marble and lithe as flower stems, others lush and curvy.

Eliot walked with them, his golden features and affable smile dousing the space with light. As we crossed paths, I flashed my friend a quick smile.

By contrast, the jester and I did not acknowledge one another. We waltzed by as if the encounter bore no consequence, was hardly worth our notice.

Inside, my body screamed.

I need you. I resent you. I envy you. I crave you. I miss you. I want you.

Just before we passed one another, our fingers stole out to brush. For a second, they made contact, faint and fleeting.

***

Poet accompanied the seven monarchs and me on a tour of the greenhouses. With his hands behind his back, the jester sauntered by each person and muttered comments that amused them. To his deceptive credit, the ruse made it seem like no strange occurrence when my turn came.

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