Page 166 of Trick

“Listen to us,” Posy realized. “We sound like the shallowest of creatures.”

“How very Spring,” Cadence remarked. “And well, Briar’s flesh and blood, after all. She has secret passions, actually makes mistakes, and has smutty affairs with sexy jesters.”

“It’s more than that,” Vale assured me.

Posy scooted to the bed’s center and curled her legs beneath her. “We like you.”

Cadence shrugged. “After what you and Poet risked for that sapling, maybe we shouldn’t be quick to scorn. Maybe we should know more; that is, if you’re willing to tell us what we’ve never considered. What do you think, Your Highness? Are you interested in liking us back?”

I wavered. As fans of Poet, that made them biased. Nevertheless, they were willing to listen. Cadence’s ugly words at the carnival’s hill still festered in my mind, but I had to believe people could change if given the chance.

Ineededto believe that.

And I confess, I had been thirsting for such a moment, to have female companions lounge in my suite without an obligation to do so. It would be nice to have allies left in Spring, possibly kindreds.

“Friends,” I mused, then cleared my throat. “Okay.”

Despite everything, the ladies hadn’t anticipated that. We glanced at one another, wondering what to do next, then sputtered into laughter.

***

The trio helped me into the roughspun dress. Tradition entailed that I forgo any grooming, so the ladies refrained from dusting my cheeks in rouge, rimming my eyes in pigment, painting my lips, or plaiting my hair. Instead, the layers hung in unkempt strands down my back, and the ladies placed the weed circlet atop my head.

After they wished me luck and swept from the room, I strayed to the balcony. My hands hooked over the ledge, the stone cool against my palms. I recalled my first day here, when I stood in this spot and wished desperately to be home, unaware of what was about to happen.

In every Season, contradictions existed. Savagery and beauty. Brutality and kindness. Pleasure and pain. Hate and love.

Every place had its scandalous courts and secret hideaways. They had their private alcoves and guarded halls. Their throne rooms and dungeons.

Spring had been heinous and bewitching. It had been intimidating, repulsive, hateful, inspiring, and alluring. Leaving would be a relief—and it would wreck me, because I couldn’t take everyone I wanted along.

“You look like a notorious wood nymph,” he joked from behind, his tenor easing my hold on the ledge.

“Many thanks,” I said with a dry chuckle while gazing at the vista.

Eliot approached and idled beside me with his lute strapped over one shoulder. He’d never been in my suite before. I had called for him, which was another bold move on my part. Not that I had cared.

We stared ahead. The makings of the carnival, with its torches and streamers and pavilions, sprouted from the rolling hills. The tents’ ornate shapes—some statuesque, others broad—looked as though they’d been spun from faeish glamour. Much later, flames would pulsate, illuminating the grounds. Drums would pound, firecrackers would burst, and inhibitions would flee the revelers. So many things were about to happen there, during periods of lightness and darkness.

Over the years, Eliot and I had enjoyed the Lark’s Night festival together. Early sunset activities, at least.

As a minstrel, he played a regular part in it. A lengthy break in his performance and the massive throng of bodies allowed us to spend a few hours by one another’s side, relishing the sights without anyone questioning us. At some point, we’d find a clandestine opportunity to hold hands, my smooth fingers laced with his callused ones.

Eliot had always had the opportunity to stay after nightfall, but although he was curious, he never did. He’d stuck by my side and walked me back to the ruins, where we parted ways.

My eyes watered. A host of unspoken words filtered through the silence.

Have I lost you? Have you slipped through my fingers?

“Eliot,” I said, the sob cracking from my lips.

“Briar,” he uttered.

We grabbed each other. His strong arms wove around me, and I clutched him in turn. He rubbed my back, and I brushed through his waves.

“Forgive me,” I whispered. “There is so much to say.”

“I feel the same,” he answered. “I’m sorry too—for everything.”

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