Page 35 of Trick

I thought of the ribbon the jester had left me, targeting me as his latest victim. Shutting the window, I stalked over to the wardrobe and grabbed a mahogany wool frock, along with a matching cloak. The hood would shield my face from recognition during the night patrol.

From my dresser drawer, I retrieved his little token of affection. I should have dealt with this sooner.

***

The jester must have a room somewhere close to Eliot. I used the hidden passage leading from my suite to a mezzanine adorned in potted lilies, then peeked out the doorway to make sure the neighboring walkways were clear. A guard’s silhouette vanished around a corner, and I counted several minutes before continuing.

In the glare of a torch sconce, I slipped around the pulsating light, then scurried past a flickering chandelier. From the east wing, I griped my skirt and darted between nooks, behind pillars, and hastened along passages while glancing repeatedly over my shoulder.

Once I reached the right stairwell and hiked three flights of steps, I landed in the artist wing. From there, it proved easy to locate the door belonging to Poet. As the most ostentatious entrance of them all, it flourished in a separate hollow.

It also boasted a plaque that read,Court Jester.

Beneath that,Give me a rhyme, and I shall give you time.

I rolled my eyes. Show-off.

Keeping the ribbon would send the wrong message and give the man license to meddle with me. The moment he answered the door, I would drop it in his palm and leave—with squared shoulders and definitely before he had the chance to open his mouth.

Leaning back, I swung my head left and right to check the corridor. Rumors were the enemy. The aloof, virginal Princess of Autumn loitering outside the Court Jester’s den of vice would not look good.

Since the knocker would echo, my knuckles tapped lightly on the wooden surface instead. I waited, then tried once more.

Nothing. No answer.

Darkness leaked from under the door. Poet didn’t seem like the type to be sleeping yet. He might be out doing lord-knew-what, carousing somewhere in these halls or in the town’s tavern, having charmed the sentinels into raising the portcullis and letting him through the gate.

He could have taken a trip to one of the local brothels. Perhaps he’d brought Eliot with him, intent on doing more damage to my friend.

Every day at dusk, I’d wrangled a free moment out of my social obligations to meet Eliot at the ruins. Of the many subjects we could have jumped into, he focused on only one. Rather than telling me how his family fared or about his latest musical endeavors, he’d ruminate over Poet and ask my advice.

Thus far, I had kept my answers neutral. I wanted to be wrong about Poet. He could have been telling the truth, that he’d planned on remedying the situation with Eliot before I had interrupted them the other night.

But that had been three days ago. What had Poet been doing since then? If he didn’t say something to Eliot soon, I would.

I bumped my knuckles against the facade. The entrance nudged open, the latch’s click stunning my ears. The calculative jester wouldn’t have forgotten to lock the door, but why else would he leave the room unbolted?

Hesitation and guilt brought me up short. I had done many things in my life, but violating someone’s privacy was not one of them. However, if the jester could steal into my quarters with the ribbon, I would do the same.

Warning myself to be quick, I pushed past the door and stepped into his chambers, closing the partition behind me. Moonlight spilled through the bay windows, casting a blue film across the floor.

It was a spacious interior, neatly kept, and adorned in rich shades and textures—an antechamber leading into the bedroom; dark wood paneling; stained glass panes depicting taper candles that matched the ones propped in the wall sconces; and upholstered tapestry chairs and ottomans, which fronted a fireplace wide and tall enough for its resident to stand in.

I tarried, astonished. This lavish set of chambers wasn’t the residence of someone with a low rank.

A sideboard held a stemmed bowl of grapes. A corner bookshelf reached the ceiling, the stacks crammed with volumes of history, verse, and pornographic novels. A vanity table overflowed with thin brushes, vials of pigment, and lidded pots.

One passage led to a bathroom with a brass tub and a glass wall overlooking a garden, while the other passage led to a walk-in wardrobe packed with textiles, the shades ranging from black to garnet.

The spiced scent of him infused my lungs.

A heavy trunk stood open, supplied with props of his craft. Amid the clubs, globes, and spiked rings, a baldric held a row of daggers. My fingers grazed the hilt of one knife, then jerked away.

Cabinets embedded into the wardrobe. The upper storage held an organized array of knits and boots and … I had no idea what to call them.

Frowning, I stepped closer to inspect one of the mantels, where several velvet-lined containers rested side by side. The compartments held a rod with a fringed tassel affixed to the end, an ornate riding crop, a thick silk cord, an elegant red mask trimmed in gold, and a black blindfold. Everything sat there, arranged elegantly like jewels.

Flummoxed, I squinted. Three seconds later, my face slackened in comprehension.

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