Page 59 of Trick

But she ignored me. “You have to be gentle to keep them from popping and draining of juice, see?” She molded our hands together, her skin warmer than mine. “My mother taught me it’s all in the sleight of hand. If done right, we’ll have the gift of sweetness.”

Her tone softened, reverential and conspiratorial, as though imparting a secret.

I had a grandaunt back home, a matriarch I liked very much but who seldom visited. Apart from that, Mother and I only had each other.

How long had it been since we shared a moment like this? How long since I allowed it?

A lump bloated in my throat. I relaxed, yielding to Jinny’s instruction.

Once she released me, I found my rhythm. We worked in silence, moving from shrub to shrub while occasionally sampling the fruit. Although I remained seated, my joints groaned, and sweat beaded in patches across the dress.

Jinny told me about the flora of Spring. This land wasn’t nearly as advanced in medicine as Winter—no other Season could make that claim—but every kingdom grew its own magic.

In Spring, nature yielded basic restoratives, from cures to antidotes. Those, in addition to robust hallucinogenics, aphrodisiacs, contraceptives, and preventatives against diseases that developed from copulation. Though this being the Season of rebirth, the latter ailment was rare.

The woman didn’t pry or ask me questions about myself. It felt surreal being someplace where no one could find me, instead of cloistered in a fortress, fraught with schedules and obligations and etiquette.

Not that I minded those things. Routines were reliable, customs steadfast.

Yet it felt nice to be free of prying eyes and gazes consuming me wherever I went. The weight of everyone’s attention leaked from my shoulders.

Truth be told, I wished I had more time for harvesting back home. I liked to feel my hands burrowing into the earth, contributing to its lifecycle. The dirtier my fingers got, the more a defiant sort of curiosity sprouted inside me, the sensation tickling my stomach.

Jinny made a noise of bemusement. “Never thought I’d see a day when a princess got her fingernails caked. Never thought I’d see a day when Poet ripened for a Royal, neither.”

I jerked upright, knocking over the basket. “It’s not that way between us.”

She must know such a thing was forbidden anyway. However powerful, renowned, and desired Poet was, tradition outweighed that. Our differences in rank placed us worlds apart, and anything serious would be impossible, even if we wanted it.

Which neither of us did.

Jinny’s face pinched. Evidently, she heard my unspoken thoughts. But before I could beg her pardon, she said, “He was offered a lordship.”

I stopped myself from crushing a handful of berries and squirting juice everywhere. “Basil and Fatima offered to give Poet a title?”

“Property, too. Upon retirement, that is. It happens when a jester becomes as worshipped as him. My boy walks into a room, and every head turns. It doesn’t matter who holds the highest office. Either they’re lusting after him, or they’re waiting with baited breaths, eager to find out what he’ll do or say.”

“So you’ve been to court.”

“Nah. I may not attend, but I don’t need to. My son’s fame has traveled, and he’s confirmed or denied every bit of gossip to me. Also, it’s hard not to imagine.” She shook her head wryly and turned the basket right side up. “As for King Basil and Queen Fatima, he’s their most valued asset. When people have that much prestige, they get right spoiled. It wouldn’t be the first time in history.”

Fair enough. I’d always known this, yet still. “Poet never said anything.”

“When was he supposed to do that?” she countered, then shrugged. “Besides, what does it matter? Poet respectfully—and carefully—rejected the offer. So that he wouldn’t insult the Crown, the trickster had made it sound like he couldn’t bear to be away from them, even in the future.”

I balked. “But why?”

The woman raised her eyebrows and gave me a look that said,Why do you think?

Oh. A knob inside my chest twisted. Having a title would yield more influence, but it would also garner more watchful eyes than his popularity had already won him, which could endanger the secrets he tried to keep. It would mean increased public responsibilities and less time with his family.

Property for Nicu and Jinny upon retirement wouldn’t safeguard them. Not with a bevy of indiscreet—and likely intolerant—servants bustling through the halls. Moreover, it would mean a separation from the Crown, which was where Poet needed to be if he wanted to best protect Nicu.

Near his monarchs, Poet could monitor them for decades, steer them in whatever direction he wanted. But away from his king and queen, he would lose that leverage.

I understood this. It was a delicate balance, a power play that required tact and proximity.

The jester might call it a juggling act.

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