Page 65 of Trick

“Wow,” I joked.

“Hush,” he ordered.

Poet closed his eyes and whipped out his arm. The pebble launched into the air, then pivoted and grazed the surface like a tease. After the fourth bump, it spun and dove into the water.

He whirled and stuck his tongue out at me, the action triggering my sportive side.

We competed, tossing rubble into the bank without speaking. After the impropriety of hours ago, this was a welcome shift—simple, easy, and uncomplicated. The time slipped by in companionable silence. The rolling pebbles, babbling stream, and wordless challenges to see who could master a better throw distracted us.

“I insist you tell me where learned your tricks,” I said. “You don’t grow up in isolation and miraculously learn how to read, pen verse, speak like a noble, juggle daggers, and dance. And do not get me started on learning politics to the point of advising the monarchy after only one year of residency.”

The jester shrugged. “Fests and revels are in my blood. I have a love-hate relationship with them. My birth parents thought it a fine idea to dump me in a rather animated place, and I became obsessed whilst growing up, having been lost and found in one.

“Mayhap I dragged Jinny to carnivals because I was searching for my parents, but I went home amazed by the sights and sounds—and haunted by them. I was torn, so I avoided the areas where they baited born souls. Instead, I studied the performers and understood how they moved. I can’t explain it. I gave myself a slew of cuts, bruises, and fractures, but I replicated the artists’ movements until I could do them blindfolded.

“When I was old enough to venture out on my own, I made it a routine. Every week, I’d find the next attraction by walking there or sneaking rides on wagons. I paid attention to every jester, acrobat, aerialist, and dancer, and I charmed them into teaching me.

“Then at home, I practiced and experimented. When I grew proficient enough, I became a performer. That’s how I earned money to help Jinny.

“I listened to storytellers and musicians. I eavesdropped on the titled and soaked up their speech. Whatever I heard stuck in my mind. I don’t know why or how, but lucky me.”

Careful not to aggravate my stitched leg, I gingerly plucked another stone from the grass. “You learned purely from listening to them?”

“Isn’t that how we learn language to begin with? Stranger things have happened, Princess. Fair words and verse attracted me, so I devoted myself to them.”

I furrowed my brow. “People cannot advance themselves without tutors or books. They need experience and official training.”

“Don’t be a snob, Highness. You’ve been doing so well, wearing your hair down and everything.”

“I’m being pragmatic. I was bred in a castle. You’re negating my studies.”

“Nay, I’m saying there are other ways to be taught.” He sounded insulted. “One can achieve whatever they want if passionate about it and as fortunate, or sneaky, as I was. I learned to read by stealing anything with writing on it—scrolls, announcements, discarded letters—and teaching myself.

“And I grew up among the common folk, who had plenty of opinions about the court, the monarchy, and their governing rules. Thereupon, I digested what people had to say and then formed my own ideas, and I discovered a knack for expressing those ideas by twisting my words.

“After the Crown summoned me, I submerged myself deeper into the craft. Even before that, from the moment I saw what born souls were forced into, I thought about how I could stop it from continuing. Do I get to learn your secrets next?”

No, he didn’t. Not in these woods.

Nonetheless, I hesitated. “What would you care to know?”

However partial, my willingness caught Poet off guard. He opened his mouth but then closed it, apparently changing his mind about whatever he’d been ready to ask.

“Your favorite Season,” he said at last.

A chuckle burst from my lips. “Well, now you’re getting too personal.”

The jester’s mouth quirked, a wily divot burrowing into his cheek.

We continued our game of throwing pebbles while listing our favorite things, the rule being they had to be simple pleasures, and they couldn’t involve family or friends, because that was too easy.

Me: the tartness of green apples, the creak of carriage wheels, the scent of campfires, the gleam of an illuminated manuscript, and droplets of ink.

Him: the taste of wine, the touch of velvet against his skin, the tip of a brush sliding across his face, a man or woman’s moan before they came, and the soaked heat of a kiss.

Those last two points led to images of Poet tasting someone, splaying them wide, and pulling noises from their mouth with every lurch of his hips. My blood spiked, the sensation grating and enthralling. I didn’t like picturing him with some imaginary bed partner, yet curiosity wedged its way in.

The conversation shifted to individual talents. Poet’s eyes gleamed as he juggled a stone, then tossed it. “I know how to curl my tongue.”

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