Page 91 of Trick

With a barely contained huff, she curtsied and straightened. “Anything catch your eye, Highness?”

She dropped the question at my feet like a grenade.

My mind tripped back to the array of ribbons, though none had been dyed red. Prudently, I did not respond to her query.

Posy and Vale beamed, heartened to see her. They sounded apologetic, because as they spoke with her, it became apparent that Cadence had been roaming with them before the group accidentally got separated. Instead of searching for their companion, Posy and Vale had soaked up an intimate moment and then joined me.

They had accompanied me and forgotten their friend. Although I empathized with Cadence, I couldn’t help reveling in being chosen. Especially while recalling how her eyes had feasted on Poet that first day, or how they’d traded familiar glances in the orchid garden.

According to Cadence, Vale had mentioned exploring this vault earlier. That was how she’d found us.

“We didn’t mean to leave you,” Posy said.

“You did what you had to do,” Cadence dismissed.

Because I was a princess. Because they were obligated to indulge me—to like me.

Cadence’s snide response spoiled my fantasy about being the preferred company. If I wanted to give this snob the benefit of the doubt, she had officially talked me out of it. Now that she was here, only courtesy forced me to invite Cadence on our excursion.

In her language, that meant dominating the flock. “Lisette, Questa, Rhiannon, and Freya should come, too. We can’t possibly do a thing without them.” Her neck extended as she slurped the remainder of the wine, then licked her lips. “No one left behind. Wouldn’t Your Esteemed Highness agree?”

“No, I would not,” I replied. “This is not a getaway. It’s a tour. Freya, Lisette, Questa, and Rhiannon—” deliberately, I listed them in alphabetical order, “—will live to partake in another one. Also, that’s too many people and will cause a racket.”

Wisely, Cadence elected not to browbeat the issue. Though, I would bet my coronation necklace that she rarely squatted over a latrine without her cliquey gang.

We exited the repository. After taking a random passage, we wandered into the artist wing, having come from an unfamiliar channel, despite my being in this area before. Torches stroked the walls and rugs in muted orange light. Most of the rooms were split by cul-de-sacs. The doors exhibited gilded nameplates, and the scent of herbs—charred yet sweet—lingered in the air.

My mind rioted at the prospect of loitering here. “Let’s go,” I hastened. “These are dull quarters.”

Unfortunately, the alcohol had long since fattened my companions’ pupils with impulsiveness. The courtiers traded an inspired look that scraped at my nerves, because it could mean only one thing.

One person.

They darted to Poet’s door in a fit of cackles, then knocked while remarking under their mirthful breaths about his pretentious plaque. They did so with admiration, as if he were the most amusing man on this damned continent.

An unpleasant fact dawned. They’d located his chambers without having to search. For unwelcome reasons, the notion triggered a vile side of me and raised my combative hackles.

I hustled after the ladies. My hiss of “Not him” came too late.

The door opened. Poet materialized, the sight of him plaguing me with impure thoughts. He wore a pair of bed hose that hung low off his waist and accentuated the slopes of his hipbones. Light from the nearby flames traced the expanse of skin, brought his taut pectorals into disturbing relief, and highlighted his tousled hair.

He hadn’t been sleeping. That much was clear from the lucid yet casual expression on his face. A husky noise resounded from his lungs, more from relaxation than exhaustion. And his eyes glittered with intrigue less than a second after answering the door.

I glowered at that insufferable rack of muscles, then at the hands he slowly propped on either side of the frame. This caused the ridges along his biceps to inflate, revealing a pair of arms that had the strength to bare his weight as he did pull-ups from a tree branch.

Apparently, a gardener must have clipped off Vale, Posy, and Cadence’s tongues. They ogled him in silence, unabashed and uninhibited.

Because I lingered apart from the courtiers, the jester’s attention settled on the ladies first.

An indentation dug into the corner of his lips. His fingers tapped the doorway, his short nails smeared with onyx paint. “Well, now. Aren’t you three a trilogy.”

“Count again,” I advised.

Green eyes clicked toward me. They flashed, then gleamed with elation. I wanted to tuck that visual in a box for safekeeping, to gaze at whenever I felt like it.

“We have a mission for you, sir,” Vale said.

“We’ve been searching the high seas for you,” Posy improvised.

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