Page 93 of Trick

Season lore had convinced the court’s residents into believing the labyrinth’s central well granted wishes to its visitors. It was also an attractive place to lose oneself. Poet seemed confident on how to get there without detection. I suspected he knew this castle more thoroughly than he let on. I wanted to see how much.

“Lead the way,” I commanded.

“As you like,” he said. “Allow me to dress first.”

“Must you?” Cadence lamented.

“Yes,” Eliot and I snapped at her.

In under five minutes, Poet returned looking ridiculous. He’d outfitted himself in a shirt the color of nightfall, which matched his dark pants and complemented a pair of high bronze boots. Though, that wasn’t the ridiculous part.

It was the shirt’s transparency that struck me dumb.

The sheer garment provided an unhampered view of his naked chest underneath. That broad, flexible torso filled out the material. Neither loose, nor tight, the transparent fabric draped down his frame like a tease.

The devious scoundrel hadn’t been lying about getting dressed. It managed to cover him while leaving nothing to the imagination.

Only he could manage to look both dangerous and enticing in such a fashion. Only this jester could make the ensemble work to his benefit, technically meeting everyone’s requirements for attire.

Especially his own.

Ignoring the insolent dash of my pulse, I squinted at him.I suppose you think you’re clever.

His mouth twitched as he stared back.I suppose you think you’re right.

Aside from the bronze crescent and black flecks decorating the corner of his right eye, he wore the scarlet bracelet, an accessory only I knew the truth about.

Every knot of tension thawed as I glimpsed the band of fabric.

The jester inclined his head. I mirrored the action, giving him leave to transport us. While Poet locked his door, I mouthed to Eliot that he should retrieve his lute. My bidding had the desired effect. He grinned, and my heart rejoiced.

As soon as Eliot reappeared from his room with the instrument strapped to his back, Poet instructed our group to clasp hands so that we formed a garland. Him at one end, me at the other.

“Come along, children,” he purred.

His request leached the surliness from us and spurred awkward chuckles that we struggled to tamp down. It proved difficult as he tugged us with him.

We passed through hallways, a gallery of stained glass art, and private rooms. No surprise, Poet knew which passages to cross without being seen by the night watch. Though, there were fewer sentinels in this wing of the palace.

At a compact walkway leading to a dead end, the jester paused. Promptly, the rest of us idled. We watched as Poet ran his palm along the smooth wall and spoke in low tones.

“They say, as people will say, that Spring is a curious thing, for it has much to say. Take a chance, a second glance. And according to lore, you might find a door.”

He craned his head at us and grinned like a demon.“And who knows what more.”

His hand flattened against the wall and pushed. This revealed a hidden seam in the facade, another one of the castle’s many private conduits. The masked entrance swung inward, and down its shaft we went.

Because this channel lacked torches, we funneled into a black well, with Poet’s voice shepherding the way. We clamped hands, making sure to keep a tight hold. Free of witnesses, something contagious took over and snipped the cord of tension. At the shaft’s landing and then along a tunnel, we unleashed and raced into the channel.

Farther into the unknown, the group became louder. The ladies and Eliot howled into the burrows, and I laughed. As for Poet, he remained so quiet, I wondered which of us he was listening to, which person made the noise that caught his attention.

We mounted another staircase and burst aboveground at the hem of the labyrinth, a coiling hedge maze that scrolled across the expanse. Its location aided us. Guards standing post along the parapets would not discover our clamor from this distance.

The first person to find the center would win a kiss of their choice. We scattered like nocturnal creatures, our speed kicking up gravel. I thought of Nicu, who would never be able to find his way out of here. I thought of Poet thinking of Nicu. I thought to rinse myself of history and tradition for this hour. I outran law, searching formore, fordifferent.

For someday.

This day.

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