Page 52 of Trick
A coarse blanket cocooned my body and gently scratched my chin. Muted voices sailed in from an unknown part of the house, interrupted by the peal of childish laughter.
The stranger and Poet.
And that fae boy. The one whom I hadn’t imagined, after all.
My pulse settled. I should be anxious about what had happened, about our whereabouts, and how long I’d been unconscious. I hadn’t trusted Poet when he left the castle, but he’d done nothing to harm me. No, he stepped in front of that leenix and told me to run while he dealt with the creature, knowing it could mean his death.
The jester had also warned me not to bring a rescue party back for him. The request had stumped me. However, thinking of that child, a hunch squatted in my gut.
The boy.
This cottage.
Sheltered in the middle of nowhere.
An elder and a stripling were hardly mercenary companions. Paranoid thoughts of becoming a prisoner receded, along with the possibility of them using me as bargaining chip for some nefarious cause. If any of them wanted to hurt me, they would have done so already.
My cloak hung from a wall peg, and the muffled conversations drifted. The whiff of vegetables coasted into my nostrils, wetting my palate and gnawing on my stomach.
I scooted across the mattress and winced from the tenderness in my thigh. Lifting the blanket, I discovered the blood-speckled cloth around my leg. The older woman had been kind, taking care of the wound.
The bedroom door squeaked. My shoulders tensed as the facade crept open.
A pert nose stuck through the gap, followed by a pair of short fingers grasping the wood, then the fae boy’s head popped inside. He had oval ears, a broad mouth, a scab on his wrist—a wrist strung with a scarlet ribbon—and the same clover irises as Poet.
We stared at each other. His gaze hopped all over me, his eyes eclipsing much of his face. The instant he noticed I was awake, he dashed to my side, and his voice rung like a bell.
“You’re Summer in my pocket,
and Winter likes to snore,
Spring waits in a locket,
but Autumn is a bore …”
The words amounted to gibberish. Be that as it may, his melodic tenor rivaled Eliot’s. Except where the minstrel hummed like a violin, this child sounded like a flute when he sang.
He finished with a bow, the final confirmation of his lineage and who sired him.
The motion knocked me from my stupor. I smiled and clapped.
Elated, the boy grinned, wide and lovely.
“Where’s my hug?” he asked. “Do I get a hug?”
Without waiting for my response, he flung himself at me. I gasped, my tentative arms winding around him. “There, there. Easy now,” I said, patting him awkwardly.
Nonplussed, I pulled back and tilted my head. So did he. What a bold request he’d made, sweet but spoken with a ravenous edge to it. Even from one so young, such a frenzied sort of friendliness struck a chord.
The past remarks Poet had made in defense of born souls came rushing back. Apprehension dawned, solidifying inside me. I couldn’t be overreacting. In addition to his fantastical features, if the child behaved like this in public, he would draw people’s attention like a red flag. In doing so, they might take a closer look.
Something I’d done or said seemed to tame the boy. He relaxed his grip on my clothes but didn’t move away. Instead, he blinked at me expectantly.
“You may have earned a hug, but I haven’t,” I said. “What shall we do about that?”
The boy contemplated. I nodded at him in encouragement.
A hand with dark-lacquered fingernails pushed open the door. Poet stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over us and settling on the child.