Page 53 of Trick
Instantly, the jester transformed. The look on his face bespoke of such tenderness that I’d never seen from him.
Instead of introducing us, he tugged on the boy’s ear. “Jinny’s waiting for you. She wanted you to fetch her shawl from her room, remember?” He cupped a palm beside his mouth and said conspiratorially, “Follow the yellow ribbons. Quick now, and then she’ll let you sit by the window. The rain is waiting for your audience.”
Giggles bubbled from the child. He skipped off, chortling as Poet smacked his little backside on the way out.
The storm beat its fists against the cottage, the torrent battering the windowpanes as though desperate to get inside. I arranged the blanket around my legs, feeling absurdly Royal in the process.
Poet slouched a shoulder against the jamb. His lucid eyes sketched me, traveling from the layers sticking out like straw from my unkempt braid to the rumpled mahogany gown hanging off my body like a sack. I weathered his attention, resisting the urge to tidy what was left of my plaited locks, as if a groomed appearance would vouch for my trustworthiness. Nonetheless, I felt his scrutiny, the texture of it like a serrated knife angled against my throat.
In his mind, only one person in this room posed a threat. And it wasn’t him.
Whatever conclusion he drew, the jester kept it to himself. Without glancing away, he straightened—and closed the door.
The hinges clicked. The sound pinched the space between my shoulder blades.
Poet stalked inside, dragged a chair over to the bed, and sat. He wore loose hose and a fresh shirt with the drawstrings undone. The plunging V revealed his collarbone and the sleek muscles that tracked down his torso, his abdomen stacked like bricks.
Heat slithered up my thighs, unbidden and unwelcome. I shifted on the mattress, awash in shock, mortification, and shame. Because I had already seen his bare chest at the feast, my body’s reaction was an enigma I didn’t know what to do with.
Threads of black lined the bottoms of Poet’s eyes. Apart from that and his coated fingernails, the simplicity of his appearance unsettled me.
His unadorned face. The modest clothing, which lacked ornamentation or finery. That glimpse of skin and sinew.
Seeing the jester this way felt intimate, especially in a compact chamber with no one else here. Lounging in humble attire, he still managed to look imposing, yet in an unfamiliar way.
I had the strangest urge to make him appear even less recognizable, to smudge the black beneath his eyes, to turn it into a flaw. It wasn’t about making him less impeccable. No, it was more about disheveling him further and finding out what that looked like.
My eyes flitted away. It was the attack last night. That had to be causing this wholly inappropriate upheaval inside me.
As I twisted back, my spine stiffened.
There. Dignity preserved.
Poet lifted something I hadn’t realized he’d been holding—a bread bowl of pureed soup, the aroma of carrots rising from the creamy liquid.
I wondered where the flour had come from. If had been sourced from the castle, then it wouldn’t be Spring grain. It would be from Autumn, since Basil and Fatima expected the best, and the best came from Autumn’s mills. I’d be able to tell from the taste.
Poet blew on the soup and held out a spoonful. “Open wide, Your Highness. I promise, it’s not poisoned.” But when I made no reply, he added, “Come now, no need to frown. ’Tis not as though you narrowly escaped an attempted leenix maiming.”
I took the bowl and spoon. “I can feed myself.”
“Please do. I’m too pretty to be doing a thankless job.”
“I did not mean …” Salvaging what was left of my manners, I set the bowl on my lap. “Chasing you into the forest was a foolish impulse. I was asking for trouble, so thank you for taking care of me. The soup smells wonderful.”
“I made it.”
I balked. “You?”
“I diced the carrots. I’ll have you know, ’tis a crucial task,” he defended. “In fairness, I’m the one who should be grateful. You would have been safe if you’d listened to me and ran, and though I wish you had, it’s nice to be alive. Because of you, I’m in one piece, and my s …” He trailed off. “You must know, I wasn’t thrilled about having my comely face torn off. By the way, it won’t do the soup any good to stay in the bowl.”
Poet possessed several types of wit. I was beginning to recognize the differences between them. Depending on the tilt of his mouth and the depth of his voice, he exercised that tongue for amusement, seduction, coercion, or annihilation.
Or for disguising the truth.
I dabbed the spoon into the bowl and summoned the courage to ask, “How old is he?”
A crippling silence ensued. As a Royal, answers were handed to me on a platter at my command. I’d never had to humble myself and earn them—a refreshing change that I welcomed.