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Shocked, I glanced down and registered the tablecloth suffocating in my death-grip. I had unconsciously yanked on it, sending everything into disarray.
The elastic male landed on one hand and both knees. He wasn’t kneeling in front of me as I had anticipated. Instead, he fronted my mother, to whom he proffered the flickering candle with a bowed head.
King Basil of Spring gained his feet. “My fellow monarchs of the Seasons,” he boasted. “I give you Poet, the Court Jester of Spring.”
Nobles erupted into applauses and hoots, male and female knights hammered their knuckles on the tables, and the Seven squeaked like aroused mice. The clamor made the ground rumble.
The figure lifted his head, revealing himself in the toasted glow of the room.
And I released the tablecloth. I might have dropped my chalice of nectar, had I been holding it.
I’d expected a pleasant face.
That was not what greeted me.
4
Briar
I saw vicious, green irises. I saw wicked lips and a great deal of trouble.
A long, black diamond pierced through one amused eye. A simpler thread of kohl lined the other orb.
He was older than me, perhaps exceeding my age by one or two years.
Poet. A jester. A beautiful one.
How did I not realize what he was the moment his limbs had pivoted?
It must have been the absence of a costume. His appearance defied tradition, lacking the typical motley ensemble of flaps, bell cap, and jester’s staff.
Instead, he’d outfitted himself in dark hose trimmed with whorls of fine thread—authentic, expensive, gold thread—and nothing else. The chiseled plains of his torso rose and fell, his attributes exposed and taking up far too much space in the room.
He ignored me. Instead, the jester focused on my mother, his arm extended to offer her the candle in a droll imitation of chivalry. With a genial laugh, she accepted the light and wedged it into the nearest pillar.
As the guests raved, Poet rose to his feet, spread his arms wide, and gave a series of flamboyant bows to each table. His grin revealed a slightly crooked upper tooth, the naughty canine peeking out from the rest of his teeth.
Honestly, I had no exclusive cause to dislike him. Not when I scarcely knew him.
It was because of Eliot, I told myself. Absolutely because of Eliot, who stood in the corner with the other minstrels, his gaze melting like butter all over Poet. All because this rake of a jester was using my friend.
One of the servants tossed Poet a pouch. From it, he withdrew six more candles and distributed them to the monarchs, as tokens of welcome. Using my mother’s taper, they created their own flames, partially brightening the hall once more.
With a final bow, the jester turned, excluding me from the gesture. I pretended not to care. I even went so far as to audibly harrumph.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
Poet paused mid-saunter, catching the sound.
The moment suspended itself like a held breath. Then he twirled—literally twirled around—and the ribbons encircling his wrist flapped. With that, he scanned the room as though remembering something important.
Hmm, that devious expression said.I’ve neglected someone. Who could it be?
His eyes scrolled across the hall, those notorious irises searching the crowd. The Seven snickered while I resisted the urge to throw a scowl in their direction.
The jester’s gaze floated across the congregation, then latched onto me. Those coltish orbs glittered with a threatening sort of mischief—and familiarity, as if they had already memorized my features, as if he’d caught sight of me long before I caught sight of him. The density of his stare pushed into me, the pressure similar to the invisible weight from earlier.
An alarm bell rung in my head as endless pairs of eyes fixated on us. Refusing to cower, I raised my chin. Our audience watched as the jester strolled toward me while slipping a hand into the pouch. Petulant though it was, I would accept the stupid candle and then purposefully leave it unlit. It would send a message that I found his stunts lacking and unworthy of compliments.
