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Later, it would progress. Come twilight, the carnival would deepen into an event marked by shadows and bonfires. Heady music and erotic dancing. Intoxication and cloistered nooks where couples would either disappear or welcome anyone who’d like to watch them.
That was the nature of Spring—lively by day, wolfish by night. In many ways, this culture reminded me of faerie lore, of a society that enjoyed its own degree of coltishness and devilry.
Basil and Fatima anticipated the revels with glee. As the designated Masters of Mischief, the Crown elected someone to play the carnival’s Fest Fool. Attendants would order the Fool to perform whatever inventive or humiliating feat the attendants fancied, then judge the Fool with either praise or scrutiny.
The Fool could be anyone, from a scullery maid, to an artist, to a Royal. The Crown planned to consult with Poet—presently on trial for his behavior in the throne room—and debate a list of candidates.
I had managed to convince the Royals that his outburst during the final Talk had done us no harm. Jesters were excitable after all, I’d claimed. And he hadn’t offended us publicly, so making an example of him wasn’t necessary.
However, Basil and Fatima had commanded Poet to kneel before us and apologize the next day. Because this was hardly a common occurrence, the Crown’s discomfort was evident.
By contrast, Poet had complied brilliantly and with a monumental amount of hidden scorn. Mostly he aimed it toward me, but at least his obedience had spared him further retribution.
Now three days before the event, builders began outfitting the hill, erecting stages, ivy-strewn tents, and pavilions. Workers made of steel hammered poles into the soil, the repetitive thwack of wood resounding across the vista.
Both Queens of Winter and the Seven joined us. The elderly monarchs supervised the structures’ interior arrangements and exterior layouts. The Seven gathered in a circle, threading garlands and leering at the craftsmen hewing, pounding, lifting, and sweating in the vicinity.
Mother and I volunteered to help. While balancing atop ladders, we fastened garlands—a red one and a gold one—to the top mast of a pavilion. By connecting all the venues that way, the cloths would sway from one structure to the next and form an attractive web one could see from a distance.
My chest gave a violent tug. The cords reminded me of Jinny’s cottage, the ribbons dangling from the ceiling to guide Nicu.
Mother said something, shaking me out of my trance. Under the baking sun, her eyebrows knitted, and I noticed a thread coming loose from her linen dress.
“Sorry?” I inquired, turning back to my work.
But from my periphery, she continued to stare. “I said, are you all right?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You’ve untied and retied that garland several times.”
I glanced at the red rope. “I’m a perfectionist.”
“You’re an overachiever.” Mother knotted her gold cloth to the base of the tent’s topper. “As a monarch, I’m proud. As a mother, I’m troubled.”
“I’m well.”
I had lost sleep. I had dreamed of him, thought about him, longed for him. I had wracked my soul for ways to atone, to convince him that he mattered. I’d searched for him in the halls. I’d considered going to him, fighting harder, not taking no for an answer. I longed to prove myself.
Sometimeshimwas Eliot. Sometimes he was someone else.
I drew in stinging gales of air through my nostrils.
A princess does not suffer in public.
Not unless the source of that suffering made an unexpected appearance.
The wind sighed. The tower bell rang.
Often, he arrived in a cacophony of sound. As far as I was concerned, the noises warned me too late. I sensed his bitterness before I mustered the courage to search for it. My eyes drifted across pennants draped limply across the grass, serrated tools, and bearded faces.
Then I tripped over a pair of venomous green irises. My gaze stalled along with my breath, both caught in the net of that stare.
Poet stood beside a partially raised tent, with a trio of performers who stretched absently and joked with each other. A shirt the chilled color of lead buffeted his form, the garment’s sleeves rolled up his forearms to reveal not only the bracelets but his knuckles smudged with dirt. Until now, he must have been volunteering in a different part of the grounds.
His neckline slumped low, his clavicles glazed in a thin layer of condensation. With his face tight and his eyes laced in black, he resembled a scornful fae, providing one took those irises into account, the color as sharp and verdant as cut glass.
From the sidelines, one of the male construction workers noticed the jester and walked straight into a pole. Though, Poet didn’t notice. Those orbs slid over me with contempt, then slid away—toward Eliot.
