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Standing among the group, my friend’s wary gaze crept from me to the jester. Aware of the rift between us, Eliot seized the opportunity and reached out to touch Poet’s arm.
A prolonged stroke from shoulder to wrist. A gesture meant to steal Poet’s attention.
Their mutual ease proved that Eliot hadn’t confronted Poet about me. But presently, Eliot said something, to which Poet glanced at the minstrel’s fingers and then at him. The jester contemplated something within my friend’s words.
Whatever Eliot had told him, it was working.
My fingers curled, suffocating the cord still resting in my hands. A glutton for punishment, I watched them. Every second their eyes remained locked, another one of my ribs cracked. I didn’t know how to speak with this Eliot, nor with this Poet, now strangers who resented me to the point where I became insignificant.
They could be together without consequences. They had that luxury.
I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t born to have anyone I wanted, not if it conflicted with my station.
My kingdom owned me. My desires were the court’s desires, the people’s desires. My joys were their joys. My grief, their grief.
Yet for a few beautiful weeks, I had forgotten.
The world faded, reduced to blots of color and blurred voices. All that remained clear were Poet and Eliot as they settled into a pair of lawn chairs and shared a laugh, unconcerned whether I saw. Perhaps they even hoped I did.
It hurt, and I hated them for it, and I was sorry for it, and I understood it, and I didn’t understand any of it, and I missed them, and I longed, and I craved, and I needed, yet I shouldn’t, but I wished, and I wanted, but I couldn’t, yet I felt, and I felt, andfelt.
“Your Highness,” Mother vented. “Listen to me when I’m speaking to you.”
That voice carved through my consciousness. I twisted to Mother and snapped back, “I’mlistening.”
“Do not use that tone on me.”
“I was preoccupied for one moment. Am I not allowed that? I’ve been listening to you for twenty years. Is it not enough?”
“Your eyes are shadowed. You’ve been sluggish. You caused an uproar at the Peace Talks. You are far from well. You’re upset, and you won’t tell me why.”
“I won’t tell you why because I’m an adult. Let me breathe.”
“I am your mother and your queen,” she fumed. “You will remember that. If you insist on doing otherwise, then you’re not your father’s daughter.”
“If that will make it easier for you.”
She sucked in a breath. The words had jumped out before I could stop them, airborne and resounding like something blown from a horn.
The hammering and conversations ceased. Presumably, it had gone quiet a while ago.
Our audience stared openly. The Queens of Winter balked. The workers and performers cast awkward glances our way. The seven ladies watched with varying degrees of astonishment, intrigue, and validation, as if this sort of buzz would keep them busy for hours.
Eliot’s brows furrowed in concern.
From the corner of my eye, Poet reclined in his seat. His fingers were draped over his mouth as his eyes ticked between my mother and me.
Remorse wilted my insides. I shook my head. “Mother, I—”
But she swerved away and jerked on the ends of her garland, yanking it into a knot. “Get out of my sight.”
I deserved that. Yet I blanched that she would dismiss me without a chance to apologize, that she’d brought Father into this at all, and that she had used his memory to flay me.
Raising my chin, I tore down the ladder, aware of Poet’s gaze but refusing to acknowledge it. Within an hour, rumors would spread that Autumn had taken leave of its senses and quarreled in front of Winter, the Seven, the Court Jester, and a host of servants, builders, and artists.
And I did not care.
As I passed the ladies, Vale and Posy gave me sympathetic looks.
