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And other confidential times, it was a seduction, an enticement—providing I saw interest, an unspoken invitation in their eyes.
Always, the former targets either lost their clout or their nerve to retaliate. Either that, or they laughed at themselves and reconsidered their viewpoints, because my jests were that good, that perceptive, that well placed.
As for the latter targets who dropped their chamber keys in my pocket, they kept quiet about what I did to them, loving the exclusivity of it.
The princess had been none of those things. Nay, she had been a test. Hellbent on either verifying or revoking her flinty reputation, I made her the first night’s quest.
Ultimately, she could have been a good sport and laughed at herself dismissively, thus extinguishing the rumors about her. That would have given her power, a sight I would have enjoyed, an outcome that would have won her widespread approval.
Yet she hadn’t laughed, and more’s the pity. Thus, her reputation remained intact.
One might say our paths crossed accidentally in the hall of mirrors. Technically, I’d been done with her by then. Targeting the same person more than once got old quickly.
Or one might say I had watched Briar leaving the great hall, as I’d been watching her throughout the feast. Whilst mingling with the court—and trying to recall who the hell I was talking to—that combustible red hair and ramrod posture seized my attention. The instant she had released her chokehold on that poor, innocent dinner fork and shuffled from the room, I’d had an itch.
The devil knows why. Only that she had taken my gesture so vehemently, as if I’d poured acid into her chalice. And how intriguing. No dignified Autumn woman was that corrosive, much less its future ruler.
So one might say I followed the princess. And one might say I hadn’t been able to help myself.
What a ripe scene as her silhouette attempted to imitate my dance. She’d done such a miserable job that I fluctuated between amused, flattered, and irritated.
Aye. Indeed, my grand entrance had been worth it.
The Royal’s eyebrows had vaulted into her hairline. An astonished bolt of pink had lanced up her cheeks—not out of shyness but an attractive sort of combativeness. Despite how I’d angered Briar, the challenge had also fueled her. Such a radical and primitive reaction for that waspish heiress of Autumn, that prude from the land of Could Not, Should Not, Would Not.
At first glance, her tight face, tight lips, and even tighter temper lured the troublemaker in me. Then her accusations offended the fuck out of me, roused the adversary in me. To say nothing of her interest in my bracelets.
Provoking a skilled fool was a mistake. No one broke the Court Jester’s rules and got away with it. Thusly, I’d homed in, wielded my tongue like a blade, and gave the woman a dose of her own candor.
My words hit their mark, ignited a spark.
And wicked hell. I’d enjoyed that part.
Bloody knock number three. “Sir?”
For fuck’s sake, I rolled my eyes.Sirbored me. I was notSir, butPoet.
Sauntering to the vanity table, I dabbed a brush into a vial of kohl and swiped the tip along my lower eyelids. The line of color extended to the edge, below my lashes. A mere thread of black did wonders for enhancing—and disguising.
After quitting the room, I approached the guard who paced outside and muttered complaints to himself. I made a joke, something too amateurish to congratulate myself for. Not my best effort, but I had an excuse since the princess still took up valuable space in my head.
Anyway, the guard’s frown dissolved into a snicker. For the price of a sloppy quip, I was forgiven for delaying.
Most times, it was far too easy.
But sometimes, it was more difficult.
Sometimes, a rare challenge came along. And sometimes, that challenge wore a crown.
***
In the circular throne room, stained glass trees cut through mullioned windows. At the center, the Royals sat around an opulent table. Papers, illustrated tomes, carafes of nectar, and untouched flagons of wine graced the wooden surface.
The shrunken Queens of Winter studied me. The ruler of Autumn glanced down in discreet amusement. Laughter rolled from the mouths of my Spring sovereigns. The Queen of Summer fanned herself whilst her husband beheaded me with his eyes.
They’d been discussing Lark’s Night, the annual sunset carnival that Spring hosted to celebrate the close of the Peace Talks. The revels would take place in a month, but preparations were well under way. As a grand gesture of unity, the Royals had discussed allowing Spring’s servants and local commoners to attend the event. A novelty, as it was usually exclusive to the court and contributing artists.
The cantankerous Summer King had objected. Then the asshole compromised by suggesting “inferiors” could attend the fest’s final hour.
