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Curse this woman. I’d promised myself I would never lay my hands on a Royal, but raging this near to one, I changed my fucking mind.
“Oh, Sweet Thorn,” I husked, stroking my thumb down her arm, searing a path from her shoulder to her wrist. “That’s because you’re not standing close enough.”
Briar sucked in a breath and then leaned in. As her sleeve abraded mine, every whiff of Autumn chipped at my confidence.
Her voice snapped back, as quickly as a deck of cards. “How’s this?” she challenged in a whisper.
Applause. Because sometime between last night’s hall and this night’s garden, she found her nerve. And I lost mine.
8
Briar
The dressing table mirror threw my reflection back at me. My nightgown hung off my body in layers of pearlescent linen, and the neckline slumped down the knob of one shoulder. The bun in my hair slouched against my neck, the tendrils uprooted and hanging in red vines. I looked as rumpled as the unmade bed across the room.
Yet the crackling fireplace illuminated other raw details, namely the peachy tints mottling my face. Had my complexion ever looked this animated? Stress had to be the culprit. Either that, or I was merely overheated from the blaze.
Behind me, flames spit embers and doused the room in orange. I traced my index finger along the flushed slope of my jaw, then jolted to a halt. What was I doing? It was just a feverish tinge, nothing more and nothing to waste time on.
Beside a pot of lip balm and a set of combs laid out like silverware, a sheaf of parchment rested on the tabletop. I grabbed my quill and tapped the plume against my temple, then dropped my arm. The nib leaked onto the page, leaving a black stain. I had planned to reflect on Autumn’s current finances, including list of questions and concerns for Mother and me to examine later.
But my thoughts strayed, as they’d been doing since the garden revel three nights ago. Memories of a confrontation surfaced, crowding my head with unwanted visions. The clovers of his eyes glittering with resentment, combativeness, and something else—something foreign and even more disruptive. The paint twining around those orbs, the design like an iron gate closed off to strangers. That wayward grin playing at the corners of his lips.
Me, wanting to reach over and dab that grin back into a frown.
Him, stepping closer, daring me to try.
And then us, breaking apart and returning to the main lawn separately so the courtiers wouldn’t get the wrong impression. My attempt to converse with the Queens of Winter. My mother’s gaze, which had caught me glancing at Poet’s profile while he roamed from guest to guest.
Eliot, surrounded by the Seven. My friend, reciting the words to an old ballad—as he tended to do whenever in the grips of uncertainty—and then peeking at Poet.
Poet, watching me from across the lawn. Me, fighting to remain placid.
I’d touched him. On purpose.
Never had I pressed myself against someone in such a manner. I hadn’t liked it. In fact,likeseemed a flimsy description, too dull and inadequate for the disorder I’d felt.
The crushing press of my lungs. The itch across my flesh.
In this world, women could inherit thrones without having to marry, or we could choose to bond eternally with someone. We could be knights or seamstresses. We could be warriors, mothers, or both. It was our choice, yet at the same time, it wasn’t.
Class still reigned. People were expected to know their place among the ranks.
Nonetheless, the company of a jester had thrown me into a tailspin. I’d felt dizzy and overwhelmed, confident and fierce. Rank and hierarchy had ceased to exist.
Peel away the princess, and there lived a woman. Peel away the woman, and one discovered a heart that either raced or stopped, depending on what a man said or did. Regardless of my authority, the jester could disarm me. He could make me do things I wouldn’t normally do, absurd things like touch him back.
I had used impudent tactics to silence Poet. I’d confronted him with a breathy hiss and far too much proximity.
The sensations of being near him reemerged, bringing with them the reluctant stirrings of curiosity. A straining sort of ache nestled low in my body, in a place I only allowed myself to consider in rare moments of helplessness and frustration.
As if tethered to my thoughts, that same intimate place clenched. Suddenly, the upholstered chair felt too smooth, not rough enough to alleviate the twinge. I shifted until my core brushed against a hard spot, a corner that seemed to grip back. The friction ignited a spark, which blasted up my thighs.
I went still, which only worsened the need. And when I nudged my hips once more against the furnishing, the sensation returned, brighter and warmer this time. A shaky puff of air trembled from my mouth, so that I almost seized the table. It felt terrible and wonderful, bad and good, greedy and essential.
The slit between my thighs yearned for another pass. I sank my teeth into my lower lip, because I shouldn’t, because it made no sense, because no normal person would do this on a piece of furniture.
Would they? Anyone in Spring would know the answer.
