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Hewould know the answer.
The fireplace writhed and tossed scorching colors across the rug. I jutted atop the seat again, a small noise curled from my lips—and I dropped the quill. It thumped against the paper and rolled off the edge.
On a gasp, I froze. Then I launched from my chair. Mortified, I paced a favorable distance from the flames. No respectable Autumn native would debase herself like this.
What had gotten into me? Why had I donethat?
And why did I want to do it again?
It had to be Spring’s doing. The Season was testing me. Being here was compromising my composure and sense.
After several leagues, my skin cooled, the crease in my body calmed down, and blessed sanity returned. With it, another memory came to mind, one I could deal with.
You make fools of so-called fools.
I dumped myself into the chair. Poet’s words had been even more potent than his physical presence. And he was right. The smudge of embarrassment I’d felt during the feast did not compare to how we let others be treated.
Others. That was also the problem, that we allowed ourselves to think of anyone as another.
I could easily fill pages contesting our manifestos about equality and humanity. I could write without stopping. I could do that.
Father would advise me to think without dwelling, then write without scrutinizing. His guidance perplexed me, though I missed it so much. In my mind, I saw his face, the crinkling of skin around his platinum eyes, the lopsided tilt of his beard whenever he smiled, and the Y-shaped battle scar across his cheek.
A lump expanded in my throat. Unlike the details of his face, time had eclipsed his voice. The years had dissolved the memory of his baritone, the way water swallowed droplets of blood.
Anguish swam at the corners of my eyes.I wish you were here.
The antechamber door creaked open. Quickly, I sucked up the tears and rolled my shoulders into place.
Mother swept into the bedroom. Swaths of eggplant satin hugged her curves, and her feet were unshod. Sometimes the courtiers did that in Spring—ran through the castle barefooted. Complying with their customs would be expected of a visiting queen.
Mother paused behind me. “Is everything all right?” she asked my reflection. “I can’t tell if you’re glowing or have a temperature.”
I mustered a rueful but detached smile. “It’s been a long day.”
“Then you must rest. I’ve come to bid you goodnight.”
Was it that late already? I glanced at the candle twitching atop the table. Twelve lines marked into the wax indicated the passage of each hour. Indeed, the flame had burned down to the next groove.
“How is my dearest?” Mother inquired.
“Dear,” I responded to her likeness.
“You’ve been behaving in my absence? Staying away from suitors? Avoiding scandals?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“Then I should have raised you better,” she quipped, though a hint of truth dangled from her words. She rested her hands on my shoulders and stared at me in the mirror. Sometimes I feared she saw Father’s face there, the life I had taken from her.
Being in Spring smothered our relationship further. After that first evening, she had stopped advising me on what to wear and how to behave. Moreover, she ceased making hints about us sharing a suite, sharing private time together, sharing secrets.
I touched the Court Jester. I don’t trust him.
I miss Father. I miss home.
I miss you.
“Dearest.” Mother released my shoulders, grasped the back of my chair, and bent forward, her profile hovering beside mine. “I only want you to take joy in these days. You could make friends here. Or perhaps there’s something in particular you’d like to talk about?”
