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I caught Jinny watching me and flushed. “I never meant to imply my class was too good for his,” I hastened to say. “It’s just not—”
“Allowed,” she deduced. “But what’s allowed and what happens aren’t always the same.”
“We’re merely tolerating each other.”
“Let me guess how this started. You didn’t happen to find a ribbon waiting when you arrived at the castle, did you?” And because my visible astonishment spoke for itself, she grunted. “We don’t keep secrets from each other. I’m mighty aware of what he does with those ribbons. Can’t say I agree with it, but he’s a grown man, and I know why he does it.”
The woman dumped another handful of berries into her basket. “I’ve known that scoundrel since he was a wee thing. Poet’s an arrogant one, vain as can be, and he’s got more lovers than a mother wants to count, but he’s also got a strong heart. He worships his son, would sever his limbs to keep that child safe, and would crush anyone who got in his way. He’s careful there, always has been.
“If he hated you, he would have gotten you stitched up quickly. Then he would have carried you like a sack of barley over his shoulder, back to court no matter the hour or how long it took, just so you wouldn’t be around long enough to notice Nicu.” She paused for effect. “But he kept you here. He told you about his sapling, and you’ve seen the runt for yourself.”
Poet formally introduced me to Nicu yesterday, after our talk. Nicu had taken to calling me Briar Patch.
“That tyke will hug the lungs out of strangers,” Jinny confessed. “He can list every herb in these parts, but ask him where to find them, and he won’t know what you’re talking about. Ask him where north is, and he’ll point to your feet. Ask him where I sleep, and he won’t be able to tell you without checking the ceiling cords. Poet trusts you knowing this. Respects you, even.”
She leaned back, musing. “Look at you, picking berries in the mud with me, saying I can call you by your name.” Her gaze probed mine. “You’re a Royal who thinks differently about people. Am I right?”
Comprehending what she really asked, I nodded.
She nodded back. “And don’t think I believe that drivel about you and Poet. You’re tolerating each other, you say? There’s the kind of static that tears people apart, and there’s the kind that draws people together like moths to flames, no matter how they try to prevent it. He’s got the sexual whims of a satyr, born with a tongue to spice tarts and spread legs, but those things never kept his attention for this long. Dismissing that won’t do either of you any good, so have a care.”
I swerved toward the bushes and fixated on my task. It would be rude to correct her, so I did not bother.
***
We worked until twilight embossed the trees with a gray-blue light. Poet and Nicu must have returned sometime before then without us noticing, because their voices drifted from the kitchen as we entered. The child sat perched on the counter and clapped with glee while his father juggled nectarines around his head.
Jinny beamed, affection loosening the wrinkles across her face. She wiped her hands loudly. “Well. Now I know why my nectarines always have bruises.”
Then Nicu saw me and squealed, “Briar Patch!”
To which Poet swung around, a criticism no doubt poised on his lips. But then he halted, and his eyes skated over my figure. Mortification scalded my flesh. Bits of soil caked my fingernails, grit and berry stains mottled the dress I’d borrowed, and sweat coated my skin beneath the slumped neckline, the top clasps having come undone.
Also, my hair hung freely. It must resemble a hedge by now. The locks tumbled over my shoulders in messy red thickets, the tresses snarled and clumped.
If anyone at court saw me this way, I would never hear the end of it. Disgrace would brand me for the rest of my days in Spring.
Poet donned leather pants and a vest that clung to his frame, the sleeveless garment flaunting a pair of biceps that could have been hewn from rock. Compared with that, I looked a shambles.
Yet instead of smirking in triumph, issuing a snarky comment about my appearance, and then bribing me over this candid moment, the jester merely stared. The pome rested in his hand, forgotten. Those green irises tracked across my face, skimming my hair as if he’d never seen the color before.
My stomach lurched. A fluttery sensation rushed up my body.
As we inspected one another from across the cottage, the temperature seemed to rise either from the fireplace or the boiling cauldron hooked inside.
An aged throat cleared. The noise sawed through our trance. Even so, Jinny’s visage crinkled in amusement.
We sat around the table, the aromas of beef, carrots, and bay leaves permeating the kitchen. Poet and Jinny were vigilant to keep every object—from forks to napkins—in the same spots, no matter how often they were used, to prevent inconsistencies from misdirecting Nicu.
I paid attention and did the same, which earned me several incomprehensible looks from his father.
During the meal, each family member attempted to dominate the conversation, inundating the kitchen with anecdotes, wisecracks, and stories. At one point, Jinny told me, “My Poet wasn’t always a sly one. The first time he practiced flipping—”
Poet palmed his face in abject misery. “Didn’t we just talk about this? I told you to stop with that bloody story.”
This only fueled my curiosity. “What happened?”
But halfway through the tale, Poet leaned across the table. “That does it.”
