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I folded in my lips, containing a dry laugh. Inwardly, I agreed with the sentiment. I liked hearing him make those noises, too.
Strolling back to the cottage, I reaped the rewards of my victory. I recapped my best throwing moves and his worst, as though we’d been in a jousting match.
Poet tried to revoke my point system. I accused him of being a sore loser.
The rest of the way, we lapsed into another bout of quiet, this one comfortable. I savored the unspoken truce we’d reached. Traipsing through the forest, I hadn’t felt this carefree in ages, not even with Eliot.
I liked this version of Poet. I think he liked this version of me.
Minutes later, he halted and stared at the cottage. Smoke puffed from the chimney, wisps dissolving into the quarter-moon and carrying the savory aromas of dinner.
“He deserves more than me,” Poet said.
I swung my gaze to his pensive profile. “That’s not true.”
“There’s nothing bad about Nicu. He’s spectacular, yet his condition endangers him, and that’s my fault. For I’m the one who made him.”
The instant I touched his sleeve, his eyes snapped toward me. “You’ve told me what you believe a fool is,” I said. “But there’s more. A fool is a man who sees his worth in a mirror, and in the faces of a crowd, but is oblivious to it elsewhere—where it counts above all, in the eyes of those who matter the most to him. Don’t insult yourself that way.”
There was another reason I vowed to keep his secret safe. I knew what it was like to be responsible for the fate of someone I loved. Just as well, I knew the bite of letting others down and owing them far more than I was able to give.
The difference was, Poet didn’t deserve that anguish.
Seasons, I admired his resilience. He had the stomach to make the world laugh, when that same world would laugh at his son. To say anything he wanted, while saying nothing about his life. To be the desired “fool,” while his son remained the condemned one. To let everyone think he had no depth of character, that he embodied only humor, seduction, and sin.
More than being captured in his stare, I sought to catch him in mine. When Jinny had stitched me, I’d bled and wept in front of Poet. I sprayed his face with spittle. He witnessed me delirious and suffering, then entrusted his secrets to me.
Poet had seen me loud. And now I’d seen him quiet.
Being this honest with someone felt like a luxury. I must have been starved for it, because right then, years of decorum vanished.
“I’ve addressed the whole of my kingdom,” I told him. “I’ve reassured peasants and rallied armies with my mother. But with no one around, I’ve managed to stay your tongue, and it feels just as remarkable.” I glanced away. “And it’s awful.”
“Appalling,” Poet amended. “Appalling is a better word.”
“Does that mean you’re confirming or denying my effect on you?”
“Frankly, denying your effect on me is getting old quickly.”
My head veered back to him, only to find Poet’s gaze fastened on me. Instantly, I felt its scorching effect, a tingling sort of burn, tangible in its intensity.
Of its own accord, my gaze dropped to his mouth, transfixed by their fullness.
Nicu dashed outside. His father and I splintered apart, the moment shattering.
“Papa,” the child squeaked. “I ate my dinner without you. Wanna see me dance? Look! You too, Briar Patch!”
Poet swerved toward him and cautioned, “Nicu, not so fast—”
The child had barely come to a full stop. He flung himself into a spin, tilted like a cart off its traces, and crashed to the ground. Immediately, his face lifted to check our reactions.
Poet crossed his arms, a lighthearted gibe ready to spring from his lips. But when the boy’s eyes shifted to me, I couldn’t help it. I knew the turmoil shone across my face like a bad omen.
Nicu burst into tears.
Grasping my skirt, I bolted toward him. I reached him before Poet had the chance, and the weeping child spilled into my arms. I drew my thumbs across his sodden cheeks and lowered my gaze, persuading him to look at me.
“Come now,” I shared. “My falls are much worse than yours. In fact, they’re sorry to behold.”
