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In the mornings, I interrogated Mother for recaps of the Peace Talks. In the evenings, the maid laced me into elegant gowns.
In between, I kept busy. I ensured that my schedule was full, including throne room appearances to witness the Crown hold court; a royal tour of the armory and a personal one of the kitchens, where I thanked the staff for their hospitality and acquainted myself with their names and smiles; festive meals attended by Poet; private meetings with Eliot; the Seven nudging me for details about spending three nights with Poet in the woods; and a jousting tournament that Poet opened with a booming speech.
But many nights, I stared into space. Like now.
This privileged life had taught me all the regal words I needed to rule. Except these days, I wondered about the honest words I’d never considered, the ones collecting in my throat.
I don’t know. I’m scared.
Don’t leave. Come back. Let me go.
***
I crossed into the dimly lit passage, en route to the archive library and intending to address a stack of letters from advisers in Autumn. Most of the correspondence regarded social disputes, and Mother let me take charge of such missives while she was occupied. Beyond that, I planned to research historical doctrines concerning the treatment of born souls, in the hopes of finding loopholes or any bits of information Poet could use in his favor.
Around a corner, my footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether. The letters I’d been holding crumpled in my grip.
In an alcove outfitted with lounge chairs and settees, Poet reclined against an ivy-entwined pillar. Clad in a black velvet coat with rouge-colored lapels, he seemed distracted. His profile angled away from me, the cut of his jaw sloped toward the mullioned window.
He wasn’t alone.
A nobleman approached the jester, his chin anchored as if gathering his courage. In a low pitch, the man mumbled something before setting his hand on the post and leaning in. Lust cluttered his face as he tilted toward Poet, then lifted a finger toward a stray lock of Poet’s hair.
That nudged the jester’s attention from whatever he’d been thinking about. Those expeditious reflexes kicked in. His arm flapped up, the back of his hand blocking the man’s fingers before he could make contact.
A thrilled expression alighted the nobleman’s countenance, as if he was playing with a set of matches. Never proposition the Court Jester unless you were willing to risk getting burned.
Sometimes in a good way. Sometimes not.
Poet regarded the man with a remote expression. Or perhaps he was more invested than he looked and was merely considering the nobleman’s offer.
The sensations piled in hot clumps. My stomach cramped. Heat incinerated my retinas. Everything stung like flying cinders.
Amid contemplation, the jester turned his head. And his eyes landed on me.
As we stared, a dislocated type of feeling overwhelmed the combustion of other sensations, as though something had been wrenched out of place.
A princess always shows restraint and resilience.
Mustering every ounce of dignity I possessed, I turned and strode into a connecting passage. The moment I was out of range, I halted in a colonnade. Arrested there, I squeezed my palm around a railing and endeavored to staunch my rapid outtakes.
Later in the library, sunlight leaked through the windows, the light contrasting with the black shelves that held books and overflowing cords of ivy. Unlike the wainscoting, tidy built-ins, compact study alcoves, and central mezzanine of Autumn’s repository, this collection was spacious and high. The shelves towered, statuesque and narrow rather than short and wide. Additionally, they were arranged into aisles instead of embedded into the walls, like mobile ornamentations rather than permanent fixtures.
Regardless, the scents of old parchment and vellum remained the same. They never changed, no matter the Season.
I needed this. I needed this old-book fragrance wafting through the library and a satisfying hour of productivity. After locating a corner desk, I threw myself into work and poured over tidings from home until my fingers blotted with ink and my wrist ached.
All the while, I did not think about him with that man. I did not bother speculating what they were doing, that Poet had assured me he wouldn’t flaunt his liaisons for the sake of Eliot.
I did not imagine them whispering or touching. I did not imagine them wanting more, taking more. I did not imagine them retreating to Poet’s room, peeling off clothes, and sweeping their tongues together. I did not imagine them in bed, nor who would be on top. I did not imagine them tearing apart the sheets, the mattress rocking, or the sounds the men would make.
I did no such thing. It was none of my business.
My eyebrows didn’t crinkle. My chest didn’t hollow.
I didn’t feel bereft of things I couldn’t name. I didn’t feel the sting of disappointment or the embers of jealousy.
I couldn’t. I wouldnotlet those things happen to me.
