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“And so prompt,” I added, my eyes clicking over to Rhys, who leered like an asshole.
“Indeed and ingenious,” Basil exclaimed, parking his silk-encased rump onto the chair. “When we learned of Summer’s plans to arrive early, Spring refused to be outdone. Even if this market is a tad—” he wiggled his fingers toward the door and the ambience beyond, “—a tad sober.”
“Why is he doing that?” Rhys grumbled, gesturing to where I pranced across the shed, the firelight throwing my shadow onto the walls.
Only then did I register the additional knights and guards lining the perimeter like gargoyles, their attention stapled to the building’s clapboard facade. Three soldiers hailed from Summer, their forms draped in animal-skin capes and armed with curved swords.
The other three were of Spring, their mantles dark green and their polished blades heavily ornamented. Odd that I didn’t recognize any of them. Moreover, something struck me about their suits of armor, though I couldn’t place it. Giving them a once-over, I ambled past the men and women-at-arms whilst filing those details in my mind.
No matter about the warriors. Aire’s broad frame exceeded theirs, he kept his eyes on them, and I’d seen this man take down half a dozen soldiers without breaking a sweat.
Ignoring Rhys’s first complaint of the evening, I prowled the vicinity like a carnivore waiting to strike. The motions did what I expected, distracting the king and making him agitated.
Instead of justifying my behavior, Avalea rounded her chair and lowered herself stiffly. I commended the queen for curbing her wrath. Considering Rhys had ordered a group of unknown peons to poison her daughter and then burn a prisoner alive, it was fortunate for the king that brass cutlery hadn’t been set in front of the woman. Otherwise, he’d already have a steak knife lodged in his mouth.
Flattening her palms on the table, Avalea hinted, “Forgive us, but the revels have yet to begin.”
“This is a private conference,” Briar stated more plainly, moving to stand beside her mother’s chair. “For invited participants.”
Ah. Such barely restrained diplomacy hadn’t satisfied my princess. Based on how those freckles stood out, her temperature had risen. How this woman thrived when she was furious.
Rhys put on a show of dramatic and imperious offense. Like a hardcore amateur, he groused, “Of all the cheek, audacity, and rudeness.”
“Really?” I queried. “You couldn’t stick to merely one noun?”
Naturally, the man failed to maintain the front. In one second flat, that short fuse went from contrived to actual, with trenches burrowing into his countenance. “If I were you—”
“Nonsense. No one could ever be me.”
“—I would think before addressing my superiors with insolence.”
“Our apologies,” Giselle amended. “We regret the interruption.”
“Speak for yourself, woman,” Rhys griped.
The queen’s eyebrows punched together, clearly done with her husband’s shit. “And just what makes you think I would speak for anyone else?”
Halting beside an empty chair, I hitched my forearm onto the back and quirked my own brow at the Summer Queen. “You have our deepest condolences, as well.”
Because according to her inflection, not to mention general common sense, this woman was married to quite the handful. One couldn’t help but pity her.
Though cleanly delivered, the mockery proved difficult even for the king to miss. Anger ground into Summer’s face as he glowered my way. “Once a cunt, always a cunt.”
Cunt. Whore.
How trite. Also noteworthy, he spoke as though cunts weren’t religious experiences and being a whore was a bad thing.
No strangers to profanities—etymologically speaking, Spring had invented most of them—Basil and Fatima shouldn’t have been aghast. Yet their heads whisked toward Rhys in astonishment. The pair rarely experienced trouble exercising their tongues in Royal judgment, but breaking Nicu from the dungeon had been the only time they’d so much as thrown an insult my way. Not least of all, they’d never seen anyone be so foolish as to test the Court Jester.
From his vantage point, Aire glowered in moral repugnance. His fist landed on one of his broadswords.
Briar flung a vicious look at Rhys. Predicting her intention to verbally flay the king, I got there first. “Good boy,” I condescended, sitting and crossing my ankles atop the table. “You had me worried this was going to be a difficult conversation. When really, you only have me stumped in one regard: The mere fact that you know what a cunt looks like.”
The king’s visage scrunched like a wad of wet paper. “You insufferable fuck—”
Briar strode forward and stamped her palms onto the tabletop. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t stay away from us,” I taunted. “Can you, sweeting?”
