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“Thank you,” I choked out.
Mother waved that off. “Oh, I did what any grandmother would do.”
The word filled a gap in my chest. “Yes, but that isn’t the only thing I meant.” I waited until she swung her gaze back to mine, and then my voice cracked. “Thank you.”
For everything. For every year, every day, every minute.
Mother read my expression, and her throat contorted. She nodded, then sucked in a practical breath. “It will always be an uphill battle, and there won’t be perfect outcomes, but you’ll endure.”
“We’ll all endure,” I amended.
Father used to say everything began with a seed. Soon, I would take my seat with Mother and Poet at the Peace Talks, where Autumn would contest the Fools Decree. And someday, the document would be reduced to cinders, a moment in history that no longer existed.
Until then, we would move slowly, find a balance, and set an example. A juggling act, as my jester liked to say.
Mother’s lips tilted in enthusiasm. “Not that Poet hasn’t been a vocal asset since he first arrived, but I never thought Autumn would have a jester on its council. I’m quite looking forward to his contributions.”
I perked up even more. “He’s clever. He’s shrewd. He’s—”
“Briar,” she said in amusement. “That wasn’t an invitation to start a roundtable. I was convinced long ago, and I’m aware of his prowess and credentials. I have breakfast with him every morning. That is, when you two manage to leave the bedroom on time.”
Heat sliced up my cheeks. She did not know. The bedroom was hardly the only place in this castle the jester had been inside me.
Mother flapped her hands and chuckled with agonized mirth. “Whatever supplementary information is going through your head, please. For the sake of your mother’s heart rate. Do keep it to yourself.”
After we exchanged a laugh, Mother said, “We’re family. I adore them both, and I’m elated for you,” she intoned, remembering about the engagement. Dipping her head, Mother raised her eyebrows and prompted, “Have you decided on a time and place?”
“Not yet,” I replied, giddiness fluttering through my stomach.
Poet and I had promised it would happen when the time was right, when we were free to marry without threats or conflicts looming. Yet I could not resist imagining and anticipating that moment, wanting it more each day. Perhaps there would never be a safe time, and perhaps that was fine because we knew how to love and live amid the darkness and lightness.
Mother transferred her gaze to my bedchamber, her pupils gleaming as though a new thought had struck her. With a dramatic sigh, she floated past me, drifted across the suite, and draped herself across the mattress.
“Ahh, this bed,” she fawned, running her flat palm over the quilt. “So cozy looking. And such plush feather cushions.”
Strolling into the room, I leaned my shoulder against the wall and crossed my arms. The familiar scene played out, harkening to a Spring day not long ago when she’d done this exact thing. Only back then, I had responded differently to the display.
“Mother,” I stated.
Mother feigned an innocent look and pouted her lips. “Yes, dearest daughter?”
I stepped forward. “Perhaps we could have a sleepover?” At her stunned expression, I pressed forth awkwardly. “Maybe stay up talking? We can brew tea, dress in our nightclothes, and gossip over our latest obsessions. And if we fall asleep, so be it.” I fidgeted my fingers. “Would you care to have a females-only night?”
Mother mustered a generous smile, evidently misunderstanding. “If you and your ladies wouldn’t mind the company of an elder queen, I’d be delighted.”
I shook my head, approached the mattress, and perched on the edge. “We’ll invite Cadence, Posy, and Vale another evening. Tonight, I was thinking … just us?” My gaze clung to hers. “You and me.”
Then it happened. My mother’s face trembled in realization, and her eyes shimmered. She sucked in a breath, as though needing more air to get out the words. In a tremulous voice, she said, “Okay.”
I felt those same tears heat the backs of my eyes. “All right.”
Out of nowhere, Nicu sprang like a cat and crashed onto the bed between us, with the book tucked in his arm and Tumble scampering after him. Laughing, we gathered them close.
While flipping through the book, I said, “Perhaps until Papa gets here, we can recap. Where did we leave off?”
“She gets her crown back,” Nicu piped, tapping the pleated bun atop my head. “Like yours.”
I halted in realization. I’d pinned the rose into the weave, threading it with the oak leaf braid and several of my thorn quills. Each fragment made up a whole that encircled my head like a band.
