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Jeryn aimed his chiseled gaze at me and Poet. “Does it?”
For now, it did. Autumn had established that it would not participate in the trade, other than to rescue born souls and bring them here as a haven. Still, Mother, Poet, and I would challenge the Fools Decree at the next Peace Talks, whether it made a nemesis of Winter or not.
From there, we would seek to abolish the document and every law contained within. Including the trade.
Until then, that left only one other evident problem. The fact that we’d reneged on our agreement. And the fact that he knew it.
Jeryn flipped back his fur coat, the scalpel knife at his hip flashing. “Now where the fuck is my prisoner?”
Poet extracted one of his daggers. “Take heed, sweeting. Mine is harder and longer. And I haven’t begun to describe the size of Briar’s.”
Faintly, a muscle ticked in Winter’s jaw. Finally, Poet had struck a few nerves.
Yet why had Jeryn wanted Flare caged? Why single her out for a minor offense?
Although we’d tried, neither of us had come up with an answer. This prince was far too skilled to let that reasoning slip in our proximity.
The possibility of anyone getting close enough to him, to expose his secrets fully, seemed implausible. What person could ever break this man to that extent?
In any event, I didn’t know where Flare was. Neither did Poet. And so we let our silence do the work for us.
Jeryn’s pupils flashed, the black wells reminiscent of a frozen lake—cold and impenetrable. Releasing the coat, he braced his hands once more on the table. That dark blue mane of hair slithered across the bridges of his shoulders, and his baritone voice deepened with intent. “Then I’ll just have to hunt the little beast myself.”
I stiffened. If Poet and I stayed out of it, Flare would have no allies. And I refused to abandon my friend, especially not after she risked discovery to untie me from the pyre.
But if we somehow located her and stepped in to help, it might expose the woman’s whereabouts to Jeryn. Provided he didn’t find her on his own.
Later, Poet and I watched from a balcony as the prince stalked to his carriage. The fur coat swatted his calves, and his steel boots glinted like spikes. Despite the spectacle, Winter moved through two rows of knights with haughty indifference, his gait nonetheless purposeful.
Dread chilled my blood. We might have toppled a temperamental king. But in doing so, we had unleashed a monstrous prince.
“Winter cannot get his hands on Flare,” I stressed. “We can’t let him.”
“Nay,” Poet gritted out, flipping one of the daggers absently between his fingers. “But neither will she. Don’t forget, Sweet Thorn. That firecracker stood up to Winter. Not even Rhys had the balls to do that.” In my periphery, the jester’s mouth twitched. “That woman is a survivor like you. She might give her Royal enemy quite the difficult chase.”
I thought of the expert way Flare had unraveled those knots to liberate me from the inferno. I thought of those fierce golden eyes. I thought of her kindness and courage.
In Summer, young born souls were forced to weave complex nets, to outfit ships. Perhaps that was how she’d picked up the skill to free me. Though that would also mean the woman had been imprisoned since childhood. The notion cinched my ribcage.
Yet Poet was right. Flare was a survivor. Captured or not, her fiery spirit wouldn’t be so easily contained.
“But we’ll help,” I vowed. “Should Winter abduct her.”
“Aye. When she needs us.” The jester glanced at me and grinned like the devil. “I’m at your service.”
50
Poet
It took half a dozen outfit changes to satisfy me. I’d ransacked my wardrobe, switching fabrics and accessories to the point where the closet no longer resembled itself, with piles of coats, jackets, doublets, shirts, vests, pants, and belts suffocating the floor. Alas, I lacked the nerves to clean up before the tower horn blasted.
“Fuck,” I muttered, readjusting my neckcloth.
“Leave it, Papa,” Nicu said from his perch on the rug, both hands flat on the ground behind his back and his legs crossed at the ankles. “No frills.”
Quirking my eyebrow in the mirror, I speculated. “You think?”
My son’s eyebrows crimped. “I know.”
