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Poet hadn’t chosen this area merely because it was closest to the bedroom, therefore easier on my energy. Yes, there was that. But the ambience was my haven, bringing me a level of comfort he’d predicted I would need.
By the time we reached the plush wingback chairs, I felt winded. Poet reclined in one of the seats and settled me on his thighs, twisting my body to face him. One of his palms landed on my hip, cupping me there. Even the lightest of touches simultaneously wracked me with heat and anchored me to the earth, solid and secure.
I traced his jaw. “Tell me.”
Fresh rage kindled in Poet’s eyes. “What do you remember?”
The dinner. The lovely vision of Nicu sitting on Poet’s lap. The baked pears and platters of pheasant pies soaked in an herb sauce. The forkful, the blood, and the shouts.
Then Poet’s arms, which had caught me before I’d fallen. Then a child’s petrified screams, which had shredded through the room.
“Seasons,” I gasped, scrambling to get off his lap. “Nicu saw what happened! I must go to him. I need to—”
The jester ushered me once more onto his thighs. “What you need is to stay put.”
“But he must be distraught.”
“Something rather close to it.” Poet’s voice took on a honed edge before softening. “Currently, Nicu is in one of the courtyards with his ferret familiar, several Spring ladies, and your esteemed minstrel, all of whom are trying to cheer him up. But he’ll fare much better once he sees you.
“Matter of fact, we’ve likely been overheard by now, what with your outburst and my laugh. ’Tis only a matter of minutes before Aire and the guards report that you’ve awakened. Which means we have limited time before the clan rushes in here, starting with your frantic mother. Everyone has been rotating, barging in on Avalea and me.”
Despite the complaint, Poet spoke fondly. In that regard, I’d heard voices on and off while scarcely conscious. Among others, it had always cycled back to Mother’s soothing tone and Poet’s silken whisper. Their nearness. Their touches. My unfaltering family, who had stayed by my side for three days.
Moreover, when I’d uttered his name—Poet, not Fenien—the intonation had been as faint as a breeze. It would have been easier to hear the curtains flutter, yet the name had summoned him instantaneously from slumber. The jester had made himself a permanent fixture in this suite, to the point where the barest whisper had alerted him.
On that score, his present ensemble seemed familiar. Hadn’t he been wearing the same open shirt and necklace assortment during dinner?
My chest constricted as I traced the edge of his shirt. “You have not changed your clothes.”
“I know.” Poet pinched his collar and feigned disappointment. “’Tis a frightful thing to see me wear the same garment twice. Quite the waste of an enviable wardrobe, tailored for a specimen such as myself.”
How I wished we could simply tease one another, filling the room with nothing but banter, followed by moans. “Was anyone else harmed?”
“Nay.” The piercing edge to Poet’s reply could have minced stone. “You were the target.”
I revisited that moment, from the first bite to the last. Taste testers would have detected basic poison, the fatal ingredient too concentrated to mask itself. However, my would-be killers had been smarter, choosing a form of contamination more difficult to catch.
“Willow Dime,” I said.
Poet twined an errant thread of my hair around his finger. “Whoever it was, they mixed it into everyone’s dish, knowing it would affect you in a much harsher way than the rest of us.”
“Rather shrewd,” I observed.
Willow Dime had a subtle flavor, which needed to be consumed raw for it to come through. Ironically, it was the one herb that dulled even more when heated, its essence diminishing to the point of blandness.
The only reason Poet had been able to distinguish the herb was because of his upbringing. Jinny kept bundles of Willow Dime in her cottage. The jester had tasted it often enough while growing up, the remedy having been essential whenever he wounded himself during acrobatic training. Hence, he’d recognized the danger seconds before it was too late.
In any event, the kitchen staff knew of my allergy. Not only was Willow Dime uninspiring to any cook, but it was also too risky; the most skilled testers wouldn’t have been able to root out the herb’s presence. Therefore, the servants wouldn’t have included it unless one of them wanted me dead.
But based on the look crossing Poet’s face, they’d proven themselves innocent of duplicity.
“You haven’t found the culprit,” I assumed.
The jester’s nostrils flared. “Even if we had, it would have been impossible to identify the body later. I’d have made sure of that.”
Shivers racked my flesh. I believed him. Touch the jester’s family, and there would be no limit to the person’s suffering.
I combed through Poet’s disheveled hair. “But I didn’t die.” To illustrate the point, I glanced sideways across the suite, focusing on the bedroom, where my nightstand held a single rose. Then I swerved back to the jester. “Remember? Some thorns are impervious to fire.”
