Page 80 of The Sun King's Noon

Kaelen’s hand rose, fingers outstretched, reaching towards the mark on Richard’s neck?—

Richard flinched. The motion was small, but it snapped Kaelen out of his daze. He jerked his hands down and stumbled back, a flush flooding his cheeks.

“I—forgive me,” Kaelen stammered. “I was not going to—I mean, I should not have?—”

“No.” Richard stepped closer to Kaelen. “No, it is fine. I…I merely do not like anyone to touch me there.” He quirked a smile, hoping to return to their previous easy familiarity. “And I apologise. I should not have caused trouble.”

“You only sought to protect.” Kaelen ran a hand through his hair. “And you managed to win the ringmaster over. The lover tale—” He winced. “Clemens doesn’t let performers’ friends into the circus—apparently bad for morale. I was midway through convincing him when Tilda and Wren came running in, yelling about a commotion at the tavern.”

Richard adjusted his collar to hide the tattoo—Kaelen’s eyes kept darting to it. “It was cleverly done.”

Lovers. They would have to act as lovers now in a travelling circus, surrounded by performers, workers, and watchful eyes.

How hard could it be?

CHAPTER 31

The moon was high, and the village lamps distant pinpricks by the time they led the horses into the circus camp. The place glowed by its own little constellation of strung-up lanterns and banked cookfires. It was a great horseshoe of colourful wagons, decorated in swathes of red and gold. At the crescent’s heart, a firepit blazed, ringed by upturned crates and an iron pot bubbling with rabbit stew.

Master Clemens walked ahead, lantern swinging, while Tilda and Wren scampered by him, occasionally laughing and shoving each other. Richard followed at Kaelen’s shoulder, bereft of his pack—Kaelen had insisted on carrying it.

Smaller tents and washing lines had been pitched between the wagons, and animals wandered amongst them. Two ponies nosed a trough, a donkey chewed on a glittering costume. Three dogs lay near the fire, ears pricking up as Richard and Kaelen neared, and by the largest wagon, a black bear played with a ball.

Richard smiled. His great-grandmother, Queen Marian, had outlawed the caging and cruel treatment of animals for sport and show with a rage the bards sang poems of. It was heartening to see that even in Estara, the Mirthwell troupe kept to Ardenian custom.

“Oi!” Master Clemens hollered as they approached the fire. “Layabouts! Come and look at our new hands!”

The cluster around the firepit unfurled. The first to rise was a thin, bald woman with a yellow python looped around her shoulders. A dozen more grass snakes coiled around her waist and arms. As Richard gawked, a snake lifted its head near her ear and flicked its tongue. The woman nodded and whispered back.

By her, a wiry young woman had folded herself backwards, both feet planted beside her ears.

Wren plopped himself on a crate by the young woman. Tilda’s eyes flashed white, and a gust of wind buffeted her, raising her a foot from the ground. Crossing her legs, she lounged against the invisible current, hair streaming upward and clothes billowing.

A wind mage. Almost as rare as sorcerers.

There were others too—a scarred knife-thrower cleaning his blades, a pair of twin sisters darning stockings together, a freckled boy practising his juggling, and, sitting on an overturned barrel with his forearms braced on his knees, the strongman from the tavern.

“Boris,” Master Clemens said, following Richard’s gaze. “He’ll partner with you, Kaelen. Boris’s knees are buggered, so you’ll be doing the heavy lifting.”

“I shall do my best, sir,” Kaelen said.

A woman with long red tresses uncrossed her arms and pointed at Richard. “And what’s he meant to be, then?”

“Kaelen’s lover.” Master Clemens clapped Richard’s shoulder. “He’ll be minding the little ones while we travel.”

A collective snort of disbelief echoed.

Richard frowned. How taxing could it be? His own siblings were the most wilful children he had ever met. “I am sure I can manage a handful of children.”

“Bold words birth regrets,” a lady with a lyre chuckled. “Them little brats are wicked. We can’t take our eyes off them.”

“Exactly,” the contortionist unfolded herself and laughed. “Those rascals will have him crying by teatime.”

“Never mind them.” Another woman, covered in tattoos, slid off her crate and sidled up to Kaelen. “Tell me, gorgeous, is your lover the sharing sort?”

“If he’s open to generosity,” a beefy man called out, “my wagon is warm.”

“I assure you,” the tattooed woman murmured, “my wagon is warmer.”