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“Because he wouldn’t let me.”

“He, who? Do you mean, your father?”

“Papa wants me safe,” the boy sighed. “He always wants me safe.”

“That’s a good thing, you know. Your father caring about you.”

“I don’t need caring. I’m not a half-wit.”

“Did he say you were?” I countered.

“He’d never say that, but...” His voice changed character, lowering it to a silken timbre that sounded like someone else.“‘You’re not ready, Nicu,’”he recited.“’Tis a fate you hate, but lo, you must wait.’ For it is not yet safe.”

Seasons. Although I’d never met the Court Jester, he was the talk of the taverns, known for detouring into verse. Word-for-word, Nicu must have just impersonated his own father, using a pitch that captured the man’s theatrical voice.

The mimicry should have impressed me. Instead, it freaked me out; I had to watch what I said around him. If prompted or provoked, he could end up repeating stuff later—at inconvenient times and to the wrong people.

Anyway, he’d taken off in the dead of night because he wanted independence? Because his father was being overprotective? Because of Nicu’s condition?

From the basket, he picked another carrot and fidgeted with it. When I stilled his hands, he gave me a smile.

Stern, I reminded myself. “How did you get in the wagon?”

“I followed the ribbons, and then I followed you, but I waited until Sir Aire left the field. You clatter when you run, and your shadow’s plump.”

I huffed. “I’mcurvy.”

“You have a bust and a trunk.”

“Hey, see here bucko—”

“You’re made of the trees,” he complimented, studying me with a cute grin. “You own the soil and drink the sun.”

Hmm. Maybe I could get used to that description.

Once he’d polished off the carrot, half the stew, and some pumpernickel, I listened to his tale while picking through his speech. As the hour wore on, I got used to the twists and turns of his vocabulary, managing to grasp some of the metaphors and descriptions with less help.

He came from a family that loved him, but at seventeen, he longed for more freedom to roam, to live his own life, to be in charge of himself. Although his princess-mother sympathized and entertained the idea, his loving but paranoid father hadn’t budged. The protective noose had tightened and begun to strangle Nicu.

After a loud row yesterday morning, Nicu had stormed out of the throne room. When he encountered me last night, he saw an opportunity. The streamers hanging from the rafters had been installed for his benefit, to guide him through the corridors. They’d led him near the servants’ entrance, and there, he halted while the First Knight peered at the training yard, where I’d tucked myself.

Not that Nicu had known where I was, until I’d popped from my hiding spot and fled. Keeping an eye on my form, he’d caught up to me and stowed away in the wagon bed.

“What do you want from me?” I asked. “You could have gone anywhere.”

Nicu glanced at a scarlet ribbon tied around his wrist, peeking from his sleeve like a secret. He traced the item while working through his answer. “I liked our bird shadows.”

“You mean, our shadow puppets?”

“Yup. And then I wanted to go with you. But when I left the castle, I...I didn’t see...I didn’t see any more ribbons.”

Ah, right. Outside of the castle, he had no ribbons to guide him.

Just how impaired his sense of direction made him, I didn’t know. But it had to be pretty bad if he couldn’t wander around on his own. Even if he had a map, plotted a course, or noted landmarks, would he stick with them? Would he confuse them somehow?

“How do you expect to get far without a ribbon trail?” I questioned.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I just wanted...”