For the longest time, I breathe in the scent of Lachie's cloak, clinging to its familiarity. In and out of the crevice, flashes of light and echoes of thunder alternate above our heads, but with my eyes closed and a royal amount of imagination, I can pretend I'm home, in the comfort and safety of my cushiony canopy bed.

There's nothing cushiony about Lachie Greer though. He is lean, sinewy, and unyielding, but the continuous strum of his fingertips along the back of my scalp is nearly the right rhythm to lull me into a sweet state of make-believe.

Nearly. To enhance the illusion, I press my face a little deeper into his cloak.

Lachie chuckles softly. "Easy, Marigold, or I might think you rather like where you are."

I suppose he's not returning to calling me queen. Too bad. "On the contrary, jester!" I emphasize that last word so things won't go to his head. "I was pretending to be somewhere else but you had to go spoil my revery by opening your mouth again. Rude."

"Apologies, Marigold. I'll keep quiet now." Another chuckle rumbles through his chest.

He's taunting me. I shall not dignify this juvenile attempt with a retort. Rather, I shall torment myself by pondering in silence.

Lachie and Marigold.

We've only got each other.

I don't want his words to be true but they sort of are.

Good thing, he smells nice.

Good thing, he knows how to move those fingers.

I arch my neck a little so they can reach a bit further to the left, and then to the right. This feels good. Perhaps a little to the left again, but before we get there, a sharp sensation pierces my neck.

"Ouch! What the hell?" Is this a needle or a knife?

Again, something sharp stabs my neck. My survival instinct takes over.

The warning bells my parents ingrained into every fiber of my being from the moment I was old enough to leave the nursery, are all chiming loud and clear. An assassin? Holy fuck, an assassin!

Of course he's here to murder me.

Finally, his presence makes sense.

I know what to do now.

I jam up my knee, aiming for Lachie's crotch but landing somewhere against his thigh. I place two palms against his chest and push. His head hits the rock wall, eliciting a flood of swear words and the oddest, squeaky sound.

I have no time to wonder where this comes from.

I need to get away, but I'm never getting past him if I don't manage to push him out of this crevice. I raise my knee again.

"Marigold! For fuck's sake!" He stumbles back. Not far enough for me to pass, but at least we're no longer touching. This means, I have room enough to properly kick him.

I swing my leg but before my foot makes contact, fresh pain stabs my neck, and again, and again. A new sensation triggers a new understanding. Something is climbing up my hair and it's not Lachie.

I reach up, my heart clawing at my throat.

Meanwhile, that odd sound rings again. Something of a chirp? The sound invades my scalp with every new cut. I wail as my hands try to locate the culprit.

"Let me!" Lachie begs.

Let him do what? Finish me off? "Fuck you!"

"Marigold, keep still! You're going to kill it."

That sounds like a mighty good idea. What the devil has he put in my hair? A poisonous spider? Would love to kill that. My heart hammers in my throat as I slam my hands to my head with more force.

"No, Marigold. We need it!" Lachie dives forward and I fear these are my final moments. To think I've been so stupid to get myself trapped in this enclosed space with a murderer? To think only moments ago I considered jumping off a cliff?

I don't wanna die. I repeat: I don't wanna fucking die.

While his hands grab for my head, I pump a fist into his stomach and wince. Like hitting a brick wall, dammit, but I'm not giving up. I push, kick, and fight while he chooses to tackle my hair and odd chirps continue to echo throughout the crevice.

I suppose that's what you get when you enlist a joker as your assassin. If he keeps up this odd way of fighting, I may still have a chance.

I grab his sides and push, but Lachie won't budge. It's only after I hear him screaming, "I've got it!" that his body separates from mine again and comes to a rest in the opening of the crevice.

His smile is triumphant but also unexpectedly friendly. It's not directed at me but at something in his hand, a little, squeaking, chirping thing. "There you are, you little rascal. I don't remember telling you, you could go for a walk."

My mind scrambles to piece the situation together.

Both relief and a decent amount of shame flood me as I take in the innocence of the scene. No murderer. No poisonous spider. Only a joyful Lachie and a cute ball of fluff in the palm of his hand.

"You brought a chick?"

"Two." He digs a hand into his cloak and retrieves a velvet pouch from which more squeaking ensues.

Go figure, my jester brought a pair of chicks to Baile na Grod, proving himself more useful than I gave him credit for.

Baffled, I thread my fingers over my scalp and neck. "Your pet made me bleed, jester," I huff.

"You nearly cracked my head open ánd you kicked my balls, but I'm not a spiteful person, Marigold. I'm willing to call it quits when you are. I've never seen a grown woman so scared of a chic before," he laughs.

"I wasn't scared of the chick." I stop myself right there and then, not wanting to add to his amusement by spilling my assassination theories. I can only imagine the jokes that knowledge would inspire.

Lachie isn't paying too much attention to me anyway, carefully storing the two chickens back in the pouch with a playful tenderness that's almost endearing.

"At what age would they start laying eggs?" I wonder out loud.

"Not too long, I imagine. We'll find out. But oh ... " He points at my head. "Since we're playing the question game. I have another one, one for you. How long ..." The way he draws this out tells me he's up to no good. " ... to disentangle something like that? Elsbeth surely was on to something when she compared your hair to a bird's nest."

Useful and almost endearing, but funny? Not a fucking chance, jester, not one. I can't wait for this storm to be over.

WC 1126 words
TWC 4233 words