Keyreth's fingers found the hilt of some small weapon. She pulled her lips off her Rhaggie, but let the subtle breeze of her magic linger as she slipped the blade from his belt. It were so very hard to concentrate—she near felt her hold slip—but she managed to cling to it like a kitten to canvas. Her master would be upset, no doubt. Tell her she weren't ready. Tell her it were dangerous. But that didn't matter now. "I'm so sorry, my love. I can't let ye do what I know ye intend. Can't let ye risk it fer me." He'd not hear none of her words, she knew, but it felt good to say them anyhaps.

The magic held him still. Not far from a statue while it was on him. A beautiful statue of a beautiful man. "I'll reckon this right, Rhaggie. I give ye my vow, sure as sunshine."

She stared at his frozen figure, planted one more kiss on his lips-like-roses, and made to shuffle out his chambers afore her nerves could catch up to her mind.

Some killing needed to be done this night.

With each corner she turned she expected to find the man with the oh-so-cold eyes. Prepared herself for it. Her lover's knife she held hidden under her shift, ready to sting. Ready to end.

The Old Laws. The Old Laws. Rhaggie were right. Damn the Old Laws. And damn the King for all that mattered. E'en the thought were in her own head, she still felt a flush of fear for thinking it.

She near toppled Hangie's serving tray as she turned a corner, a feat that earned her a choice word or three, but pushed on, ignoring her.

There'd been rumors about the oh-so-cold eyes. Curses from a demon witch. Eyes that could see, they said. Well Keyreth's eyes saw well enough and if he wanted to see her, she'd show him.

But he never showed.

She made it to the door-with-all-the-colors, and hesitated. Knowing ye had to do something and doing it were two different doves.

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She pushed her way into her master's quarters and found him in the exact position she'd expected him to be, which were to say that it were a position all but unexpected.

He hung from the canopy of his bed, upside-downish, his legs hugging the wood posts. In his hands were a dusty old book, right-side up. His green and black speckled shirt floated below his mouth, but somehaps his fool's hat stayed stuck to his head. The hearthfire gleaming in the corner made the shadows of his amber locks look as if they were flames of their own.

For a few seconds longer he flipped through his pages, pretending not to notice her. Then, at last, he lifted his head (or, lowered mayhaps) and said, "Ah, Keyreth. So very glad you've come." He dropped his painted hand to scratch at a smooth pale chin. "I can't make heads or tails of this book."

Keyreth sighed, "Master, you've got it upsi—"

"Wait!" he exclaimed. "I've got it! It's heads! Yes, definitely heads!" Then, with a flourish, the Jester spun the book several times between nimble fingers and then slapped his hands together, bringing it to a stop. The pages blossomed out like sun-lilies, but it weren't a flower nor even words that sprung from the pages.

In her master's hands were a head—made all of paper and cuts—each detail like the true face of a man. How it looked just like her Rhaggie. Too much like him. She marveled at it for a moment longer and then collapsed at the doorway, the weight of the moment crashing down on her like storms. "Ye were right, Jest. Ye're always right." Tears began to flow heavy down her cheeks and she did her best to stuff them back in with her palms. Afore long she could taste the snot that spilled from her nose, slimy and sour.

She knew he wouldn't stop her. Wouldn't never stop her. Not if she cried herself to sleep. Not even if she cried herself to drowning. It were his way.

She drew a strong breath through her nostrils and blew it out, puffing her cheeks like trickle-toads as she did. Once more she took her air and let it out. And then it were done. The tears had been spent. She'd no more to give than she'd coins in her pockets.

Immediately, she felt a softness on her cheeks wiping away the salt and swim from her eyes. "They say that fish are born from tears, you know." His voice were like cinnamon and sweet milk. Like air afore a summer rain. "That's why they never speak. They're much too sad."

Keyreth sniffed, and smiled despite. "What about happy tears?"