"Ah, happy tears," he whispered. Then he leaned in close. "Those become birds." Jester wiped the last tear from her redded cheeks with his finger, cupped his smooth, pinkish hands together, and then slowly opened them. A dove white as soft snow on Saint's Day sat still in his painted palm, cooing ever so gentle. "Looks like they weren't sad tears after all. Must be only that you're in love."

"I am," she said, straightening herself and nodding. "I am."

Her master remained silent, bobbing slightly, his eyes unblinking. The hearth crackled and spat as a red-veined log crumbled into ash beneath the weight of another.

She stared down into her folded fingers atop her lap. "It's Rhaggie. Always been."

Jester reached out, sudden, and pulled a piece of colored parchment from behind Keyreth's right ear. The paper had been creased, crimped, and crafted into the form of a highknight, complete with puckered lips.

"Rhagre, Highknight of the Kingsguard, Highborn of House Terial." Her master's voice mimicked that of a Speaker-for-the-King. "Lover of late nights, lavish libations, and little lowfolk lady rumps."

Keyreth blushed red as boiled beet. Jester only giggled and guffawed, then pulled a tab on the back of the paper toy that caused the puckered lips to poke out further. "Master, I—"

"He's a catch that one. Not like the rest, is he?" Jester grinned. "Isn't there something in the Old Laws about Highborn and low folk?" he asked, knowing damn well there were.

"You know damn well there were."

His grin widened. From his seated position, he placed his hands atop the floor and lifted himself until he were full heels-over-head once more. He held the wild tumbler's pose, his eyes never leaving hers, then fast as fear fell into a cart's wheel. Round and round her he went, faster and faster until Keyreth felt close to dizzy and then he flipped right over her head, landing just behind. Jester leaned in close to her ear—the second man tonight to do so—and whispered, "Well damn the Old Laws, then, eh?"

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Keyreth felt another heavy sob choke the back of her throat. She breathed slow as sea-wind, steadying herself. "So...what do I do?"

"You used your magic tonight, yes?" He were still behind her, but Keyreth didn't dare turn to face him. She managed to squeak out "yes" afore her neck shrunk into her shoulders and her head towards the ground.

Her master made no move this time to comfort.

"Pray don't fail to tell your tale and I will tailor this little failure." She could hear the smile on his lips as he riddled. Fool's gold. What she'd done that night were wrong and she knew it. Magic always comes with consequence.

She told her tale. He listened.

"The knife," he said after she had finished.

At first, she didn't catch his meaning. "Knife?" she asked.

And then the meaning struck her. She reached back for the pale blade she had stolen from her beloved and lifted her head. She'd not known when her master had moved—hadn't heard or seen him—but there he were, right in front of her. She placed the blade in his painted hands.

He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and stowed the knife behind his back. "Priests and saints require prayer, but I consider payment fair."

The words—silly as they were—weren't spoken to make her laugh. They were "deal words." A contract. It was done. Her master would take care of it. Take care of him, and his oh-so-cold eyes.

Keyreth picked herself up from the ground, wiped the dust off her skirt, and bowed. Her Rhaggie would be safe, and that was all that mattered.

From now on, her tears would become birds and not fish.