The Fool appears at Rutile's side with all the grace and stealth of a cat; Rutile doesn't notice his presence until they hear his voice declaring a greeting, and gratitude floods through them as he does his best to redirect the Sentry. The gratitude, though, is tempered by exasperation: they did not come here to get the prophet in trouble, merely to keep out of it for once. "Fool," they sigh, "this really isn't --"

As they crane their neck to watch the exchange, they catch the Fool's jovial expression and the sentry's growing astonishment and confusion, and glance out the window just in time to see that the blue balloon they passed earlier is now a red more brilliant than their hair. Their words trail off, though their jaw hangs open with similar surprise as the sentry rushes to the window to get a better look.

"They can be such a bother," the Fool muses, drawing Rutile's attention back to center.

Rutile's shoulders heave, though no air escapes from their mouth in a sigh. They let the remains of the wooden stirrer spill from their palm to the table, and brush them into a small pile. A tiny splinter catches in their glove, which they peel away between delicate fingers. "That was your doing, wasn't it?" they ask, with some fond resignation. "I don't know how, but I appreciate the intervention all the same. Only now I'm afraid they'll just want to interrogate you as well."

They glance back at the sentry, who has poked their head out the door to try and split the difference between doing their job and being soaked. They call a partner over, and in hushed voices try to hash out their next move.

"How long do you think I have?" Rutile asks the Fool with a wry smile.