Devin’s fingers find purchase in soft white silk—the Fool’s usual bed clothes—which yield under his grip, cool and smooth and without the coat of dust that lines everything else in the bedroom. For the Fool himself, that glimpse of tears is enough to answer the many sundry questions that had been crowding at the forefront of his mind: yes, he had been gone, and for enough time for Devin’s heart to break.

They had both known the risks when they took this mad leap together, but that doesn’t make the reality of it any easier to bear.

He slips his arms securely around Devin’s shoulders and lets his cheek fall against his lover’s soft dark hair, and for a moment that embrace is protection enough against the dread that continues its slow, clawing ascent up from his gut. The Fool squeezes his eyes shut and swallows, then makes himself say the words: “How long?”

How long was he gone?