There is an elegant veranda just beyond the art gallery's walls, which is shaded from both sun and moonlight by a wooden trellis draped all over with blooming wisteria (or something that looks like it), and it is beneath this trellis that the Fool currently stands, leaning against the railing with his slim arms folded over his chest and his eyes turned... somewhere.

It doesn't matter, precisely, what he was looking at before. When his eyes find Fitz, the stillness that settles over him is profound; all the artifice in his expression slips away.

It cannot be.

"...Fitz?"