The next morning was quiet.
Too quiet.
The Fool woke before the bells rang for breakfast. He did not sleep much. He kept thinking about the letter from the night before.
"The border town has fallen".
He washed his face in cold water. He stared at himself in the small mirror on the wall. Without paint, he looked younger. Tired. His eyes had dark circles under them.
"Nothing moved," he told his reflection.
He practiced a smile.
It looked fake, even to the mastertrickster himself.
He wiped it away, before heading out his room.
In the dining hall, servants moved quickly. Plates clinked. Tea was poured. The royal family sat at the long table. They spoke about small things.
Weather.
Fashion.
A new opera.
No one mentioned the border town.
The Fool stood near the wall, waiting to be called if someone needed amusement. No one did.
He watched the Queen.
She looked calm.
Too calm.
He stepped forward slowly.
"Your Majesty," he said carefully.
She glanced at him. "Yes, Mercy?"
He hated that name.
"The letter from last night… is it serious?"
The Queen sipped her tea.
"Every letter is serious to someone."
"But the town.."
"It is being handled."
She smiled gently, the way adults smile at children.
"You need not worry yourself with politics. You are here to lighten hearts."
The table laughed softly.
The Fool felt heat rise in his face.
"I only meant.."
"Yes," the Queen interrupted. "You only meant."
She turned away.
The conversation continued.
The Fool stepped back to the wall.
He looked around the room.
For a second, he thought everyone was speaking without moving their mouths, no not that, everyone's faces had no features, they were just blank lumps of skin on a body.
He blinked,Wiping his face with his sleeve .
Their faces were back to normal again.
He rubbed his face once more with his sleeve, everything was still normal .
"Maybe i had too much to drink last night?.. " he thought to himself knowing full well he never drank any form of alcohol".
After breakfast, he walked through the palace corridors. Servants passed him without looking up. He reached the hallway with the paintings again.
"The Death of Socrates".
He stopped in front of it.
The philosopher still held the cup.
Still calm.
The Fool stared at the men around him in the painting. They looked angry. Afraid.
Socrates looked certain.
"How can you be certain?" the Fool whispered.
He stepped closer.
The painted hand holding the cup looked pale.
Too pale.
He leaned in until his nose almost touched the canvas.
It was just paint.
He stepped back quickly.
He laughed once.
It sounded dry.
Outside, the sky was gray.
The Fool left the palace grounds. He was allowed to wander during the day. No one cared where he went as long as he returned by night.
London smelled of smoke and damp stone.
He walked past shops opening for the morning. Bakers. Butchers. Tailors.
People were talking in low voices.
He heard words.
"Rebellion."
"Taxes."
"War."
He stopped near two men arguing beside a cart.
"It's just a rumor," one said.
"It's not a rumor," the other replied. "My cousin lives there. The town is gone."
The Fool stepped closer.
"Gone?" he asked.
The men looked at him.
One laughed. "What would you know, clown?"
"I read a letter," the Fool said.
The other man narrowed his eyes. "From where?"
The Fool hesitated.
"From the palace."
The men exchanged looks.
"Then you know more than us," one said. "Tell us, are we safe?"
The Fool opened his mouth.
No words came out.
He did not know.
The men shook their heads and walked away.
He stood there alone.
For a moment, he felt something strange.
Like the ground under his feet was softer than it should be.
He looked down.
The cobblestone looked normal.
Yet he felt a little bit drowsy, then, he heard an unusual sound.
Soft.
Slow.
"A violin?.."
The same tune from the night before.
His chest tightened.
He turned his head.
The sound came from a narrow alley between two buildings.
He walked toward it.
Step by step.
The alley was dark. Wet. Trash lay against the walls.
The music continued, soft and slow as always.
At the end of the alley, he saw a figure.
Tall.
Thin.
Wearing dark clothes, or maybe something that seemed to look like it, maybe it might've been fur or maybe feathers.
The fool was unsure, for dark alley had made it impossible for him to see what silhouette stood before.
Something curved above its head.
"Horns?.." The fool whispered to himself in shock.
And as the figure moved the bow across the Violin once more to play another tune, the fool froze.
The music was almost cheerful. Celebrative. Happy of sought.
"Hello?" the Fool called.
The figure stopped playing.
Silence.
It turned slightly.
The Fool could still not see its face.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The figure took one step forward.
The Fool's heart pounded.
Then a carriage passed at the entrance of the alley.
For a second, the alley had gone completely dark, then as it gained back its light
The alley was empty.
No figure.
No horns.
No violin.
Only silence.
The Fool stood there, shaking.
He ran forward.
Nothing.
No footprints.
No instrument.
He pressed his back against the wall.
"I am tired," he said to himself.
"Just tired."
But the tune remained in his head.
Clear.
Perfect.
He returned to the palace before evening.
The ballroom was being prepared again.
Candles lit.
Chairs arranged.
Music sheets set in place.
He walked to his corner.
He looked up at the mural.
The smallest angel.
He felt cold.
The angel's head was no longer turned toward heaven.
It was facing downward.
Toward the floor.
Toward him.
His breathing grew fast.
"No," he whispered.
He stepped onto a chair to look closer.
The paint lines were dry.
Unchanged.
Normal.
He stepped down slowly.
Maybe it had always been like that.
Maybe he had remembered it wrong.
He laughed quietly.
"Memory is foolish," he said.
He paused.
"That makes sense?"
He sat down.
The bells on his costume gave a small sound.
The musicians began tuning their instruments.
The Fool looked around the empty ballroom.
For a moment, he imagined it filled with people whose faces he could not see.
Only blank expressions.
Blank faces
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the room was normal.
Just a ballroom.
Just a palace.
Just England.
He placed his hands in his lap and waited for night to begin.
Far away, somewhere in the mountain,
a violin began to play again, and as the figure hopped around, herbs of goats followed behind him.