Violante had taken to wandering the streets of Ombra in disguise. She would stand at the back of every crowd, watching the Motley Folk perform. Fire dancing, singing, puppets… and acting. As much as she had heard about their Bluejay performances, she had yet to see one.

Bluejay.

No, she had promised herself she would forget him. He was not the Bluejay anymore, she had heard – he lived out in the woods, binding the books that Balbulus sent him. Lived with his two children, and his wife.

His wife.

That hateful woman, not worthy of the Bluejay. That servant-girl, who had distracted the Piper – along with her, Violante's, own son, no less! – while the Bluejay wrote the three words to kill her father and fulfill his bargain with Death. While all the while, she was locked in her room like a damsel from one of the Inkweaver's tales! She should have been the one helping the Bluejay fulfill his task and escape from the castle. Daring adventures, frightful monsters, and the both of them triumphing over all… weren't these the fantasies she had dreamed up, she had started in motion? And in the end, she was in her room while the action occurred, like the princess she was.

Her subjects may call her Her Kindliness, but if they could hear the black thoughts that went through her heard, late at night, they might call her otherwise. The Black Queen, perhaps.

She pushed her way angrily through the peasants in the marketplace, anxious to find a traveling performer and hid these thoughts once more at the bottom of her heart.

Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of blue feathers.

It couldn't be, shouldn't be – and wasn't. The skin beneath the mask of bluejay feathers was too dark, the body too strong. It was a band of Motley Folk, acting out a Bluejay tale.

It was one of the those Balbulus had written down for her, back when he still had his right hand. Back before she had met the real Bluejay, who was better than any of the tales could describe him.

Men in armor were swinging swords at the Bluejay, their movements outrageously slow and clumsy. The Bluejay was as fast as his namesake in comparison, flitting in and out of enemies, pretending to stab them and evade their amateur blows at the same time.

When the performance was over, Violante clapped as hard as the rest of the crowd. The Bluejay took a bow, then removed his mask and walked off, one hand on the bear at his side. Violante went after him.

And in a rented room in an old, dusty house not so far away, an old man chuckled quietly to himself.