April 15th, 2019
In Paris, spirits weep.
A young man (it seems he was never destined to live long, and he died in his bed within a decade of the fires that burned half the city to the ground), whose body is no longer hunched and twisted, but straight and strong, hangs his head, withdrawn into his pain, and for a moment he almost looks as he did in life, distorted by sorrow rather than the cruelties of Nature. He was always closest to the Lady, and it is almost like he has lost a friend.
A Romani woman, older now, but her hair still as wild as it was her first Festival of Fools (it could never be tamed despite the rise in station, despite th