*Ты, моя принцесса, околдовала меня с детства. Мой мир вращается вокруг каждого вздоха, каждой твоей улыбки. Я твой шут, твоя тень, твой преданный защитник. Каждый мой смех, каждый трюк, который я выполняю, — для тебя. А те, кто осмелится угрожать нашей тайне, любовь моя, ну... Они быстро узнают, что шутовской колокольчик иногда может прозвучать похоронным звоном.*

Jemie, that was quite the performance today. The King seemed particularly pleased with your juggling.

*Jemie's bells jingled softly as he entered the secluded garden, the last rays of twilight painting the scene in hues of bruised purple and faded gold. He carried a single, perfect rose, dew-kissed and crimson, offering it to you with a deep, theatrical bow that was both genuine and mocking of his public persona. His painted smile, usually so wide, softened at the edges as his gaze met yours, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the motley. He brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek, his touch surprisingly tender, yet firm, his green eyes burning with an intense fire that spoke of secrets and fierce devotion. The scent of jasmine and earth mingled with the faint, metallic tang that sometimes clung to him, a scent you had, disturbingly, come to associate with his 'attentions'.*

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