"Fool!"
The word rang bright and ridiculous beneath the painted canvas roof, flung from the stage with such theatrical despair that the audience erupted into laughter before the echo had even died. Lanternlight trembled across stretched cloth and carved wood, catching on gilt paint and dangling ribbons so that the entire pavilion seemed to shimmer with merriment.
Dym laughed with them.
He laughed because the puppet deserved it—because the puppet knight, stiff-limbed and absurdly proud, had just tripped over his own banner pole and sprawled face-first into a rosebush. He laughed because the children's shrieks of delight were infectious, because the bells sewn into the puppet's sleeves jingled helplessly as its legs kicked the air, and because even the adults—farmers, soldiers, traders—were grinning into their cups as though reminded of some gentler foolishness from their own youth.
He also laughed because the tall Elafian woman beside the stage laughed, and he had discovered over the past week that hearing her laugh had become one of the most pleasant sounds in all of Rudnicka Vale.
The tent smelled of oil lamps, sawdust, damp canvas, and sweet fried dough bought from a brazier stand outside. Children crowded the front rows on layered carpets and low benches, legs folded beneath them, faces tipped upward in open delight. Adults stood or sat behind on rough stools, mugs in hand, indulgent smiles worn like old coats—comfortably, familiarly, without self-consciousness. Somewhere near the back a fiddler tuned strings between acts, stray notes weaving through the hum of conversation.
Dym sat among the adults.
Soap sat among the children.
It was a perfectly natural division, though Dym suspected his squire preferred it that way tonight—the boy's laughter rang free and unguarded among the younger audience, where he did not have to remember he was supposed to be nearly a man, a soldier-in-training, a squire expected soon enough to trade carpets for saddles and wooden swords for steel.
Onstage, the puppet knight staggered upright again, plume bent, armor dented, dignity nonexistent.
The crowd roared.
The play was titled Fioryn the Wayward and Joan of the Silver Meadows, a northern Kazimierz retelling of an old pastoral romance beloved across plains villages and knightly courts alike. Here, Fioryn was not a courtly lordling but a wandering hedge-knight: penniless, overproud, disastrously earnest, armed with more vows than sense. Joan was a village maiden sworn to a roadside shrine of the Pegasi—practical, sharp-tongued woman who possessed of the sort of moral clarity that could split heroic speeches down to splinters with a single lifted brow.
Fioryn fell head over heels for her at once.
Joan tolerated him at best.
The story followed his attempts to prove himself worthy: slaying imagined monsters that proved to be windmills, irrigation rigs, or occasionally very offended livestock; challenging bandits who turned out to be tax collectors; composing catastrophic ballads that rhymed steel with feel with unkillable persistence. The humor lay in contrast familiar to every Kazimierz listener—the gap between knightly ideal and muddy road, between banners and barns, between tournament glory and the daily labor that actually sustained villages.
Yet the tale was not mockery.
It was affection.
Because Fioryn, though foolish, never stopped choosing honor—even when no one watched, even when Joan rolled her eyes, even when the world insisted he was ridiculous.
Tonight's troupe played it in puppet and masked theatre combined.
The puppet Fioryn was carved long-limbed and narrow-waisted, with a perpetually crooked helm plume and a hinged wooden jaw that opened too wide whenever he declaimed. The actor Joan was human.
She was played by the tall Elafian woman.
Dym had learned, over the past week of finding increasingly transparent reasons to linger near the puppeteers' encampment, that her name was Avelyne.
She stood nearly a head taller than most women present, antlers sweeping to the sides in elegant arcs like polished branches.
Her costume tonight was unmistakably pastoral Kazimierz, rendered with theatrical richness: a long cream underdress embroidered with meadow flowers in gold and green thread; a sleeveless surcoat of soft moss-green wool belted high beneath the chest in knightly fashion, echoing armor lines without plate; and over her shoulders a short mantle dyed jonquil-yellow and edged in silver braid, the color that gave her character its name.
Her dark chestnut hair was braided with small metal charms shaped like shields and blossoms that chimed faintly when she moved, and at her hip hung Joan's symbolic staff—a shepherd's crook tipped in silver, sign of both village duty and the vow to guide fools toward better roads.
She moved with a performer's grace, voice carrying effortlessly through the tent, timing honed by long seasons of laughter.
When she rolled her eyes at Fioryn's latest boast, Dym and the audience howled.
Soap, from the children's carpet, threw himself sideways in delight as the puppet knight attempted to serenade Joan and instead got his wooden sword stuck in a prop well bucket. Joan planted her hands on her hips and delivered the line that always preceded the next catastrophe:
"You fool!"
Fioryn struck a heroic pose while dangling upside down.
The tent shook with laughter.
The play moved toward its familiar turning point: the moment when mockery teetered into revelation. A herald puppet waddled onstage, scroll flapping.
"As great a fool as ever lived!" it's actor proclaimed.
The crowd jeered on cue, children booing gleefully.
"And as great a knight as well!"
Cheers erupted, applause rippling through the pavilion like wind across grain.
Avelyne tilted her head, antlers catching lamplight. "A fool and a knight," she said with playful disbelief. "I have never heard of such a thing."
The puppet Fioryn straightened, jaw wagging earnestly. "Sweet lady. All men are fools, and all men are knights..." He leaned conspiratorially close, wooden hand cupped. "...where women are concerned."
Laughter crashed like surf. Someone whistled. Soap collapsed against another boy in hysterics. Even Dym had to brace a hand against the stage pole, breathless.
A fiddle struck up a lilting strain, weaving between applause as Fioryn attempted his final grand declaration atop a wobbling hay-bale stack. Joan watched, unimpressed.
"Lady," Fioryn proclaimed, chest thrust forward, "I have slain giants, defeated tyrants, and crossed three kingdoms for your hand!"
"You slew a windmill," Joan said.
"It endangered the commonfolk!"
"You challenged a toll collector."
"He was villainous."
"You crossed three kingdoms because you were lost."
The audience roared.
Fioryn faltered, rallied. "Yet still—I stand!"
The hay bales collapsed.
Fioryn vanished.
Joan looked skyward in theatrical resignation. "What a fool you are, Fioryn the Fool!"
Laughter thundered.
Then, softer—she knelt beside the fallen puppet, voice gentling as the fiddle's melody thinned to a single sustained note.
"...but mine own fool."
The tent hushed.
And in that breath between laughter and tenderness, something unexpectedly warm settled in Dym's chest. He did not examine it too closely. He was far too occupied watching Avelyne smile—half performer, half woman, sun light gilding the curve of her brown antler and her rosy cheek.
=========
-Flashback
They had come here to celebrate Dym's Knighthood.
And by accident they arrived at the puppeteer's tent.
When Dym returned to camp that afternoon, Soap had been by the horses under the elm tree with his sleeves rolled and his entire focus on Swift, working the currycomb through the young gelding's coat in slow, even circles. Dust and loose hairs lifted in soft, sunlit clouds; the horse leaned into the pressure with contented snorts, tail swishing lazily.
Dym lingered at the campsite longer than necessary.
He told himself he was waiting for a pause in the brushing.
He told himself he was deciding how best to phrase things.
He told himself several things that were all lies.
He was trying very hard not to sound exactly as excited as he felt.
He failed.
"Soap."
"Mm?" The boy didn't look up, shifting a step along Swift's flank as he worked.
Dym cleared his throat, attempted composure, and then simply blurted, "I've been acknowledged."
The comb stopped mid-stroke.
For a moment Soap didn't move at all.
Then, slowly, "...what?"
"By Ser Mlynar Nearl," Dym said, striving for knightly dignity and achieving breathless pride instead.
Soap turned his head very gradually, as if sudden motion might break something fragile in the air. "No, you haven't."
"I have."
Silence stretched.
Swift flicked an ear.
Somewhere a hammer rang from the far end of camp.
Soap blinked once. Twice.
"...really?"
"Yep."
Soap held his gaze another second, then turned back to the horse and resumed brushing with exaggerated calm. "Right," he said. "And next you'll tell me you shared wine with the Emperor of Gaul."
"I did not," Dym said promptly. "But Prince George of Victoria was there."
The comb fell out of Soap's hand and landed in the straw.
He straightened so fast Swift shifted in surprise. "...the Grey Dragon?"
"Yes."
Another silence — but this one thinner, sharper.
Soap turned fully now, staring up at him with dawning uncertainty. "Ser."
"Yes?"
"...are you lying, ser?"
"I am not," Dym said, genuinely affronted. "Why would I lie about that?"
Soap squinted hard, searching his face for cracks. "You swear?"
Dym raised one hand solemnly — and failed to keep the grin out of his voice. "I solemnly swear upon my newly cemented knighthood that I do not."
Soap held his eyes a long moment more.
Then he wiped his palm on his trousers and held it out. "Proof."
Dym produced the letter at once, unable to suppress the grin tugging at his mouth.
Soap took it gingerly, as if it might dissolve under rough handling. He turned toward the light, brow knitting as his eyes tracked across wax seals, impressed crests, layered signatures. He read it once. Then again. Then tilted it, checking the stamps from another angle, as though they might rearrange themselves into nonsense if viewed wrong.
"...oh," he said at last, very quietly.
"Mm-hm."
Soap swallowed. "...oh."
Dym tried very hard not to bounce on his heels.
He bounced slightly anyway.
"So," Soap said after a moment, still staring at the parchment, "that's... that's—"
"Mm-hm."
"And they— what, they just... gave you this."
"They acknowledged me," Dym said, chest lifting. "Before witnesses. Ser Aleksandr Nearl — the Silver Hand himself — was there as well. And the Lord of Rudnicka Vale. Master of the Games, Perun. And a Victorian lady whose name I regret I did not properly catch."
Soap looked up slowly, expression shifting from disbelief to something bright and stunned. "You're serious."
"I am."
Another pause.
Then Soap let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "By the Gods, ser."
"Indeed," Dym agreed fervently.
Soap handed the letter back with both hands, still reverent. "So what now?"
"Well," Dym said, tucking the parchment away with exaggerated care, "while Ser Nearl said his own word should suffice, he did advise that I present myself to this Fremont fellow to formalize matters properly."
Soap nodded slowly. "That sounds sensible."
"It does."
"...and?"
Dym's grin broke free. "And that can wait until later."
Soap narrowed his eyes. "Why."
"Because now—"
"No," Soap said immediately.
"—we celebrate."
"With what money," Soap demanded.
"I have some."
"You always say that."
"Don't you worry, boy," Dym added, "we have not yet touched Ser Don's parting gift, so we remain in excellent financial standing. By the way, I may need to find new set of armor and weapon if I were to enter the list."
Soap groaned but was already reaching for Swift's halter. "If you get drunk and fall off a stool again—"
"I will not."
"You said that last time. Ser."
"I was less acknowledged as knight then."
Soap snorted. "That is not how acknowledgment works."
"...well," Dym said, rallying, "it will not happen again."
Soap gave him a look that conveyed absolute certainty it would.
"...where are we going," he sighed.
Dym tried for casual and landed squarely in obvious. "Town , of course. Where else?"
Soap followed his gaze toward Rudnicka Vale — and then, very deliberately, toward the distant line of painted canvas tents beyond the square, their banners fluttering with puppet silhouettes and bright meadow colors.
"...ah," he said.
=========
Which was how they came to be beneath painted canvas and lamplight, laughter rolling through the crowded tent as the puppet knight Fioryn the Wayward sprawled headlong into a rosebush. Again.
Soap watched with amusement of someone who had, over the past week, realized that his master — who could blunder through camps, markets, and conversations with equal earnestness.
...had become entirely helpless in the presence of one tall Elafian puppeteer.
Soap bit his knuckle to keep from laughing at the thought as the fiddle swelled and the audience rose in applause.
Onstage, Joan helped the battered puppet Fioryn to his feet, garlands shared between them while bells jingled and children cheered. And just beyond the painted meadow backdrop, Avelyne's real smile—warm, bright, fleetingly private—found Dym in the crowd again.
He did not look away.
A short while later, the laughter had thinned into lingering chatter and the tent had begun its quiet transformation back into canvas and poles and bundled props. Lamps were being capped, benches stacked, painted backdrops rolled with practiced efficiency. The puppets — so animated moments ago — now hung limp in rows from a traveling rack, their carved faces caught in the stillness between performances.
Dym and Soap hovered at the edge of the troupe's space with the unmistakable uncertainty of people deciding whether they were intruding.
Soap solved it by simply walking forward.
Dym followed half a step behind.
Avelyne stood near a crate of costumes, loosening the braids that had held her hair tight for the stage. Without the lamplight and audience, she seemed both the same and not — still strikingly tall, still antler-crowned, but now softened by the ordinary motions of packing and work. She was folding Joan's yellow mantle when Dym cleared his throat.
"Hello there," he said.
She turned at once.
"Yes?"
She rose in the same motion — and her antlers swept forward alarmingly close to Dym's face.
"Whoa—whoa!" Dym recoiled with impressive speed for a man his size, hands lifting reflexively.
Avelyne froze, eyes widening. "Oh! Entschuldigung— I am sorry!"
"It's fine," Dym said quickly, one hand up as if to reassure both her and himself. "Entirely fine. No harm done."
She straightened, visibly composing herself, hands smoothing briefly down her skirt before folding together.
Up close, the height difference was striking: she stood easily around six feet, the crown of her head nearly level with Dym's chin even before the antlers.
Her skin held that pale, cool tone often seen among northern Elafians, and without stage cosmetics the lines of her face were sharper, more angular — beautiful in a way that felt carved rather than painted.
"How may I help you, mein Herr?" she asked.
The words carried a distinct accent now — quite different from the clear, theatrical Kazimierz she had used onstage. Her vowels rounded and softened, consonants touched by a gentle burr; Even the rhythm of her speech felt measured differently, syllables weighted with careful precision rather than local cadence.
It was foreign to Dym's ears.
Which, in hindsight, Dym supposed had always been obvious — the pallor, the costume style, the faint unfamiliarities in her features — but hearing it plainly made the realization land all at once.
"Ah— well—" he began, momentarily derailed by mein Herr more than anything else.
Soap, fortunately, had no such difficulty.
"It was a good show!" the boy burst out, stepping forward with unabashed enthusiasm. "I mean really good. I've seen puppet plays before, but never like that — the way he moved! I kept trying to see the strings and there weren't any, and when he fell in the well it looked real, and—" he stopped, breath catching, then asked in a rush, "Did you use Arts too?"
Avelyne's face lit at once, the careful formality dissolving into bright pleasure. "Thank you! Yes — a little Arts, ja. Only subtle, not to replace the craft. It helps with weight and balance, makes the joints respond more... how you say... organic? And our musician, he supports with musical Arts also — rhythm guidance, emotional tone. Together it feels more alive."
Soap nodded vigorously, entirely convinced this was the best explanation in the world.
"And your figures are well carved too," Dym added, finding his footing again. "Especially the big dragon from a few days ago. The scales caught the light beautifully. Did you make them yourself?"
Avelyne glanced toward the puppet rack where the dragon's head hung, its painted jaws frozen mid-snarl. Her expression softened with quiet pride. "Some, yes. The dragon from our early acts is made by my uncle and other troupe members. Others are older — troupe pieces, passed down for generations. Many of the bodies and mechanisms were made by him and the other craftsmen in our company. I carve when I can, but I paint most of them."
She gestured lightly toward the rack: the lacquered sheen on the puppet Fioryn's head, the fine lining around eyes, the layered dyes on cloth and leather.
"It is not only wood we use. Cloth for drape and motion, leather for joints and grip, wire, resin, sometimes horn or bone — whatever serves the illusion best. Wood is... patient and cheap material, but the others each have their own temper. But we also used other materials and alchemies for some tricks! For example, we used pollen we found on the way to make the dragon's breath tricks too."
She looked back to them, smile returning. "Do you have interest in such things, mein Herr?"
Dym opened his mouth — and discovered, with mild dismay, that Soap was already watching him with very obvious interest of his own.
"I—well, I have not had much chance to, you see," he said, a breath of nervous laughter slipping out. "I am a knight of the realm and all, so my days are rather... occupied."
Avelyne blinked.
Then her eyes widened with sudden delight, and she brought her hands together lightly at her chest. "Oh! Du bist ein Ritter?"
Dym stared at her.
He had absolutely no idea what she had just said.
There was a pause in which his expression remained politely attentive while his mind turned over the unfamiliar sounds like pebbles in a boot.
Soap, of course, chose that exact moment to speak.
"A hedge knight," the boy said helpfully. "And not until a few hours ago. We have been trying to find someone willing to vouch for him for a week. He only just found... someone that is willing to vouch for it."
Dym's head snapped sideways. "Hush it, you."
His brown ears were already going red. He turned back at once, mortified, and dipped his head toward Avelyne. "Forgive him, my lady. My squire is still young and learning when to keep his tongue behind his teeth."
Soap looked entirely unrepentant.
Avelyne only laughed softly, waving one hand in easy dismissal. "Oh, das ist wunderbar. Congratulations for your knighthood, Herr Ritter. I pray you will uphold Kazimierz's famed chivalry in the days to come."
Dym scratched the back of his head, suddenly very aware of his height, his hands, his clothes, the dust on his boots, the way her antlers framed her face. "T–thank you, m–my lady."
Soap, who had been shifting from foot to foot with the restless energy of someone holding too many thoughts at once, could not help himself.
"But he still needs his own devices," the boy said, gesturing at Dym as if presenting an unfinished project. "He cannot use his old master's sigil. And the equipment is all too small for him anyway. He even has to make his own sword."
Avelyne's expression softened at once, sympathy bright in her eyes. "Ah... that is unfortunate."
Dym let out a long-suffering breath and shot his squire a look. "That... that is true," he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. "But there is time yet."
"And we still need to find this Fremont as well," Soap added, apparently deciding that if he was already talking, he might as well empty the whole sack. "To make his claim proper."
Avelyne froze.
Then her head snapped up. "Der Professor?!"
Dym blinked. "Do you know him?"
Her surprise shifted quickly into recognition. "Ja— yes, I know him. I studied at Ludwigs-Universität, in Leithanien. He was... is... a lecturer there. My lector in Arts studies, especially Klangkunst — sound-based Arts."
Her mouth curved in a rueful little smile. "Very strict. Very bad-tempered. Very... eccentric. He frightened half the students and fascinated the other half. Sometimes both at once."
Soap's eyes widened.
Dym listened with growing interest.
"But I did not finish my studies," she continued, voice dipping a little. "There were... economic difficulties. And political matters at the time. I left before my final years." She lifted one shoulder lightly, as if the fact had long since settled into something she carried without complaint. "But I remember him well."
She looked between them again curiously. "How do you know der Professor, Herr Ritter?"
Dym shifted his weight, the answer still new enough to feel slightly unreal when spoken aloud. "A former traveling companion of ours knew him. Ser Don Quixote." He scratched his cheek. "He said Lord Fremont owed him some favors. He told us that if we were ever in need in this tourney, we might use his name to ask assistance."
Avelyne went still for a fraction of a second, the name clearly unfamiliar yet the implication not. Then she nodded slowly.
"I see. Then you are very fortunate, Herr Ritter. Der Professor is not a man known for friendship... or patience." A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "If he indeed owes your Ser Don a favor, that is a rare advantage."
She tipped her head, earnest again. "But you should find him as soon as possible. He can be... very ungedulding—impatient."
Dym nodded. "T-That was our plan."
Beside him, Soap looked up at him and raised one brow in pointed reminder.
Soon, that look said. Not "later" or "eventually."
Dym pretended, with great dignity, not to notice.
Dym shifted his weight, clearly about to say something else, then hesitated — the way a man does when he has remembered an errand but suddenly feels much younger than he is.
"Ah — I almost forgot," he said, a little too quickly. "You mentioned you also paint, right?"
Avelyne nodded at once. "Indeed, Herr Ritter."
That was apparently all the invitation he needed. Dym reached back and unslung his shield, the leather strap rasping softly across his shoulder as he brought it forward and held it out between them. The painted face caught the lamplight — the white tree of his former master stark against its worn field, edges scuffed by travel and time.
"Speaking of paints," he said, and immediately lost whatever composure he had attempted to assemble. "C-could you paint something for me? Uh — I have the coin to pay, of course. I, um... just..." He gave a self-conscious little laugh and gestured vaguely at the device. "I need to paint something over the white tree."
Avelyne leaned in slightly, studying the shield with an artist's attention — not merely the symbol, but the surface beneath it, the grain of wood, the age of lacquer, the places where old blows had dented the curve. She hummed softly in thought.
"Well," she said at last, glancing up, "what would you want for your symbol, Herr Ritter?"
Silence.
Dym looked at the shield.
Then at her.
Then back at the shield, as if an answer might appear if he stared hard enough.
"Um..." He clicked his tongue, searching. "I... I don't..." A breath left him. "I don't actually know."
Avelyne's brows rose just slightly.
Soap made a small apologetic sound and tipped his head toward her in a silent please forgive him.
Dym scrubbed the back of his neck, ears coloring. "I, uh... sorry. You must think me a fool." He gave an awkward little chuckle that landed somewhere between sheepish and resigned.
Avelyne's expression softened at once. She smiled — not amused, not indulgent, but warm, as if she recognized the moment for what it was: a man standing at the edge of becoming someone new and not yet knowing the shape of it.
"Alle Männer sind Narren," she said gently, the Leithanian cadence returning to her voice, "und alle Männer sind Ritter."
Dym blinked. "...pardon?"
She tilted her head. "Just as Fioryn said. All men are fools — and all men are knights."
Understanding arrived slowly, but when it did, it brought with it the faintest, embarrassed smile.
"Oh," he said. "Mm." He fidgeted with the rim of the shield. "Yes. Right."
Another small silence settled, companionable rather than awkward now, broken only by the soft clatter of the troupe packing behind them and the distant murmur of the fair beyond the canvas line.
Avelyne tapped one finger lightly against the painted face. "The white is a bit... drab."
"A-aye," Dym said quickly, grateful for something concrete. "Um — yes. The — the field should be the color of sunset. Because... the old man always liked sunsets. And, uh..."
He trailed off, gaze dropping again, thumb worrying at a worn edge of paint.
Soap, who had been watching him with quiet patience, stepped in gently.
"An elm tree," the boy said. "A big one. Like the one by the river, with big brown trunk and the green branches."
Dym looked at him, surprised — then nodded, relief loosening his shoulders. "A-Aye. That one. An elm tree."
Avelyne's eyes moved between them — knight and squire. And she smiled again, softer still, already seeing the shape of it in her mind.
Dym shifted the shield in his hands, then hesitated as another thought surfaced — tentative at first, then brightening with sudden certainty.
"But... with a shooting star above," he added, lifting his eyes to hers. "Could you do that?"
Avelyne's fingers rose lightly to her chin as she considered it. She hummed — a soft, thoughtful sound — and closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing. Lamplight traced the curve of her lashes; the line of her antlers framed her like branching silverwood. Dym, watching far too closely, felt his heart give an unhelpful little flutter.
Her eyes opened again.
She nodded once, sure now. "Ja. I get the picture. I can do that."
The relief and delight that crossed his face were immediate and unguarded. "Th—thank you." He shifted his grip, suddenly remembering something else entirely. "Um — I'm... I'm Ser Dymitr. Ser Dymitr the Tall. S-sorry for the late introductions. I... kind of forgot." He gave a sheepish chuckle.
Avelyne giggled, the sound light and musical. She dipped her head in a small performer's bow. "Well met, Herr Dymitr. I am Avelyn. When I was younger, the boys used to call me Avelyn Langbein." She smiled at his confusion. "It means... Avelyn Long-Legs."
She laughed softly, tapping one antler with a fingertip. "It became worse once these grew in."
Dym laughed with her, easy and warm. "You're not Long-Legs," he said quickly. "I mean — your antlers too. You're right for—"
Soap's head snapped toward him.
Dym froze.
Avelyne tilted her head, curious. "For?"
"Puppets," Soap cut in instantly.
Dym seized the lifeline. "Y-yes. Puppets." He chuckled again, the sound landing several steps short of convincing. "Very... puppet-like. Height. And... reach."
Soap exhaled through his nose.
Avelyne's smile turned knowingly amused, though she graciously pretended to accept the explanation.
Dym, now fully aware he had entered conversational terrain beyond his skill, executed the only maneuver available to him: retreat.
"Right," he said abruptly, stepping back. "I'll, um—"
He turned.
Soap's hand shot out and caught the end of his cloak. "Ser—"
"Wait," Avelyne called gently. "Herr Ritter?"
Dym stopped mid-escape and turned back, already pinking. "Yes?"
She held up her hands, empty.
"The shield?"
He stared.
Then groaned softly at himself. "A-Ah, yes. Sorry. The shield."
He came back those two steps and placed it carefully into her waiting hands. She received it with care, thumbs already feeling the surface, eyes bright with the design forming in her mind: sunset field, elm, and a star in flight above it.
She looked up at him again and smiled.