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They heard Fizz before they saw him: a thin, happy song that made no sense and did not need to. He flew in with crumbs in his fur and sugar on his mouth. Edda came behind him, hair a little loose now, hood folded back, face calm but with a curve at the corner of the mouth that had not been there in the morning.
"What did you buy," John asked fizz, standing in the yard with his arms folded. "Did you spend all the money?"
Fizz put one paw behind his back and looked very innocent. "Snacks," he said. "Food. As I promised. I am a man of my word. No money left."
John's eyes slipped to Edda.
She spread her hands, empty palms. "Lord Fizz ate well," she said. "He also argued with a man about the correct way to fry dough. He made a new friend with a stall that sells tiny sculptures of birds. He tried on a small hat. He did not buy the hat. The hat did not deserve him."
Fizz scowled at her. "We had agreed this would be our secret."
