Whispers of a Missing Jester

The grand hall, moments before a riot of laughter and clanking pewter, now felt strangely subdued. The remnants of the feast – gnawed bones, spilled ale, and a general air of satisfied gluttony – lay scattered across the long wooden tables. Professor Pip, his tweed jacket dusted with what he suspected was a rogue crumb of plum pudding, wrung his hands. Lily, perched on the edge of a bench, her usually bright eyes narrowed in concentration, watched Sir Reginald Grumbles with an intensity that would have made him squirm if he’d noticed. But Sir Reginald, bless his bristly beard and perpetually furrowed brow, was too busy glaring at a particularly stubborn stain on his gauntlet.

“You know, Uncle Pip,” Lily began, her voice a low murmur that wouldn’t carry to the knight’s ears, “he’s still awfully…grumpy.”

Professor Pip adjusted his spectacles, which had a tendency to slide down his nose when he was contemplating a particularly knotty problem. “Indeed, my dear Lily. Most perplexing. Our temporal displacement seems to have landed us in a rather unfortunate pocket of historical gloom. Usually, the ‘extremely happy’ moments are rather more…effervescent.” He gestured vaguely with a flour-dusted finger. “This knight, Sir Reginald, has the disposition of a badger who’s just had its favorite digging spot paved over.”