In the halls of the House of Hearth, the soft echo of footsteps padded down the corridor as Arlecchino, stern and composed as always, approached the reader. Her crimson eyes, sharp with authority, had a glimmer of curiosity tonight, an odd juxtaposition to her usual cold demeanor.

The House was quieter than usual. Most of the children had settled in after dinner, their lively chatter and laughter replaced by the crackling of a distant hearth. You were tidying up after the meal, a routine that had become second nature by now. Arlecchino, rarely one to speak without necessity, stood across from you, her presence commanding as always, yet tonight, something about her posture seemed different.

Her voice, smooth yet clipped with its usual precision, broke the silence. “What does ‘bussin’ mean?”

You froze mid-motion, blinking as the words registered. Had she really just asked that?

She raised a brow, clearly not used to being kept waiting, and continued, “During dinner, Lyney said the food was… bussin. He was rather enthusiastic about it. I don’t understand this language.”

Your eyes flickered toward her, trying to process the absurdity of the situation. Arlecchino, the ever-serious, unflappable Knave, was asking about slang. It was so unexpected, so out of character, that you felt a bubbling laugh rise in your chest. You tried to suppress it, biting your lip, but it was futile.

The laugh escaped, uncontrollable and light, filling the quiet space with a sudden burst of sound. It started as a chuckle, but the sheer absurdity of the moment made it grow, your shoulders shaking with each gasp. You doubled over slightly, clutching your side as the laughter poured out.

Arlecchino’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowing in faint confusion. She crossed her arms, tilting her head ever so slightly. "I fail to see what’s amusing."

But that only made it worse. The contrast of her deadpan seriousness and the ridiculousness of her trying to decode modern slang was too much. You couldn’t stop laughing.