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[Harlequin]

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Breathe. Just breathe.

Quinn paced steadily across the warm hardwood floor of her cabin, from stone wall to stone hearth, and back again. Ansel sat on the bedpost watching her, feathers flitting ever-so-slightly with each pass. Past experience had taught him caution when her movements became slow and methodic. That was when she was most prone to breaking the silence – and whatever else she could get her hands on.

Finally, she paused before the dressing table, willing herself down upon the cushioned bench, and gazing into the mirror with a soul-deep sigh. With a practiced flourish, she swept her hair up and tied it with a black satin ribbon. Then, resolutely, she opened a bottle and poured the bitter spirits onto a clean pad of cotton and began meticulously removing her paint, stroke by agonizing stroke.

When she was done, she gazed into the mirror and released her hair, allowing it to spill over her shoulders and down her back. Quieter still, she forced herself to stand and pick up the silver runebook which lay open atop an empty pedestal whose statue was no more – an unsuspecting victim of her last tantrum.

Fighting off the feeling of impending doom and shrugging off the cloak of utter dread, she stalled, instead busying herself cleaning smudges off the runebook’s binding. Flesh willing, spirit weak.

With one final deep breath, she opened the runebook and touched the rune lightly, uttering the soft words she felt would carry her to her doom. Kal Ort Por.

A cold rush, then silence in the gloom as she lit a candle and held it aloft to light her way to the door. She meant to knock quietly – so very quietly. If no one answered, she could go, knowing at least she tried. But as she lifted her fist, the heavy wooden door gave way and swung open.

Rythane watched her a moment, then instinctively looked beyond her, protectively, to the shadows, making sure she had not been followed. An instant later, the realization struck him, and his gaze returned to her. “Quinn…no paint?”

Harlequin smiled nervously. She felt vulnerable. Alone. As if he were seeing her for the first time. Her eyes, faintly Tokunese despite their grey hue. The rounded curve of her cheek, her chin as he cupped it, examining each detail. He dropped his hand, watching her, clearly still in shock. She wondered if he realized that he was the only person alive who had seen her bereft of the façade she had created for herself. Then, a gathering of light, like blue flames, lit his eyes and a slow smile spread across his face. Of course he knew.
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Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar