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[Harlequin]

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“You're kicking me out?!”

“Nay, not kickin' ye out. Stop bein' so dramatic, Quinn.” Aurelia removed her gloves and folded them over once in her hands.

“Stop being dramatic....Have you MET me?” Quinn fluttered the letter in front of the Countess as Aurelia seated herself. “What's this then?”

“I've arranged ye a position where ye might learn to contribute th' way others do. I can on'y assume yer continued attentions focused 'pon those who craft an' those who patrol, indicates interest in their respective fields.” Aurelia watched Quinn and spoke matter-of-factly as she poured herself a glass of wine.

“My continued attentions...?” Quinn crumpled the letter in her hand as she spoke. “My attentions have nothing to do with what they do for a living. And it certainly doesn't mean I want to DO what they do for a living.” Her words grew more barbed by the second.

“Be that as it may, Dear Quinn, I feel strongly that ye have an energy that requires a bit o' focus and direction. This will be an excellent way for ye t' learn a trade an' perhaps find ways t' contribute t' Ashencrosse in deeper, an' more meaningful ways.” Her expression was pleasant, but Quinn was certain there was venom behind those words.

“And what if I don't want to 'contribute in deeper an' more meaningful ways,' what then?” She mimicked Aurelia's accent as she spoke.

Aurelia leveled her gaze and spoke more sternly. “Ye may not like me, Quinn, but ye will respect me. This isn't an optional opportunity. If ye don't like it, ye will be shown th' gates, and may ye forget where they are once you've left 'em behind.”

Quinn seethed, gritting her teeth as she clenched the letter, balled up, in her fist. On one hand, she didn't take orders from anyone. On the other, there were very few people she trusted at all in this life, and they were all here in Ashencrosse. If she departed these walls for good, it meant leaving them all behind. Rythane, Caleb, Alisiea....Gaius. It would rip whatever heart she had, straight from her chest.

“We have an agreement then?” Aurelia watched the emotions flit through Quinn's eyes as she fumed.

“Whatever you want, Countess. I'll pack. What day do I leave?”

Aurelia smiled brightly and rose from her seat. “Yer escort awaits at th' gate. I've taken th' liberty o' packing bags for ye. Th' two o' ye will depart within th' hour.”
_________________
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

[Harlequin]

---

She didn’t retch anymore when she drank from the communal dipper bucket. Oh, the thought was there – that reflex when she thought of everyone else who’d touched the bucket, and who’d drunk from the dipper. But insufferable heat and beyond-exhausting work went a long way to make the unbearable, bearable. There were so many who’d touched and drunk from this same dipper, the thought positively made her skin crawl. Men whose names she didn’t know. Men who had never bothered to ask her name. Instead, they just called her—

“Freakshow! You part camel, or what?” The overseer stood over her, as a few of the other miners looked on. “Get back to work.”

Quinn dropped the dipper, water and all, back into the bucket with an exaggerated splosh, and glared at the overseer. Her hair was twisted into pigtail buns atop her head, and she’d foregone the white paint that usually covered her face and body since the second day in the mining camp. It was, quite simply, too hot. It ran with her sweat, and stung her eyes. Her face, however, still bore the telltale flourishes of black that hid the expression of her eyes, and she wore a painted red pout that faded throughout the day. By the time her work was done, her mouth held the same bedraggled and grim expression as any other miner in the camp.

“Aye Sir.” She spat the words with venom, and dragged her pickaxe behind her on the ground as she returned to her place near the mouth of the cave. A few of the men chuckled as she passed by them, under the watchful eye of the overseer. She made sure her pickaxe thudded or scraped against their bare shins as she passed.

Quietly, she picked up where she’d left off, counting the swings, and falls of the pickaxe. Twice as many as yesterday, and the day was only half done. She was getting better. And she wondered how good she would have to become, before she was allowed to go home.
_________________
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

[Harlequin]

---

The pale white tent over her head scarcely veiled the stars in the night sky. Quinn lay on her back, tearing pieces off the loaf of hard bread that she'd been given for supper. She'd been too hot and restless to eat it then, but now it gave her something to occupy her hands and her mind until sleep could find her. She chewed a bite, watching the clouds chase one another across a field of stars, through the thin fabric that served as her shelter.

She didn't think of whose hands had made the bread, or who else's had touched it en route to her plate. She chewed mindlessly, wondering if anyone else in the world could appreciate the cool breeze that whipped through her tent the way that she did. And she wondered, too, at the fact that she was the only woman in the mining camp, but not a single miner there had caught her eye. Maybe she was just too tired to care. Or maybe they were all just ugly. She didn't allow herself to entertain the third notion.

“Hey Freakshow.” The voice came from the next tent over, and she recognized it immediately as Olaf, a massive man with a head of wild blonde hair who always did as he was told without hesitation.

“Yeah?” Quinn turned her head on her pillow in the direction of his voice.

“You awake?”

“Clearly.”

There was silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “Sometimes I miss my girl.”

Quinn remained silent, and shoved another bite of bread into her mouth, chewing slowly as he continued.

“The way she smells, the way she laughs.” He breathed a laugh, barely audible above the night sounds. “Pretty dumb, huh?”

“Mm.” Quinn took a drink of water from her canteen and set it aside.

She heard him shift in his bedroll. “You ever miss anybody?”

“Shut up, Olaf.” Quinn rolled over with her back toward his tent and closed her eyes, still smoky and black with the day's paint. Only silence remained between them until his answer broke it with finality.

“A'ight.”
_________________
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