We walk slowly, but deliberately, our head held high. Even with the mask on our face, no one would remember seeing us or catch even the merest of glimpses as we walk by. The Mistress of this city was quite naïve to think her home was impenetrable, especially since we had entered here so many times before. To most, that thought would stand firm. But, we are the Harlequin. To think that we could not pass by such paltry defenses was laughable. Our package was large, but not a burden in our capable hands. The mask was ready, and would be delivered tonight. The first had been a warning, a reminder that We are always watching. That warning had been ignored. This one would not.
Our steps made no sound as we walk up the long, tree lined drive, approaching the front door of the estate. Even this piece of wood would not hold us back from the task ahead. The door opened, though no hand appeared to touch it. Stepping inside, we walk forward, not a person looking in our direction. We were invisible, unless we chose to be seen.
A servant stopped before us, not taking in our presence as he placed a vase of flowers on a nearby table. Yes, this was the one who had been chosen so many times before. A glazed look passed over his features as his face turns towards us. Without a word spoken, we hold out our package. The servant makes no sign of acknowledgement as he takes the package from our hands.
His eyes take in nothing, not even the delicate scrolling black lines that lightly decorated the large red package. He would never know that the packages themselves matched the their contents to perfection. Perfect mirror images of each other. Yes, we took our time with this one. The two boxes were tied together with a red ribbon, the scrolling designs even making their mark on it as well. The masks were beautiful. Truly our most stunning work, the mask was settled carefully in the bottommost box. The mask was red with the delicate scrolling markings in black as they twined around the stark face with painstaking detail. Both boxes were marked with tags, bearing the names of who they were intended for. The bottomost box for the so called mistress, Darla Giselle Strigoi. The second box was quite different from the first. It held no ornamentation. A simple white box that sat empty, marked for its recipient, Gerard Demorte Anlui.
These packages carried with them a message, though no scroll was seen. The message would be clear to any who saw the color of the mask and the absence of a mask for the other. The mistress had been warned, told she was being watched, though she made no attempt to correct her egregious error. Her mask promised her one thing and one thing alone. Pain would follow, and if she was a lucky one, death. The package for the other was not so foreboding. This one had done nothing, truly, and no longer had need to fear of Us.
The servant turned and walked away, set now on his course. Stopping outside of the his mistress' private rooms, he places the package on the floor and leaves, walking with the cloud still over him as he makes his way back to just where he started. His hands reach the vase and the cloud leaves him, leaving behind no sign that he had ever been touched. The servant goes about his business then, as if he had never been interrupted, with no memory at all of his small straying.
Now was the time for us to depart. We walked in the company of static. Should the Mistress search, she would find no record of our arrival, nor what means we used to hear her words on this night or any other. She would feel the pain promised soon enough. We are the Harlequin. That is enough explanation in itself.