The craftsman's exposition was just as he'd expected. It was a day spent avoiding the door that was constantly being opened by visitors to his shop. They came in droves, poking through his works, the materials he'd brought along, his tools, pestering him with questions. He knew it was unusual for women to show any interest in woodwork, yet many of the female visitors to his shop lingered, hanging around him, watching with intent eyes. he knew the signs. When the sun was beginning to set, he was only too glad to see the crowds disperse. They all hurried off resume their business, and he assumed many of them were rushing off to find costumes.<br/><br/>He himself had deliberately left the costume given to him by the irritating woman who dragged him here. She'd hung it on a peg in his shop so that he would remember to bring it, and he'd left it there. There was no way he was attending this ball. She'd forced him into the workshop, as it was his duty to attend, but he had not duty to attend a party. When he returned to the back of the shop for the first time in hours, the sight that met him set him into a rage. His costume hung there, all frills and lace and glossed buttons. The mask was just as rediculous as the outfit.<br/><br/>"You didn't think I'd let you out of it that easily, did you?" she purred from behind him.<br/><br/>He didn't turn to greet her, refused to respond to her words. His feet remained were they were, refusing to move forward toward the costume. Her smell only preceded her arrival by a few seconds. He had little warning to master himself before she arrived.<br/><br/>"You can play coy all you like, old friend... but I will see you dressed and ready for the party when I return in an hour. After all. You owe me. Remember?"<br/><br/>He heard her depart, the soft rustling of cloth and shuffling of shoes. He glanced back to watch the figure of her disappear through the door.<br/><br/>"If you weren't my blood, idiot girl..." he growled into the empty shop, leaving the threat unfinished.<br/><br/>An hour later he was unwillingly clad in the costume, waiting for her return. The mask of black satin, fringed with a line of white silk, concealed his face from nose to brow, lending his chiseled features a mysterious appearance. The eyes that peered through the mask were full of fire, his irritation not quite hidden by the mask. His costume was immaculate, perfectly tailored to his frame. Muscular shoulders lent strength to the coat that hung down, ending in tails behind him. He carried a crystal-tipped mahogany cane, stained with a deep black die. The white silk cravat tied at his throat was secured with a glisten of gold. The curling cuffs peeking out of the sleeves of his jacket were of the same silky material.<br/><br/>He kept his tongue when she arrived, ignoring her chattering praise, her fawning. Her attention was only strengthened by his rejection, however. He strode down the lane at her side, using the cane only out of habit. He had no real need for it. The walk was short. When they arrived, a crowd was already gathered. He stood at the back, resigned to a long wait. Hours would pass, he knew, before she would let him leave.