The masked stranger stares at me, and though his face remains a frozen weave, and his eyes are too deep to reveal his thoughts, I think he’s laughing. If he wants the box, too, then I’ve found it for him and gotten myself caught in the process.
I raise my hand and point at him. I’ll accuse him, give him the burden of the members’ attention, and once I’m invisible again, I’ll work the sheets down over the drawer and steal the box back.
The power of a single pointing finger – it disturbs the people between us, who shift, look at each other, look behind them. The mask is thick and mottled, the eyeholes rough, the nose flat, the mouth a narrow slit.
And then a wider slit. Somehow, the plaster is stretching, tearing.
A shriek cuts through the silence.
The harnessed angel has slipped off th
