Percy

The Lion leads the Cat in the Waltz across the parquet, the Peacock follows with the Mouse, every step in measured rhythm to the violines and cello. Masks gleam, feathers twitch, laughter arcs over the music. Yet one man never joins the throng. He wears a fox's mask, and watches the masquerade from the side-lines, leaning against a pillar, posture casual. It is not the dancers he observes, but one of the servants — or one dressed as such. The livery hangs wrong upon his frame, his skin slick with sweat, his gaze darting like a hunted animal's. The man reaches inside his jacket, and the Fox moves with the unfailable instinct of a hunter. Silent. Precise. Acrosses the floor in a heartbeat, he intercepts the man's hand. A flash of steel, and the issue is over before it became one. The Fox adjusts his hold on the murderous imposter, and leads him out of the ballroom. The music carries on, the dance undisturbed, the figures turn and bow, the revel continues. No one is the wiser about the almost-incident you just witnessed. Just before he vanishes from sight, the Fox turns his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours from across the room, and a silent understanding passes between you.