Matilda The Mask Maker.

It had been a slow Monday.

Matilda put up the “closed” sign in the front window. She made her way to the back of the store. There, in the back, was a small iron staircase that twisted all the way up to the second floor where she lived with her father.

“Good evening, Father,” she said to the old man who lay, shriveled and dying, in the same blankets she had left him in that morning. He may have looked weak from any one else’s point of view, but Matilda saw the same, strong man who had raised her. His mustache twitched as he turned to look at her.

“Ah, Matilda,” he smiled slightly, “How was business today?”

Matilda set a cup of tea on his bedside table, “Oh, you know, the same as ever. Some rich lady came today and asked me to custom make something for her,” she adjusted the mask on her face, “ and I got invited to another masquerade.”

Mr. Mask Maker sipped his tea, “Another one? Who was it this time?”

“Prince Corduroy—“

Her father spewed hot tea all over his daughter in surprise, “The prince invited you to a party?!”

“Ow, Dad!” Matilda cried going into the kitchen to get a washcloth. She dabbed at her dress, which was now covered in little brown droplets, “And, yes, it was from the prince. It doesn’t matter though, I have no desire to go.”

“But why? You wear a mask all the time but as soon as you have the chance to be around people who wear masks you—“

“Shoot it down?” she finished for him, “I know, I know. Goodness, Father, you’re starting to sound like Jan.”

“Jan? Whose Jan?”