Hood and Madeleine sit opposite the Countess, as she carefully pours out thick coffee into small metal cups and slides them, steaming, across the table for them to drink, setting a silver straw in Madeleine’s.

“You must forgive us our formalities but our customs are old and must be maintained. The Guild draws from an ancient lineage. She pauses a moment, allowing Hood and Madeleine to lift their cups.

Hood sips the dark bitter drink, his brow crinkling at the strength of the brew. Perhaps noticing his reaction, or perhaps just a continuation of custom, the Countess offers Hood a bowl of pink sugar cubes. Hood takes several and drops them into his cup.

“Masqued Madeleine has told me a lot about you, young master, and I have been looking forward to meeting you for a long time.” The Countess continues, her eyes behind the mask seem to lock onto to Hood’s and she holds his gaze for a moment. ”You may wonder why we call each other ‘Masqued’. It is not because of the masks we wear. No, these are to hide our identity - in part. In part, to create mystery and fear. But the meaning of ‘masque’ is a theatrical play...a courtly pantomime of sorts...it reminds us that what we show the world is merely that - a show, an amusement or distraction. This, if the world peers close, if the world peers too closely, is what it will see - is all that it will see. This is the hand we reveal...whilst the hand that is unseen, well, let us just say,” the Countess holds her own cup before her and slowly stirs the contents with a thin silver spoon, emanating a sense of ritual. “It remains unseen.” She places the spoon carefully upon a small saucer before continuing. “So what hand will you reveal, I wonder?” she asks Hood. Patiently she waits for an answer, taking a sip of coffee by carefully lifting away the chin of her mask and placing the cup to her mouth. Hood sits in silence, Hood will always sit in silence. The Countess leans back amidst her cushions, chuckling to herself. “You really are a silent one aren’t you? Well, there is no need to speak, for I will deal your hand personally. Do you know of the Allegoricals?*”

Hood nods slowly, noticing the deck of cards that sits upon the table, the card’s gold gilted edges reflecting the lantern light.

“I thought you might. Your reputation for learning proceeds you. And I cannot imagine one such as yourself being unversed in any branch of knowledge.”

Hood rolls up his left sleeve and removes the glove from his left hand, placing his hand palm up and open upon the table in front of him.

The Countess chuckles again. “Your friend does not disappoint!” she says to Madeleine, before turning her attention back to Hood. “You are familiar, then, with the old tradition of the Mengoli?”

Hood nods again, as the Countess draws a sharp needle like knife from the sleeve of her dress and pricks the pad of Hood’s hand at the base points of each of his four fingers, watching as tiny droplets of blood form at each position. She lays a small thin piece of transparent paper across the pad of his hand and waits a moment for it to absorb the blood, before lifting it off, and placing it in a small brass crucible. Opening the lantern and using a thin paper taper, she transfers the flame to the blood stained paper, dropping the taper into the crucible before picking up the deck of cards and carefully making sure that they and her hands are bathed in the now rising smoke. The Countess continues turning them over and over until the smoke rises no more.

Thumbing the side of the cards, and riffling the deck, the Countess begins to shuffle in careful well rehearsed movements. And, when she is satisfied, places the deck back onto the table in front of Hood, who leans forward and with thumb and middle finger cuts the deck, placing the cut section face up to the left of the original stack. Madeleine, an observer to this ritual, leans forward, her interest piqued, to look at the upturned card.