Chapter 2 – Masks and Memory

Later that morning, I could still feel it—like a ripple beneath the surface of my skin. Not painful. Not even distracting. Just… there. The soft buzz of magic that had moved, shifted, become something, and then quietly returned to rest.

The mask didn't speak. Nothing lingered in my mind. No ghostly fox soul whispering secrets. Just a memory. The way my feet had moved without hesitation. The way the wind outside had smelled sharper, cleaner. The way my body had responded like it remembered a shape it never wore before.

I'd never felt more myself.

And now I wanted more.

Not greed. Not hunger. Just… curiosity. I needed to know how far I could take this. How deep the magic went.

---

At breakfast, I pushed eggs around my plate while Dad flipped through the Daily Prophet. Mum was already gone for work, probably halfway to the Ministry's Muggle Affairs office by the time I'd come down the stairs. The fireplace still smelled faintly of floo powder.

"Dad?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Is there a lumber shop nearby?"

He looked up, eyebrow raised.

"For a school project?"

"For… something like that."

He snorted and folded the paper. "You know, most kids your age are asking for broom catalogs. Not raw materials."

"I'm not most kids."

He smirked. "Too right, you're not."

A few bites of silence passed before he said, "There's an old wandmaker down near Ottery St. Catchpole. Retired. Still sells wand cores and odd wood scraps out of his shed. Friendly sort, though he'll talk your ear off if you ask about dragon heartstring."

My ears perked.

"Can we go?"

"After lunch. You'll owe me a proper explanation on the way."

"Deal."

---

The shop wasn't a shop so much as a crooked cottage with an open lean-to out back. A hand-painted sign leaned against a fence post:

> **Runcible Fig – Former Wandwright & Collector of Curious Woods**

> "No refunds, no spellwork, no dragons."

Inside the lean-to, planks and branches leaned in rough piles. Oak, birch, ash, hornbeam. Some smelled sharp and green. Others, like elder and dogwood, held an age to them that made the back of my teeth buzz.

"Take your time," said Runcible—an old man with hands like tree roots and a voice that sounded like broom bristles. "The wood chooses its carver, same as wands choose their witch."

I wandered the rows, hands hovering just above the piles. I didn't touch anything yet. Just listened.

That's how it worked, I'd started to learn. Mascaromancy wasn't about forcing. It was about invitation.

Near the back, half-buried under a splintered pine beam, I found it. A plank of rowan, no longer than my forearm, with a knot in the center like a closed eye.

I didn't feel a spark. Not quite. But something in my chest *tilted* toward it.

I reached out and lifted it.

My core stirred. Just faintly.

That was enough.

---

Back home, I set up in the shed. Dad had cleared a bench for me by then. Said if I was going to be "a tiny magical carpenter," I'd better not use the dining table again.

The rowan took shape slowly. I didn't rush. I didn't try to force a form onto it.

The idea came during a quiet moment—watching the neighbor's tabby slink along the garden wall. Graceful. Quiet. Flexible.

A cat mask.

Not a character, this time. Not yet. Just an archetype. A feeling.

Curiosity, agility, instinct.

I carved carefully. Rounded the cheeks. Etched subtle lines above the eyes. Left the mouth blank—mysterious. And behind the brow, I carved the simplest rune I could remember from the fox mask. A stabilizer. A focus.

The air thickened as I worked. Not dangerously. Just heavier. Like the mask was storing something with each cut.

I painted it with water-thinned charcoal and sealed it in beeswax.

When it dried, I set it beside the fox.

Two masks now.

And something inside me whispered:

*More.*

---

That night, I didn't wear the cat mask.

I just sat with it.

Let it rest beside me on the bed. My core buzzed faintly, like it knew what I was thinking.

*It's not about speed. It's about readiness.*

But I wasn't the only one who needed to be ready anymore.

---

The next morning, Lyra stopped by with a basket of dried herbs and a half-sliced loaf of spiced bread.

"Thought you could use some things for your garden charms," she said. "And I'm curious if your spice jars have recovered."

I laughed. "They're behaving. For now."

She glanced down at the mask on my desk. "Making festival gear early?"

I hesitated. Then nodded slowly. "Sort of. They're… personal."

She tilted her head. "Didn't know you were a crafter. That's good magic, that is. Shaping something with your own hands—better than half the charms they teach at school."

There was no suspicion in her voice. Just interest.

I thought about offering her the fox mask.

Then stopped myself.

*Too early.*

But the thought stayed.

Because if I could wear them…

Maybe others could too.

Maybe… I could share.

---

That evening, I brought the cat mask out again.

No ritual. No incense. No incantation.

Just me, a quiet room, and a mask carved with patience and sealed with beeswax.

I sat on the wooden floor by the window, back straight, legs crossed, mask resting in my lap like something alive. The fox mask had felt playful, almost mischievous—a flicker of motion behind my ribs. This one felt stiller. Observant. Like it was waiting to see if I truly understood what I'd made.

I picked it up and exhaled slowly.

The edges were smooth under my fingers, the rowan wood warm from touch. The painted lines, simple and deliberate, seemed to catch the low light like shadows shifting across fur.

I brought it to my face.

It settled with a whisper.

---

No rush of transformation. No sudden shift.

This time, it was slower.

My vision blurred, then sharpened. My heartbeat thudded in my chest once, twice, then faded into the background. My spine lengthened subtly. My legs felt springier. My balance shifted forward, weight resting on the balls of my feet.

I stretched—shoulders rolling like a yawn I hadn't known I was holding.

And then I moved.

Silently.

The creak of the floorboards… didn't come.

I crossed the room without a single sound.

It wasn't invisibility. It was… *presence without disturbance.*

The cat didn't want to be unseen—it simply chose not to be noticed.

I tested my grip on the door handle. My fingers were still mine, but stronger. More aware. My ears flicked—real, twitching ears—toward the hallway where my father stirred below, muttering over blueprints.

It was strange, moving in a body that was still technically mine, but enhanced. Fine-tuned. Like stepping into a better-fitting version of myself.

I knelt on the windowsill, looked out over the garden, and leapt.

---

I landed in a crouch on the cobbled path with barely a sound.

The night air was cool and smelled of mint and soil. Our wards shimmered faintly along the property edge—transparent but present, like curtains billowing at the edge of awareness.

I padded toward the garden wall, testing my limbs. I could balance easily, even along the top of the narrow stone fence. My tail—yes, I had one now—curled reflexively for balance, reacting without conscious thought.

Not instinct. Not possession.

Just borrowed *grace.*

And the more I wore it, the more natural it felt.

I didn't stay out long. The moon was only half full, and while the cat mask didn't tire me the way the fox had, I could feel the tug of magical drain behind my ribs—gentle, like a thread being unspooled slowly from inside.

I returned the same way I left. Silent. Surefooted.

Back in my room, I took off the mask and felt my body ripple gently back into my normal shape.

No whiplash. No fatigue.

Just me.

Small. Real. Reina.

And a little more than I was yesterday.

---

I placed the mask beside the fox, then sat back and stared at both.

I was starting to understand something Clerk-17 hadn't said out loud.

Mascaromancy wasn't just power.

It was *intimacy.*

You couldn't copy something you didn't respect. You couldn't wear a mask you didn't understand.

And you couldn't give a mask to someone who didn't know who they were under it.

I thought about that as I stared at the two masks—fox and cat. Playful and watchful.

Next, I'd need to try something harder. Not just a creature. Not just a symbol.

A *someone.*

Someone I knew well.

---

I pulled my sketchbook from the drawer. Flipped past pages of test doodles and little notes. Past faces of comic book heroines and shōnen protagonists and anime gods.

And then I stopped.

Page thirty-two.

Drawn in pale pencil and outlined in silver ink: **Sailor Mercury.**

It felt… fitting.

A quiet kind of symmetry.

She was the last thing I'd cosplayed in my old life.

Maybe now… she could be the first person I became in this one.