If Moira thought there were a great many stalls and wagons this morning, she was mistaken. In the few hours since she and Senestan left, the fair has exploded.

There are five or six times as many people, and that's just the performers and merchants. Now there are hundreds of customers milling about, and the din is cacophonous, echoing off the stones and yet muted at the same time thanks to the vastness of the space.

Moira almost wishes it was too loud for conversation, because she and Prince Jaron are running out of things to say to each other. They've discussed the weather, the crops, the skill of the performers, the health of their families, and even the merits of silk versus velvet. Moira is losing her mind, and the Prince looks almost bored.

She tries valiantly to come up with something, anything to say. But everything she thinks of feels too common for him. If she were to comment on the pastries in a nearby stall, he'd think her odd for knowing how they're made and wanting to make some herself. If she were to say something about the fine lines of the Eastern mare a trick rider gallops about on, he'd think her churlish or a country girl for noticing.

She has no desire to discuss politics, really--and even if she did, a woman isn't supposed to speak of such things.

So Moira is at a loss, and therefore very glad when she spies a tent guarded by a jester in black and white, proclaiming it a 'house of mirrors'.

"Do you fancy a walk through there, Your Highness?" She asks demurely, gesturing toward the tent. The Crown Prince turns his head to look at the tent, then inclines his head.

"If it pleases you."

Unfailingly polite, he is. And impossible to read or make conversation with.

Moira gives him a polite smile and lets him lead her toward the tent, though she chafes at his meandering pace. He seems to be chafing at it too, so why he bothers is a mystery. Unless he thinks her too delicate for a normal stride.

She doesn't know how to broach the topic, though.

Prince Jaron drops a silver piece into the jester's belled cap, earning a chortle and a merry "Enjoy yourselves!" before they enter the tent. Inside, it's gloomy, light fracturing off the mirrors which are lined up in such a way that Moira is instantly lost.

She turns, making a delighted sound as she searches for the exit which is nowhere to be found. A groaning noise, like the creaking of a ship's planks, echoes from somewhere ahead. Moira moves forward, forgetting for a moment the Prince on her arm, too excited by the prospect of a challenge.

He matches her pace, but it takes him a moment and her arm slips out of his. She twirls in a circle, watching the ivory skirts of her gown shimmer in the light, ten other versions of her image moving as well--some in different directions.

Moira giggles, moving deeper into the maze of mirrors, delighted by the images--some tall, some short, some round, some needle thin. In some of the mirrors her face is so distorted that she looks almost gruesome, while in others it's as if an artist has nipped and tucked all her flaws until she looks utterly perfect.

She's so focused on the mirrors that it takes her a moment to realize the Prince isn't behind her. She turns, searching for him, but can't even find where she came from.

Moira tries to feel guilty for a moment, but it isn't as if they'll be separated for long. She'll doubtless find him at the exit.

And being away from him means she has a chance to breathe.

Moira makes a half-hearted effort to listen, to determine where he might be. But the groaning of those ship planks drowns out anything else. She moves toward the sound, curious as to where it's coming from, taking turn after turn amidst the mirrors. She's fairly certain that she's moving in circles.

The tent wasn't this large.

And is that... beneath the shifting of sails, she'd swear she hears hoofbeats.

Moira shakes her head, amused with herself, and sets about trying to find the exit. Did she enter this circle of mirrors from the right or the left...? Right. She'll go right, and continue going right every time. She remembers reading somewhere that you can always find your way out of a maze by keeping a hand to the right wall.

So Moira trails her fingers along the mirrors, only feeling marginally bad for leaving streaks on the pristine glass, and tries to come up with things she might say to Prince Jaron when she sees him again.

Hello, how are you, hope you didn't get lost...

Tell me, Your Highness, how do you really feel about marrying me? Do you think we might one day be able to have a conversation that isn't as boring as the price of salt in Dorlia?

What color are your socks, by chance? Or would you rather discuss the color of my lingerie...?

Moira sighs to herself, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand to relieve the tension there. Conversing with a stump might be easier than looking her husband-to-be in the eyes.

She knows it's her own fault, and that much of her awkwardness stems from the fact that she's lying to him, presenting the image of a demure, pure, innocent girl when she isn't any of those things.

Again she hears hoofbeats and looks around in wonder. Perhaps there's another trick riding show on the other side of this tent? Though, the beats are too staccato for that, too rhythmic.

And there's no ring and thud of metal on cobble. This horse isn't shod.

Moira frowns as she turns another corner, her eyes scanning the flickering mirrors. There's nothing but her reflection, though, nothing--

What was that shadow?

It was huge.

Certainly too big for this tent, so it must just be the mirror, a distorted reflection--

Moira's eyes track another shadow, racing along the mirrors to her right. She whirls, but sees nothing. She's alone.

And yet...

She swallows and moves a bit faster. If this is a clever trick, a joke, it doesn't feel very funny. There's something wrong in the air, a heaviness in her throat, the pit of her stomach.

She turns another corner and comes face to face with the hooves of a brown stallion.

Moira shrieks and stumbles backward, but the image is gone, only a mirror in front of her. Feeling silly and childish, she picks herself up and hurries onward, trying to calm her racing heartbeat.

Another corner, and she hears those hoofbeats again, closer. Something skitters across the mirror to her left, then her right--brown and black, sleek muscle, a tanned, naked arm--and Moira finds herself running.

Maybe it's foolish. Maybe she's a child scared of the dark and a monster that doesn't exist.

But Moira is afraid. So she runs, careening around corners, wondering how by Oes this maze is so large when the tent was so small--

Moira slams into a mirror she would have sworn was a passage. It cracks, and her arm and torso ache as she stumbles backward and nearly falls onto her rump. Moira pants, clutching her hand. She thinks she might've sprained her wrist against the glass.

In the shattered, splintered reflection, something moves behind her.

Moira whirls, eyes wide, skirts swishing, but there's nothing.

The groaning of the ship has stopped.

There's only silence, silence in between Moira's panting, and--

Breathing. Someone else is breathing.

"Jaron?" Moira whispers, hating how high her voice sounds.

A chuckle echoes in response--a voice too deep and too sinister to belong to the Crown Prince.

Moira turns and runs, darting for another opening, her mind scrambling to determine which way is out.

Please, Melia and all Her Delegates, help me! She prays, the words a desperate, fervent plea in the back of her mind.

Only hoofbeats echo in response.

Moira careens around another corner, praying to see light, to see an opening, to feel fresh air along her skin.

Instead she feels a pair of arms come around her as she crashes into a hard chest.

Moira screams, stumbling back, only to find her shoulders gripped in gentle hands, a pair of hazel eyes blinking at her.

"Woah, woah," the man says softly, his voice deep and pleasantly rough. "It's all right."

Moira's chest heaves as she stares up at him. "Th-there was, th--"

She can't get the words out. Doesn't even know what to say. There was... what? A monster? Something chasing her?

It sounds ridiculous.

She stares at the man, taking him in, trying to convince herself that she's fine. He's tall, his hair long and reddish-brown, the strands of it braided closely to his scalp until the tight little braids end somewhere at the back of his head, causing feathery strands of the long mass to fall down his back and over his shoulders. An emerald stud glints in his left ear, and the most striking thing about his granite-hewn face is the rose tattooed on its right side. Its stem rests on his cheekbone, its evergreen leaves and deeply crimson petals curving around his eye toward thick brows.

Moira blinks at him, at the rock hard, defined muscles in his arms and torso--revealed thanks to the open brown vest and white sleeveless shirt he wears. The laces on the shirt aren't tied, so its V dips halfway down his chest.

A Trouper. He's a Trouper of some sort.

"Was that you screaming?" He asks, head tilted toward her, hazel eyes meeting hers unflinchingly.

Moira can only nod, unsure of what to make of him. Carefully she takes a step back, and he releases her, giving her space to breathe and think.

"Yes, I... there was..."

The Trouper slides his large hands into the pockets of his brown trousers. "There was...?" He repeats, lifting his brows at her.

Moira shakes her head, all of it seeming silly suddenly. The hoofbeats are gone, and so is the prickle at the back of her neck.

She waves a hand and then winces, her wrist barking in pain. It was real, that much is obvious. Her wrist is most likely sprained.

The Trouper's eyes dart to her hand and he reaches out, carefully taking her arm. Moira doesn't know why she lets him, except that there's something so... natural in the gesture that she doesn't even think it odd until it's already happened. Almost as if it's perfectly normal for a stranger to touch her, as if he has the right to do anything he wants for any reason.

She can only blink at him as he gently prods her wrist. "Not broken," he says simply. "Come on then."

He releases her and turns, moving through the maze of mirrors. Not entirely over the shaking in her bones, Moira hurries after him, cradling her wrist close to her chest. "Thank you," she says.

The man tosses a lazy grin over one shoulder. "Don't mention it."

"Does this belong to your Troupe?" She asks, only because it's very obvious that the man knows exactly where he's going. He never falters at all as they move between the mirrors, their reflections sliding along like sinister shadows.

It seemed delightful before, but now it's only ominous.

"Nah," the Trouper says, just ahead of her. They turn a corner and sweet, blessed light fills the space, sunlight coming from the open tent flaps ahead. "I was just passing through."

"You heard me scream and just... came to help?" Moira asks, stopping outside, tipping her head back to inhale the scents and bask in the warmth of the midafternoon sun.

"Should I have done something else?" He asks, sounding amused.

"No," Moira says, turning to face him. She gives him a warm smile, feeling the tension leaking out of her, the shaking gradually fading into faint tremors. "Thank you. Very much."

The man eyes her, his expression unreadable even though it looks casual, easy even. "No problem."

"I'm Moira," she says, holding out her uninjured hand.

Those hazel eyes flick from her hand to her to the tent before he takes her proffered limb and shakes. "Inex," he says. His grip is firm, his hand calloused and rough, dwarfing hers.

Moira is struck by the sudden realization that she's practically alone with this man, despite the crowds. She can't be trusted.

She takes her hand back and tucks it into the folds of her skirts. "Thank you, Inex," she says again, inclining her head.

"You ought to see a healer about that wrist," he responds, reaching into the pocket of his vest. He comes up with a pipe and a match, both of which he quickly lights, the match and then the pipe. He shakes the flame out and sticks the pipe in his mouth, the scent of smoldering lemongrass filling the air like incense.

Who smokes lemongrass?

"Yes," Moira agrees, looking around. She wonders where the Prince is, if perhaps he left without her or is still inside the maze. She needs to talk to that jester, actually. There's something wrong with the mirrors, or perhaps it's a prank, a joke--either way, that wasn't funny. And she needs to tell him about the broken mirror, too.

"You don't sound very sure," Inex points out. She wonders how he can speak so clearly with a pipe in his mouth. "You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," she says absently, scanning the crowd, looking for either the little man in black and white or the Crown Prince.

She doesn't see either one.

Inex makes a rumbling sound low in his chest, one that ripples over Moira's skin. She looks back at him, the smoke drifting from his pipe. He stands there casually, as if he isn't the biggest person around, his sheer size sucking all the air from the space even though they're outside. "How about we find you a healer, then?" He asks.

Moira debates with herself. She knows she can't be trusted, shouldn't be alone with any man. She also needs to find Prince Jaron and that jester.

"My companion," she says, looking around again, ignoring Inex's words. "Did you see him?"

"The Prince, you mean?"

Moira's eyes flick back to him, sudden wariness creeping along her bones. He recognized her? He probably wants something, then.

"Yes," she responds carefully.

Inex jerks his head toward the other side of the street. "He was playing cards, last I saw. Waiting for you I'd assume."

Moira searches the area, but the crowd is too thick for her to see the Prince--if Inex is even telling the truth. Her wrist aches, and now that the shaking has stopped, she's exhausted. She feels like a foolish child, jumping at shadows.

"Thank you," she says yet again, and moves to plunge into the crowd.

"Really ought to do something about that wrist," Inex says, blocking her way.

"I can take care of it, thank you," she murmurs politely, subtly taking a step back.

"Skittish little thing, aren't you?" Inex observes, taking his pipe out of his mouth. He gestures at her, then the tent. "What really happened in there?"

"Nothing," she says, giving him a polite smile.

"I don't believe you. And your face is lying."

Moira blinks at him. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, feigning indignance while trying to figure out how he saw through her, and what he wants.

"Right," Inex drawls. "And I'm a monkey. Look, if you don't want help, sweetheart, that's fine. At least admit that you need it."

Moira blinks at him again, but he's turning, moving away. He waves the pipe over his shoulder in a lazy gesture. "If you decide you want help with that little problem, look up the Izani Troupe."

And just like that, he's gone.

Moira can only stare at the space he just occupied, confused, tired, and in pain.

After a moment she shakes her head and starts pushing through the crowd. She needs to find Prince Jaron. And then she really wants to go back to her room, curl up in a hot bath, and forget that today ever happened.