The shock on his face was not hidden well. Seb felt it scrawl across his mouth, dropped slightly open, and over his eyes which widened under his own mask. He’d been right. All along, his instincts had been leading him down the various paths to Irene Crawley. But why was she here? How was she here? Like this? Blue hues skipped down from her face across the woman’s shoulders, bodice, dress, and back up. This was not the same girl he’d known eight years back. It couldn’t be, but how much had possibly changed in that time?
Before he could say anything, she had curtsied elegantly and turned on her heel. Seb watched, the gears in his brain still stalled, and even more so with the way she moved. She had definitely fooled him into thinking she’d been bred of the upper echelons of society, what with her soft, sweeping motions. He couldn’t explain it. Either the women he was used to were so classless as to have set a low standard, or, more likely, Irene had given up art, she’d gone to finishing school— but there was no viable explanation for any of it! How, and when—?! Ugh.
The fox-shaped mask dropped to his side as Sebastian debated the merits of asking her these questions. On the one hand, this was a chapter of both their lives that had closed a long time ago. Did he really want to revisit it? He had a loyalty to Colin, who as far as Seb knew was living happily in France and had actually married a Frenchwoman last year. But on the other, it’s not like he would know. Colin didn’t remember Irene, so what was the true harm?
The blue-eyed brunette tucked the fox mask into the folds of his jacket pocket. (This one had been tailored in Hogsmeade so it had endless pockets for which he supposed he was grateful. At least it didn’t rely on his magic and was self-sustaining.) He watched as the last vestiges of Irene Crawley fled the room, and likely the whole of Florence. He let her go. After all, it wasn’t his place to pry.