She bites back a snarl as his whips the mask back from her reaching hand. He's so dead.

"Oh, why's that?" She doesn't care about history, but all men like to hear themselves talk.

She leaves the box beside her and casually steps closer to him, nudging aside fabric with her foot. She's without her hairpin this time, but there's a glittery scarf lying a little out of her reach, part of a belly dancer's costume. The bells would jangle as she strangled him. How pretty.