Twelfth Night

“You’re really going in there?” Steven asked.

Claire glanced toward the door. The noise of the party spilled through the open door for just a moment until someone reached out and tugged the door shut.

“Yes.”

“How? It’s not like you can just waltz back into his life after five years and expect him to welcome you with open arms.” Steven took a deep drag off his cigarette and used it to gesture toward the large house with warm light flooding from the windows. Silhouettes dancing at the windows were the epitome of holiday merriment.

“Who’s going back into whose life? He abandoned me,” Claire said.

“He’ll hate you for what you’re going to do. Your son will hate you once he discovers what you’ve done.”

“I have six months before my son is left an orphan. I promised him I’d never let anything happen to him, and I refuse to go back on my word.”

Steven took another drag off his cigarette. “The kid’s your son, not another of your clients. You can’t mix home life and business --”

“The assassin business isn’t what’s killing me, is it?” Claire snapped. She began to pile her hair on her head, secure it with swift stabs of bobby pins. She tugged a hat on. “Put that tie on me while I do this.”

“Do what?” Steven asked, but obeyed.

Claire said, “Conceal me what I am, and be my aid / For such disguise as haply shall become / The form of my intent.”

(Word count: 250; last line taken from Act I Scene II of Twelfth Night)