Disclaimer: I don’t own them, and I’ll put them back safely when I’m done.

Author’s Note: Thanks to Pip Brandygin for the beta! Note June 13th, 2005: Pippin's song has been edited with the proper English lyrics. Anyone who can guess where I got it recieves two extra brownie points. :)

Chapter Eight: In the Mask Maker’s Shop

“Pippin, what was that song you were telling me about? The one you wrote for Arwen last week?”

Pippin choked on his tea and glared at Eowyn. The Lady of Rohan was grinning smugly at him, content in the opinion that she had found a way to alleviate Arwen’s gloom. Indeed, the queen was looking over at Pippin with a little smile on her face, looking interested.

“You wrote me a song, Pip?” she asked. “Can I hear it?”

Pippin blinked at her, trying to think of a way out of this predicament. It was true that he had written a song last week, but it was a silly song, a mockery of the Gondorian minstrels that he had cheekily dedicated to Arwen, quite sure that she would never hear it. Ever. And now Eowyn just had to bring it up. Arwen was looking at him expectantly, her eyes wide and hopeful, her lower lip pouting in a way that meant she was trying to seduce him into singing for her. It was a look that he had seen on his little nieces’ faces many times before. Pippin sighed.

“Very well, but it’s not supposed to be serious,” he said.

Arwen smiled at him, eyes dancing. “Come on, sing it for me, Pippin.”

Pippin stood up and set his cup on the table, then turned to face the ladies nervously. He took a deep breath and began to sing. “Tell me what love is, what can it be? what is this yearning burning in me?…”

It wasn’t a very long song, and Pippin sang it quite well, adding a little trill to the end. Eowyn and Arwen applauded loudly when he was finished, and the young hobbit bowed with a flourish.

“That was nice, Pippin,” Arwen said with a laugh. “A very good mockery.”

Pippin grinned. “I hope it’s taken your mind off things, my lady.”

“It has,” Arwen assured him. “Oh! I’ve had a very wicked idea. I’m going to fetch something; do not go anywhere.”

Pippin and Eowyn nodded, watching curiously as Arwen jumped up and hurried from the parlor. A moment after she had left, there was a knock on the door. The two friends looked at each other in surprise; they weren’t expecting anyone and had dismissed the maids. Still, Arwen was the queen, and so interruptions were to be expected. Pippin jumped up and went to open the door.

“Oh, hullo, Faramir!” he said delightedly, smiling up at the Steward. “Are you looking for Eowyn?”

“Indeed I am,” Faramir replied, smiling at the hobbit. “Is she here? I have someone to introduce to her and Arwen.”

Eowyn stood up and smoothed her skirts. “Come in, Faramir! We were just listening to Pippin sing.”

Pippin stood away from the door, allowing Eowyn’s beloved to enter the room. Faramir was followed by a pretty young woman who appeared to be Eowyn’s age, or close to it. She had long chestnut-colored hair and green eyes. Her skin was tanned, as though she spent her days in the sun, and she wore a simple but elegantly cut blue dress. She smiled shyly at Eowyn.

“This is my cousin, Lothiriel of Dol Amroth,” Faramir said. “She arrived in the City just today, and I thought that the two of you might be friends. Lothiriel, this is my betrothed, Eowyn of Rohan.”

Lothiriel smiled again and bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Eowyn.”

“Yes, indeed,” Eowyn replied, smiling back at her. “Did you come for the ball tonight?”

“No, I came to study at the House of Healing, although I do plan on attending the ball,” Lothiriel said. She then promptly dropped a deep curtsy, bowing low. “Queen Arwen.”

She said it in such a respectful tone that Eowyn turned around in confusion. Arwen had come out of her bedchamber, and was looking at the small group with interest. Eowyn was slightly amused at the respect; she had become so used to Arwen that she found it slightly odd to see others of their standing defer to her.

“Hello,” the Queen said politely, depositing a bundle of fabric on the bed. “What have I missed?”

Introductions were swiftly made. One of Arwen’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly when she learned that Lothiriel was from Dol Amroth, and Eowyn wondered nervously just how many people they were going to tell about their little adventure. Arwen did not say anything, though, but simply asked Lothiriel what she was planning on wearing to the ball that night. That was Faramir’s excuse to excuse himself and he took it, pausing to hug Eowyn and whisper in her ear, “I think you’ll like each other. Lothiriel is not as meek as she seems.”

Eowyn grinned at him, and the steward winked at her and left.

“What was your wicked idea, Arwen?” Pippin asked once Faramir had gone.

Arwen smiled at him, laughing slightly. “It won’t work, alas. I was going to dress you up as a girl and make you go to the ball tonight like that. I have a better idea now, though.”

“Thank goodness,” muttered Pippin, acutely relieved. The idea of parading himself around the ballroom dressed as a lass was one of the most horrifying things he had ever heard of.

“What is your ‘better idea’, Arwen?” Eowyn asked warily. In an undertone to Lothiriel, she added, “Be wary. This is a woman with a millennia of practice in bad ideas.”

“I heard that,” Arwen said dryly. “However, this is a good one, I believe. Lothiriel, do you have a dress and mask for tonight?”

*****

Arwen would take any excuse to go out into the lower circles, Eowyn thought in amusement an hour later as they walked through the Fifth Circle, searching for the mask maker’s shop. They had been forced to surrender Pippin to his duties as a knight and guard, but Eowyn doubted that he really wanted to wander about looking at gowns with a group of giddy women.

Lothiriel was turning out to be a great deal of fun. She had the same sort of pertness that Eowyn possessed, and seemed readily inclined to laugh. Eowyn quite liked her.

“I remember the mask maker’s,” Lothiriel told them. “Faramir and I would come down here when we were children and play in the empty houses. We had to pass the mask shop on the way there.”

For some reason, Eowyn’s insides turned over. Empty houses, empty rooms, and covered murders. Why were the houses empty? She forced her curiosity down relentlessly; there was not time today to dwell on Alatarial. There were more important things to do, like dressing Lothiriel up and showing the people of Gondor that she was a good match for Faramir.

Still, as they walked on to the mask maker’s shop, Eowyn felt the tiny flutter of mischief lurking, waiting for the right opportunity to manifest itself. Ah well, she reasoned, I am a grown woman; I can control myself.

They found the shop a few minutes later, nestled between a fabric merchant and a bakery. It was small, and filled to bursting with fanciful masks of every color and design. After wandering the shop for a few minutes, Lothiriel went to a stand covered in masks worked of green and blue painted leather, selecting a mask that was made to look like a strange butterfly. She held it up to her face; it covered her eyes and cheekbones and most of her forehead with its fancy wings. It was a green mask, with gold filigree tooled into it. There were tiny flashes of other colors on the wings, pinks and yellows, blues and orange. It was very exotic, and Lothiriel had clearly found her mask for that night’s ball.

“This is perfect,” she announced, and took it to the merchant, who had been bowing and assisting them as best he could from the moment they had walked into his shop.

While Eowyn waited for her new friend to purchase her mask, she glanced out the side window. It looked past the bakery down a narrow side street. The street looked deserted, the houses unused, and Eowyn had the suspicion that she had found some of the empty houses. Yes, they were decidedly empty, she saw as she leaned closer. There were none of the great tubs of red flowers that had been planted all over the city to commemorate the fallen soldiers. Eowyn smiled to herself; she would have to mention this to Pippin. Perhaps tomorrow they would be able to sneak away and explore the ruins.

“Truth be told, your highness, there has not been a masquerade party in Minas Tirith since the last birthday of the Lady Alatarial, nigh two hundred years ago.”

Eowyn was jerked back to the present moment so suddenly that it was as if someone had doused her with cold water. She turned back to the merchant sharply, staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”

The merchant looked over at her, seeming puzzled. “She was the daughter of the steward Belecthor the Second. He was steward when the White Tree died, you know. His daughter held a masquerade ball to celebrate her fifteenth birthday. She died shortly after.”

Arwen was giving Eowyn a stern look from behind Lothiriel’s shoulder. Eowyn nodded at the man, giving him a small smile.

“I see,” she said vaguely. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lothiriel, however, was still gazing at her with mild curiosity. “She would have been a great-aunt of mine, I believe. She was supposed to wed one of the Prince’s sons, an old man whose name I cannot recall. It’s an interesting story.”

“Indeed,” Eowyn said, nodding weakly. “Perhaps you can tell me some evening.”

“That sounds like a fine idea, Eowyn,” Arwen said quickly. “But we really must hurry along now. We still need to complete Lothiriel’s outfit. Come along.”

The merchant gazed at them quizzically as Arwen bustled the two younger women out of his shop. More customers came in as they left, however, and he soon forgot them.

Eowyn’s head was reeling. It seemed odd that anyone now would know of Alatarial, much less call her an “interesting story”. It was also curious that the White Tree had died during Belecthor’s reign. The way this was going, all she would have to do would be to put the doll on display and let people come to her. That would be something.

As they walked back up the street towards the Citadel, Eowyn noticed a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. Looking to her left, she saw Gandalf striding towards the stables. He caught her eye and jerked his head for her to follow. Eowyn gave a slight nod.

“Arwen, Lothiriel, I must excuse myself for a short time. I have something that needs to be done. I’ll see you later,” she said, and strode off in the direction of the stables. Gandalf had already disappeared from sight.

The interior of the stable was dark compared to the brightness outside, and Eowyn stood blinking in the doorway for several moments before she could see properly. When her eyes had adjusted, she set off down the row of stalls, looking for the wizard. Unsurprisingly, she found him with Shadowfax.

“My girl, you’re being very silly,” Gandalf said without preamble, not even bothering to look at her as he smoothed the horse’s gleaming flanks.

“What do you mean?” asked Eowyn, frowning at him.

Gandalf gave her a surly look. “You know what I mean. You are meddling in matters you know very little about, you and that young rapscallion of a Took. Some things are better left alone.”

“If you are speaking of Alatarial, I don’t know why we shouldn’t learn more about her,” Eowyn replied. Her hands began to nervously pleat her skirt. “The poor child was murdered.”

Gandalf sighed. “I’m only warning you, my lady. You do not know what could happen, especially here. If anything strange begins to occur, I want you to come to me immediately. Do you understand?”

Eowyn nodded, confused. “Yes, but I don’t understand. Did something happen?”

Gandalf looked her straight in the eyes and replied, “Why do you think Faramir’s mother dwells in the Overheaven?”

TBC