The return of the tent’s inhabitant goes unnoticed for a moment as the man basks in the warm glow of his hard won victory. Soon enough the lighthearted giddiness of finally finding what he sought seeps from his bones, leaving only the feeling of being watched. Knowing he was caught, the Twin turns and, while still holding the club to him as though it’s proper owner would snatch it away at any moment, he fished out his flask. He takes a swig and feels the warm giddiness start again in the pit of his stomach, spreading outwards. So not from his success then.
Doll had a rather blank stare on her face, and the Twin felt a slight twinge of agitation at that. The man could never tell what was on her mind unless she chose to share it with him, and while it did make imitating her easier he had always been a little bitter that he couldn’t figure out the inner workings of her mind in the same way he could everyone else’s. That agitation passed quickly, as it always does, and he rose to his feet, holding his hands, and by extension his stolen treasure, out to Doll.
“This looks bad,” The Twin states, pausing to try and gauge Doll’s reaction. “It was for good reason.” He offers no further explanation,only begins to walk back towards the exit. He dips mid step once he passes her by a few strides, grabbing at a handful of small metal balls (chinese health balls, he thinks) and turning the action into a low sweeping bow, motioning for her to lead out of her home.
Doll’s eyebrows rise, her gaze levels to the Twin’s and locks there, staring. It certainly does. Somehow she doubts that good reason he insists on is going to be particularly convincing--if he ever happens to share it with her at all.
So she remains motionless as he passes her, only her pale face turning to keep those unblinking eyes trained on him in reproach. There’s no reason to stop him herself; now that she knows he’s here she can hold him in the twisting passages of her tent as long as she pleases. Instead, a plywood facade clatters to its side just inches from the Twin’s nose, a pair of baby carriages roll over it, and all at once the pathway fades from existence before him.
Then does the Painted Doll stalk forward, slip between her visitor and the brand new barrier in his path. There is something unsettling in the perfect civility of her features, something in the wide eyes and pursed lips that doesn’t quite add up. It might, possibly, be the hair’s breadth of distance between that pleasant visage and the Twin’s own, or the sinister downward cant of her chin.
With a palm on each shoulder she pushes him, back and back and back, until his coat brushes the canvas wall and sunlight sprays down over their heads. Drawing herself up to full height, Doll smiles primly, angles a meaningful glance toward toward the tear, and squeezes tight with her fingers.
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