Miss Leah was taught how to make masks by her mother. Standing before the mirror, her mother showed her how to apply the delicate lacquers to her lips, and carefully sculpt the bone-thin clay over her face. She showed the child how to decorate her brow with fine jewels, and paint the clay until it held the complete illusion of life.

“Mother,” the child would ask, “why must we make the masks for ourselves?”

“Because, my child,” said her mother, “we must not give away every part of ourselves to the world. Your name is a secret, and so is your face. Knowing these secrets gives others power over you, and so you mustn’t share them carelessly.”

Now, Miss Leah’s mother was known throughout their island nation for her skill in the making of masks, and this skill she passed on to her daughter. It was in her blood and, with each day of practice, it found its way into her hands. Time passed, as time will, and Miss Leah became a woman, as a child often will. In addition to her talent and her skill, her mother passed on the business of making masks.

To make a mask was no small thing. Most of the men and women of this island nation made their own masks, but few had the skill for the most elegant and lifelike creations, though most still had the desire for them. These clients were served by Miss Leah. Blindfolded, she would paint her bone clay over their faces, and then to this mannequin canvas impart a face. Some of these customers would even bring their children to Miss Leah for their very first masks (young children being veiled until they came of age, of course).

Though there were other sculptors of masks, Miss Leah’s were known and recognized as the best. The way they captured the essence of life, where a tilt of the head or a gesture of the hand would seem to change the mask’s whole expression, was a sublime and subtle art. Miss Leah never shared the secret of her masks, because the truth was that their life came from herself - her own face was her model, and the subtle shifts of expression captured in unmoving porcelain were no less than reflections of her own features. As she kept these always hidden below those masks she made for herself, so the truth was concealed.

One evening as she was walking home, something caught her eye and turned her head. Going around corner, she caught just a breath-stealing glimpse of a mask she had never seen before. She saw it only briefly, but she recognized it as her face.

The following day she was disturbed, but soon able to convince herself it had been a mere trick of the light. Thus her mind became placid again, until she saw another woman with her face. She hurried after the woman as fast as she could, but the woman turned a corner and was gone from sight when Miss Leah reached the same spot.

That night, she took the mask from her face and set it before her, in its place on a wall filled with masks. She stared first at it, then at the others, then at all of them, until before she knew it they all seemed to be her own face staring back. Finally, with shaking hands, she went to the mirror and began to make a new mask. She carefully applied the bone clay, and lacquered her lips with a pale pink, put the faintest of peach coloration to the clay, and watched as the features set. She removed the mask and looked at it, a perfect reproduction of her face. She set the mask on the wall, and the others no longer looked like her.

The next day she asked each of her clients if they had seen the mask, and showed them her secret face. Each client in turn told her they had not, until the last client. This one stared long at the mask and finally gave Miss Leah a name. So from the name Miss Leah found an address and at the address she found the woman with her face. She spoke to the woman, disturbed by the nuance of the mask. Her own creations captured the subtleties of life, but the craftsperson responsible for this mask had instead duplicated her features exactly, including even the tiniest imperfections.

The woman wearing her face gave her an address but no name. “He never gives a name,” she said. “This is all I know of him.”

She found an unassuming brick building at the address. The door had gold numbering on it, and a buzzer, which she pressed. “I’ve come to ask you about your masks.”

“Please, enter.”

At the top of a flight of narrow steps, she found a small office, arranged much like her own, but in a smaller space, and lacking her more luxurious accoutrements. A young man arranged jars of clay and lacquer, facing away from the door, but turned as her head brushed a set of silver chimes over the doorway.

“Ah, hello today…” He then stopped and looked at her. “Miss Leah. How nice to see you again.”

She held up the mask she had made of herself and asked him, “How?”

The man sat in a chair backwards and clasped his hands, looking out from behind a mask Miss Leah could tell was one of his own design. Like his mask of her features, this one was strangely and disturbingly nuanced. Rather than speaking, after a moment he reached into a drawer in his desk and drew out a package wrapped in tissue. He removed the wrappings, and Miss Leah found herself staring at one of her own creations.

“This, Miss Leah,” he said. “I felt the shape of you when you put the bone clay over my skin. I found your face in the one you made for me. In your touch and in your paint you shared a secret. What else could I do? I had to see you, and so I made masks of my own. They are no different than yours, Miss Leah. Your secret is safe, for I’ve hidden it on someone else’s face, and no one would ever think to look for it there. Is that not why you do the same thing?”

Miss Leah took the mask of her own design from his hands and looked at it, remembering making it. “Yet,” she said, “I do not know any of your secrets, not even your name.”

“Oh,” he said, “I think you do.”

And as she looked at the mask in her hand, then at the mask on his face, and traced her fingers over the polished clay and jewels, remembering what it felt like to shape it, she saw more clearly than ever her features in both masks. She looked from one mask to the other, and at all the masks on the walls of the shop, until her eyes found his again, and at last she realized what his true face must be. She set the mask on his desk, and leaned forward, so that no one else would hear her as she whispered his name in his ear.