Three Masks and a Receipt

The guild meeting required masks, which Tomás found redundant. Everyone’s real face was already a kind of paperwork. He wore the half-smile. The treasurer wore innocence. The master wore the city crest, which was a lie so large it had become architecture.

“The flood hero is fraying,” the master said. “Someone is selling the opposite in our own wrapping. Find the receipt.”

Tomás found it in his own book, which was embarrassing in a professional way. The correction had been stamped, filed, and, according to the margin, enjoyed by two apprentices who had a taste for accuracy. He had not written the margin. The book had.

“Sir,” he said, “the ledger is telling the truth.”

The room laughed, because that was the correct lie. Tomás did not. He closed the book gently, the way you close a mouth that has started speaking in its owner’s voice. The crest-mask tilted. “Then teach it manners,” the master said. “Or we will sell a version of you that never noticed.”