Mulligan's senses prickle as he circles the balcony, that great square mirror always somehow looming at the edge of his vision, too large, too still, too... interested. He forces himself to breathe and begins a methodical search, looking both for signs of arcane involvement, hidden access points, or mechanical tricks.

While he works, Break-a-leg speaks quietly about his recollection of Endelyn watching (the very few shows that he performed in) from the higher balcony... the one above this one. Mulligan recalls seeing that level from below, along with what is likely to be the ornithopter.

The bench yields nothing. The masks are just leering, alabaster things. The velvet curtains billow with the faint draft crawling in from the open stage. Then he moves back to the mirror... and the sense of wrongness sharpens. His own reflection is perfectly ordinary... no distortion, no magical shimmer, nothing like the Carnival’s trick mirrors, and yet the feeling remains. The reflection of the theater beyond is equally mundane.

Then he sees it. The frame sits ever so slightly away from the stone, not flush, not fixed, as though the wall behind it isn’t a wall at all. With a practiced fingertip, Mulligan finds the seam. A door. A secret door. Tracing the perimeter, the rogue's practiced finger soon finds where a central pivot hinge would be, where a latch would make sense, and tests a few carvings... nothing, nothing, then...

Click. The panel loosens pivots on its central axis, revealing a dark, semicircular chamber behind it, with a doorway at the rear of the chamber on the curved wall.

A small figure sits on the middle of three padded chairs which face the mirror, perfectly still except for the slow tilt of its head, which is shrouding in the hood of a dark cloak. Glittering eyes reflect the faint light from the outside... pale, predatory, curious, amused. 

A darkling. And it has been there the whole time, watching Mulligan sneak and search and finally step through the mirror, which Mulligan can now see is completely transparent from the other side... a perfect one-way window.

The darkling does not speak. It does not rise. It only lifts one hand, slowly... and waves. A tiny, ambiguous gesture. Is it a greeting? A warning? A casual dismissal?

The walls of this gloomy chamber are lined with black-veiled compartments that contain makeshift beds. The furniture is sparse: a few wooden tables and chairs, a box of junk in one corner, and flickering lanterns resting here and there. Five performers occupy the room. Two of them are on their feet - one is a female tiefling talking to a skull, the other a male human pacing angrily and muttering - but neither look up at Rowan's furtive peek. A male halfling is crouched in a corner, studying a sheaf of papers that are blotched with tears. Two others are difficult to see but appear to be on their bunks, sobbing into their pillows.

The hairy creature's head barely turns at Barria's greeting. It droops as though even lifting it is too much effort.

Huh. Good, evil. What does it matter? I've given up trying to remember my lines.

His voice is like despair dragged over gravel. Then he turns properly, and only then seems to register Barria's presence. A faint spark brighten his eyes as he says: Huh, you're new. Then after a thoughtful pause: What did she promise you?

He sniffs once, as if smelling the carnival air that still clings to Barria's cloak. Then, almost belatedly adds:

I'm Hurly, what's your name?