Realism tattoo of a woman in a red lace masquerade mask with a red feather, shaded in black and grey on the outer thigh.

Masquerade portrait with red feather on thigh

Realism · Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A woman's portrait fills the thigh, with one hand raised to her lips and red-painted nails visible. She wears an ornate red masquerade mask with lace-like filigree and a red feather plume rising behind her head. The face and hair are shaded in soft greys with fine detail, while the mask and feather are rendered in saturated red for contrast.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The feather came back from the dyer's on a Thursday, and it was the wrong colour. Hetty had asked for ink black, the same crow-quill shade she had used on every commission since her mother's shop on Harbour Street closed, but the bundle that arrived smelled of madder root and looked freshly cut. She held it up to the window over the sink and swore at the light.

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The client was due at four. He came once a year, always up the back stairs, always paying in cash folded inside an old programme from the pier theatre. He had ordered a mask for the midwinter ball in the ballroom above the pier, and he wanted it to look as though it had been lifted from a palace. Hetty had spent nine evenings on the lace filigree, pricking each scroll with a pin so the silver paint would hold. The feather was the only part she had not yet fitted.

He stood in the doorway and looked at the red plume for a long time without speaking. Then he said his sister had worn one like it the last winter before she went north, and he had not seen her since. He did not ask Hetty to change it. He asked for a single stitch of gold thread at the base, so the feather would stand upright whenever the wearer turned her head.

Hetty did as he asked. When he had gone she found the money inside the programme was double the price, and a note in careful handwriting: Keep the black ones for the funerals. This one is for the living. She wrapped the mask in tissue and sat with the pin between her fingers, wondering which of them the gold stitch was really meant to hold together.

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