Lunch was a quiet affair—at first.
Ronette and I sat at the long dining table across from the Madam, who ate with the delicate grace of someone born into ballroom etiquette and ghost-proofed etiquette alike. The meal was warm, the roast tender, and the vegetables arranged like a painting.
Naturally, Ronette decided it was the perfect time to drop a casual bomb.
"Madam," he said, scooping a spoonful of mashed potatoes, "do you happen to know where Mr. Witson is?"
My fork paused mid-air, steam curling lazily upward. 'Bold move,' I thought.
The Madam, unruffled, set her fork down with a faint clink. Her smile never faltered.
"Oh, if you're talking about Mr. Witson, then he should be somewhere in the mansion about now."
Somewhere in the mansion.
Our eyes met across gravy and porcelain, 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SOMEWHERE?!'
"He and the Lord—Mr. Lerrington—have been dear friends since their university days," the Madam continued, as though discussing nothing more exciting than the weather. "Mr. Witson often visits to discuss old matters, new theories, and sometimes just to sit and drink in silence."
I blinked. "So he wasn't a loner this entire time," I murmured to myself.
The Madam chuckled softly and dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Ah, those two were quite the pair. Bright, curious minds. Always getting into trouble for their… unconventional experiments."
The Madam's eyes glazed with fond nostalgia as she began to speak, her voice laced with a warmth that seemed to soften the corners of the dining hall.
"It was many, many years ago," she said, swirling her teacup slowly, "when Lord Lerrington and Mr. Witson were both spirited young men studying at the Royal Academy of Alchemical Arts and Arcane Engineering."
Ronette and I leaned in, our spoons forgotten in our bowls.
"They met over a duel—of all things," her smile turned faintly amused. "Not of swords, mind you, but of wit. A debate, fierce and fiery, in front of the entire philosophy faculty. No one remembers the topic now—only that neither of them yielded, and both walked away quoting obscure grimoires at each other like war chants."
I glanced at Ronette. We were no longer eating. We were eavesdropping with full permission.
"The two became inseparable after that," the Madam mused, eyes far away. "Their friendship was... unconventional. Strange rituals, late-night escapades through forbidden wings of the academy, coded letters, and experiments that left half the east dormitory smelling like burnt strawberries for weeks."
Ronette and I exchanged a look. This was sounding increasingly like a forbidden love story, and I wasn't sure whether to feel curious or mildly concerned.
"Some said they were rivals. Others, soul-bound scholars. I suppose only they knew the truth," she said, voice dipping into something almost secretive.
We sat in silence, mesmerized. Not even the clink of cutlery dared disturb the story.
When at last she sipped her tea, the moment broke—like waking from a shared, gentle dream.
After lunch, Ronette and I wandered through the mansion's winding halls—everywhere except the garden, of course. We weren't about to flirt with floral death. Ever.
I patted my belly with a satisfied hum. "I'm so full~"
Ronette gave a solemn nod beside me, his voice grave. "Ay."
I ambled ahead, arms swinging like a child with not a single care in the world. "Hmm… What to do, what to do…"
Behind me, Ronette stopped abruptly.
I turned, eyebrows raised. "What's wrong?"
He stared, eyes wide with stubborn earnestness that could melt a glacier.
"You forgot about Mr. Witson."
I scratched my ear, entirely unbothered. "Oh yeah. Him."
Flick. A crumb of earwax joined the dust motes drifting in the sunlit hall.
"Well, since we've got time to kill, we might as well ask around. Maybe someone's seen him."
Ronette brightened instantly and trotted behind me like a cheerful duckling trailing after its mother.
We drifted from corridor to corridor, interrogating every passing maid and butler.
Each time, the answer was the same: a politely blank stare, like we'd asked if chairs dreamed of flying.
By the fourth blank look, my patience evaporated. "Ah! I forgot. The staff here are all crazy."
Ronette offered a sheepish smile. But I was already striding ahead, determined to solve the mystery of Mr. Witson—preferably without being chewed on by demon hydrangeas.
Then something wicked sparked in my mind.
"But doesn't it make you wonder?"
"Wonder about what?" Ronette blinked, wary.
I raised my hands, wiggling fingers like a fortune-teller invoking spirits.
"That maybe… Mr. Witson is a ghost?"
Ronette's jaw dropped.
"But… But… The Madam said the Lord and Mr. Witson are best friends!"
"Then how come—" I jabbed a finger at his chest, "—the Lord doesn't remember him?"
"I did possess him, remember? But for some reason, I only got some of the memories. Not all!"
"Sus." My eyes narrowed, sharp as a drawn blade.
Ronette wilted under the gaze, trembling like a damp puppy.
"Do you… do you really think Mr. Witson is a ghost?"
I gave a solemn, confident nod.
His face paled to moonlight.
'Oh?' I noted silently. His face went pale.
A snort slipped out before I could catch it.
Then green. Sickly, moss-colored panic.
I bit my lip, eyes watering from suppressed laughter.
Then purple. Deep, royal, terrifying purple.
And I lost it.
Laughter burst out of me, unstoppable, echoing like riotous bells down the empty hall. I doubled over, clutching my ribs, tears blurring my sight.
Halfway through my fit, a flicker of guilt hit me. 'Oops. I shouldn't laugh. That's too mean.'
Thud.
My laughter choked off. "Huh?"
Ronette lay sprawled on the floor, limbs flung wide, foam bubbling at his lips, eyes rolled back like a fainting goat facing cosmic truths.
Panic rammed through me. "Ack! Don't die on me, Ronette!"
I dropped to my knees, grabbed my fiddle, and fanned wildly—up, down, left, right. Graceful? Not remotely. But if sheer chaos could save him, I'd conjure a hurricane.
Minutes dragged by.
At last, his eyelids fluttered.
"AAAHH!" he shrieked, finding me mid-swing.
"Oh, Ronette! You're awake!" I beamed, I immediately set the instrument aside before I accidentally fanned his soul straight out of his body.
His face was pale again. Ghostly.
"What's wrong, Ronette? A nightmare?"
He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. "I thought… I was going to get hit by a fiddle."
"Oh~ no worries!" I chirped. "I was just fanning you with my trusted fiddle."
Ronette edged away, gratitude and terror warring in his eyes.
"Thank you?"
I rose, spun on my heel, limbs swinging like an octopus learning to dance on dry land.
"What to do now~ What to do now~"
"Huh? I thought we were looking for Mr. Witson?" Ronette's voice followed, hesitant.
"Ah, right. That guy." I tsked, snapping my fingers.
"How did Ronette remember that after fainting?" I muttered under my breath.
"I heard you," he said flatly.
I flashed a grin, shameless.
"And now," I declared, striking a pose as if I were leading an expedition into the underworld, "we shall continue our search for Mr. Witson's soul!"
We wandered through the hallways like two lost socks in a castle-sized laundry basket—determined, confused, and not entirely sure where we were going.
The mansion sprawled in all directions, full of twisting corridors, whispering portraits, and vases that may or may not have sighed when you passed by. Or maybe it was Ronette.
"Let's try the library," I offered, mostly because I could find it without consulting the furniture.
"Maybe he's reading." Ronette nodded.
"Reading the living?" I muttered. Ronette shivered. Satisfaction bloomed; I was on fire today.
At last, the library doors towered before us like the gates to forgotten knowledge.
Waiting to devour our souls.
But I didn't care.
I kicked them open—dramatically, naturally—and we stepped inside.
Rows of tomes stretched away like ancient sentinels. Dust motes drifted lazily. Somewhere, a quill scribbled of its own accord. Ronette clung to my sleeve, small and unsure.
"Mr. Witson?" My voice rang out, swallowed by leather and shadows.
Silence.
We moved deeper. Ronette peeked behind shelves like a child expecting ghosts. I tapped random books, half-hoping for secret doors.
Nothing—only titles like The Philosophy of Garden Tools and A Hundred Ways to Befriend a Teacup.
Then Ronette stopped, finger trembling.
"There," he whispered.
A tall shadow hunched over a table, scribbling something on parchment with alarming speed.
"Mr. Witson?" I called again, cautiously.
The figure didn't move. Just scribbled. Faster. The scratching sound grew louder, like claws on stone.
We stepped closer. My fiddle was ready—part weapon, part fan.
"Sir?" Ronette asked, voice soft.
The figure paused. Slowly, it turned.
It was not Mr. Witson.
It was a mannequin. Top hat. Button eyes. Stitched grin. Quill lashed to its hand, scrawling blindly.
We screamed. Just a little.
"Okay! He's not here! Let's try the kitchen!" I yelped, grabbing Ronette's wrist.
As we fled, Ronette panted:
"That… wasn't necessary."
"It had buttons for eyes, Ronette. It smiled at us."
"Still not proof Mr. Witson's a ghost though."
"Give it time," I shot back, breathless. "We've only just begun."