To our immense relief, it wasn't the Whisper Man gliding through the door.
It was the Madam.
Elegant as ever, she entered with the kind of grace that turned silence into applause. Her heels clicked against the polished floor like the tick of a perfectly wound clock, and the morning light seemed to bend toward her, drawn to the glimmer of her presence. Her dress—black silk, always black—flowed behind her like the wake of a swan.
We exhaled in unison, slumping a little in our chairs as our collective nerves unclenched.
"Ah! My darlings!" she beamed, clasping her hands together as though we'd just returned from war rather than breakfast. "How are you feeling this morning?"
I sprang from my seat, snatching up a butter knife like it was a fiddle, and bowed with theatrical flair.
"Excellent, dear Madam, we rise anew! Though ghosts did chase and stones near flew— We dodged, we screamed, we danced with fright. Yet now we dine in morning light!"
I finished with a spin and a sweeping arm flourish, nearly knocking over a teacup in the process.
The Madam blinked once—then laughed, a musical trill that sparkled in the air like fairy dust.
"Oh, Louis, ever the poet. You'll be the death of me."
"I aim to entertain, not assassinate," I replied, returning to my seat with a self-satisfied grin.
Ronette, still chewing a nervous bite of pancake, just gave her a weak thumbs-up.
"We… lived," he said flatly.
"Marvelous," she cooed, walking over to kiss both our foreheads with a motherly affection that made me feel like I was five and had just survived my first thunderstorm.
Then she clapped her hands. "Eat well. You'll need your strength. The house is hosting guests today."
I blinked.
Ronette blinked.
"Guests?" I echoed, slowly lowering my fork.
"Please tell me they're not ghostly, haunted, or carrying canes," Ronette added, eyeing the sugar bowl suspiciously.
The Madam let out a soft, amused chuckle, the kind that gave no comfort—only questions. "You'll see soon enough. All I can say is their otherworldly presence will bewilder you."
Ronette and I exchanged a glance, our thoughts written plainly across our faces: 'Otherworldly? That could mean anything—and knowing our luck, it probably did.'
And with that cryptic statement, she floated out of the room, leaving a trail of perfume and vague foreboding behind her.
As the door clicked shut behind the Madam, a thick silence hung in the air for precisely three seconds.
Then we turned to each other, wide-eyed and filled with dread.
"We're doomed," we said in unison.
Back in our room, panic exploded like popcorn in a hot pan. We ran in frantic circles, arms flailing, like squirrels who'd just been told tax season had arrived early.
"What do we do? What do we do? What do we do!?" Ronette shrieked, tripping over a stool and scrambling back up with the grace of a panicked ostrich.
"Let's run away!" I shouted, grabbing a pillow like it might serve as a rucksack.
"We can't!" Ronette cried. "What if our faces end up on wanted posters?!"
I gasped, horrified. "Ack! Curse those wanted posters! With their terrible illustrations and exaggerated chins!"
We kept darting across the room, occasionally hopping over furniture, opening drawers for no reason, and checking under the bed like escape tunnels might've magically appeared.
Eventually, gravity and oxygen got the best of us. We collapsed in a heap on the floor, limbs tangled, hearts pounding, wheezing like two melodramatic vacuum cleaners.
"I think I dislocated my panic," Ronette mumbled, staring at the ceiling like it might offer solutions.
"We're too young to be fugitives," I pouted, fanning myself with a sock. "And I haven't even packed snacks."
A heavy silence settled over the room, thick with panic and the faint scent of stress sweat.
I clutched a pillow to my chest like it held the answers to our doomed existence. My thoughts raced—none of them good, most of them mildly illegal—until one idea finally bubbled to the surface. 'Not perfect, not even decent, but better than nothing.'
I shot up, eyes wide, and lunged at Ronette. "I got it!" I shouted, grabbing his arms and shaking them like maracas.
"No need violence!" he squealed, flailing in alarm.
I shoved him back with all the gentleness of a flying squirrel. "We just need a believable excuse!"
He blinked. "An excuse?"
"Yup. Something noble. Tragic, even. Like… our parents fell ill and we're going back to nurse them."
Ronette squinted. "What about Mr. Witson?"
"What about him?" I shrugged innocently.
He stared.
Hard.
I broke into a sheepish grin. "...I was just joking."
He didn't look convinced.
I gave an exaggerated eye roll. "We're not actually leaving town. We'll just say we are. Then we disappear from the estate, switch disguises, and—poof!—problem solved."
I threw my arms into the air with theatrical flair. "Aren't I a genius?"
Ronette clapped like an enthusiastic seal.
"Now you're happy." I giggled, poking his cheek.
But the joy was short-lived. Ronette's expression soured as he flopped back onto the bed like a fainting goat in slow motion. "What if the Madam finds out?" he moaned into a pillow.
"She won't. We'll change our disguise! No one will able to recognize us!"
"Again?" he groaned.
"Again." I grinned.
Ronette gave a tragic little grunt. "Okay… but this time, can I not be a female?"
"Why not? You look amazing in a dress."
"It's too… airy. Down there," he muttered, hugging himself.
I stifled a laugh, but it came out as a snort. "That's the breeze of freedom, Ronette. Get used to it."
Ronette narrowed his eyes at me like a cat plotting revenge.
I held up my hands and slowly backed away. "Okay, okay. Pants next time. Promise."
He stared at me sheepishly, lips twitching.
I tilted my head. "What?"
"But… you always break your promise."
"Hmm? Do I?" I gave him my most innocent expression.
Ronette nodded solemnly, like a disappointed monk.
A sharp jab of guilt poked me in the ribs. Not the physical kind, but the emotional kind—the one that makes your stomach feel like you swallowed a cold potato.
Then he scratched the back of his head and smiled shyly. "But I'll always trust you!"
My heart exploded into warm sparkles. I squealed and lunged forward. "Kyah! You little cutie!" I ruffled his hair with enthusiasm, fluffing it like an overexcited hairstylist on a mission.
He tolerated it with the patience of a man who knew resistance was futile.
Just then, my stomach let out a prehistoric roar.
We both froze.
I looked down at my traitorous belly.
Ronette looked too.
The sound echoed through the hall like the call of a tiny, furious beast.
I chuckled and gave my midsection a dramatic pat. "Oof. Can't let our baby dino go hungry. Or it might eat… an elephant."
Ronette's body visibly trembled. "E-Elephant?"
I gave him a solemn nod. "Yes. Entire herds, if we're not careful."
He whimpered.
Hooking my arm through his, I puffed out my chest. "Quickly, noble companion. To the breakfast table, before my belly declares war on the animal kingdom."
And together we marched towards the door—one bard, one traumatized crossdresser, and one very hungry stomach.
We made for the door—and came face to face with a maid standing just outside, motionless.
Without thinking, I slammed the door shut again.
'That was rude of me,' I scolded myself. 'Very un-minstrel-like.'
Ronette stared at the door, panic twitching in his fingers. "You don't think she heard our plan, right?"
"Who knows, who cares." I shrugged with an air of theatrical indifference.
"I care!" Ronette hissed, voice pitching higher in distress.
I reached up and gave his hair a reassuring pat. "Rest assured. This plan will definitely succeed."
Taking a deep breath, I flung the door open once more and flourished my fiddle with all the pomp of a court performer.
"Ah, my lady of linen and lace! A thousand pardons for yon door's cruel embrace. Mayhap your heart was not shattered by the timber's kiss?"
The maid blinked. Stone-faced. Utterly unimpressed.
I leaned toward Ronette and whispered, "Me thinks her heart was crushed long ago. The villain who did it must be a legendary heartbreaker."
The maid, ignoring our antics, gave a courteous bow and gestured down the hall. "This way to Madam's office."
And with that, she turned, gliding away with the grim finality of a dungeon warden.
Ronette clutched his own sleeves. "You don't think she knows… right?"
I raised a finger like a prophet with a purpose. "There is but one way to uncover the truth—follow the thread to the loom!"
And with that, I strode after the maid, steps full of drama and destiny.
Behind me, Ronette whimpered softly. But he followed, because he always did.
Because deep down, he trusted me.
'Poor soul.'