The door creaked open, revealing the Madam behind her grand mahogany desk. She was hunched slightly, spectacles perched low on her nose—a rare sight. We'd never seen her wear them before. They gave her an entirely different aura: stern, focused, and faintly intimidating. Business mode. The kind of presence that could make grown men freeze up.
She didn't notice us at first, absorbed in the sea of parchment and ink before her. Her pen danced swiftly across the pages like a fencing blade in the final round. The silence in the room was a soft, humming kind—the kind that whispered, Tread carefully.
Sensing the weight of the moment, the maid stepped forward and cleared her throat. "Madam, your guests have arrived."
The Madam glanced up. Her eyes softened instantly behind the lenses, and a warm smile bloomed across her face. "Ah, please, have a seat, darlings."
We obeyed without a word, sinking into the velvet cushions of the sofa with the guilty grace of schoolchildren summoned to the headmistress's study. The maid, precise as clockwork, swept in with a tea tray. Each cup clinked softly as it was set down, and the biscuits were arranged with the kind of attention usually reserved for royal banquets.
The Madam glanced at us again with an apologetic curve to her lips. "Unfortunately, I'm a bit tied up at the moment. I hope you wouldn't mind waiting just a little while?"
I swept my fiddle dramatically from my lap and struck a soft, whimsical chord, the notes floating through the air like polite reassurance. "But of course, dear Madam," I sang with a smile, each word wrapped in silk and charm. "We shall wait however long you desire, be it moments or moons, for time bends kindly to patient hearts."
She chuckled, nodded in gratitude, and returned to her work, the scratch of her pen filling the room once more.
And so we waited—two schemers on a velvet sofa, sipping tea and pretending we weren't hiding at least three lies beneath our petticoats and smiles.
At last, the Madam set down her pen with a soft sigh and rose from her desk. She crossed the room with the grace of someone who'd walked through storms and come out unsmudged. Her expression was unreadable as she seated herself opposite us, hands folded neatly in her lap.
"So," she said with quiet finality, "you've come to say goodbye, I assume."
Ronette and I swallowed hard in unison.
'How does she know?'
A soft chuckle escaped her lips. "There's no need to look so pale. You may leave, and return, whenever your hearts desire."
Relief crashed over me like a warm tide. I swept an invisible cap from my head and offered a bow of gratitude, my voice light and lyrical. "We don't know how to thank you, gracious Madam. Your kindness sings sweeter than spring larks at dawn."
"There's no need to thank me." Her smile was gentle, almost motherly. "As long as you're healthy and happy, that's all I ever ask."
She tilted her head slightly. "Before you go, is there anything I can help you with?"
Ronette and I exchanged a glance. There was only one thing on our minds.
'Mr. Witson.'
Ronette cleared his throat. "Erm… if it wouldn't be too much trouble… might we speak with Mr. Witson before we leave?"
A shadow of surprise flickered across the Madam's face. Then her expression grew still.
'Oh no. Did we give ourselves away?'
She shook her head, slowly. "I'm afraid… that's one wish I cannot grant."
My breath caught. "Why not?" I asked, dread prickling down my spine. Don't tell me he's dead…
"He hasn't been here in years," she said, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "I believe it was around the time that woman came."
Ronette and I leaned forward. "That woman?"
"Oh yes. A ravishing beauty. The kind who could snare any man with a glance. I feared she might steal my husband, truly I did." She placed a hand delicately on her cheek, her expression mildly troubled.
I nodded solemnly. 'Sounds like the witch I killed… yep. Definitely her.'
"But," the Madam continued, "even she hasn't been seen in some time. I do wonder what became of her."
"I see," Ronette said, nodding carefully. "But if you don't mind… might we have Mr. Witson's address?"
"Ah! Of course." She clapped her hands softly, and a maid was quick to respond, bringing paper and pen.
With a flourish, the Madam wrote down the address and handed it to us. "Here you are. Just outside the town—no more than a short journey."
"Thank you, dear Madam." I tucked the note away and bowed low with a flourish. "You gift us more than direction—you gift us hope on parchment."
She chuckled warmly. "Unfortunately, I can't see you off myself. Far too much work today."
"Worry not, noble lady of ink and inkpot," I said, striking a gallant pose. "We shall take our leave under our own power. But pray, do not drown in your parchments—find rest, lest your quill rebel against you!"
The Madam laughed, shaking her head. "You truly are one of a kind."
We bowed once more and took our leave, returning swiftly to our quarters. There, we packed in a hurry and slipped from the mansion like shadows at dusk—hearts light, heads spinning, and adventure waiting just beyond the gates.
The maids and butlers were already lined up in front of the mansion gates, their posture impeccable, their expressions unreadable. At the center stood the ever-imposing head butler.
Ronette leaned in close and whispered, "It's been ages since we've seen him."
I narrowed my eyes. "Or maybe... we've seen him more recently than we think."
We both turned our heads—slowly, cautiously—toward the head butler.
'The Whisper Man.'
The thought hit us simultaneously like a thunderclap.
Neither of us said a word.
Then, right on cue, the carriage rolled up, elegant and ominous as ever. We stepped inside, and the moment we settled into the plush seats, the horses began to trot. The estate began to shrink behind us, and an invisible pressure lifted from our shoulders.
A long, heavy sigh escaped me as I slumped back in the seat. "Ugh… I don't want to go back there again. Ever."
Ronette sniffled beside me. "It's only been a few days, but it felt like a millennium."
I nodded. "Time stretches strange in places soaked in secrets."
We let the carriage cradle us, our fatigue sinking into its cushions.
But then it jolted to a stop.
Ronette peeked out the window. "Already? That's the inn!"
"So fast?" I followed his gaze. "Do they… do they know how to manipulate time?"
Ronette's eyes were wide as saucers. "They must be time wizards."
I stepped out of the carriage, one wary foot at a time. "Well, if they are, that's our cue to run. Time magic is where I draw the line."
He scrambled after me. "A wise and noble boundary, my friend."
We stood there, under the gentle shadow of the inn's awning, the carriage already disappearing into the distance. For the first time in what felt like a century, the air smelled only of fresh earth and brewing coffee—free of secrets, lies, and invisible eyes.
We breathed it in, letting it fill our lungs and steady our steps.
And just like that, 'we were free.'
However, nature yet remind us that freedom was never a choice.
The wind blew and the paper with Mr. Witson's address flew along with the wind.
"Ack! The paper!" Ronette followed the paper and was trying to catch.
I stood there and sighed. "Ah... When can we leave this cursed place..."
The wind only howled louder in reply.
I took a slow step forward, fiddling with the edge of my coat as I watched Ronette dive after the paper like a tragic hero in a silent opera. A passing cat paused to observe us from atop a crate, its amber eyes gleaming with disdain, as if to say, "Amateurs."
The paper twisted in the air once more, looping high toward a lamppost.
Ronette skidded to a halt beneath it. "Come back! You're our only lead!" he cried, as if shouting would guilt it into returning.
"You do realize you're arguing with paper?" I called, resting a hand dramatically over my heart. "Even I, minstrel of the wind and words, know better than to duel with parchment in a gale."
"Then help me!" he snapped, hopping in place.
"Alright, alright." I jogged forward and paused just beneath the lamppost. The paper hovered, caught on a gentle breeze, before finally fluttering down like an autumn leaf. I reached up slowly, reverently, and caught it between two fingers.
Silence.
Triumph.
Then I bowed, holding the page aloft. "Behold! Rescued from the cruel clutches of fate!"
Ronette threw his arms around me. "You're the best!"
A hush fell between us. The kind of silence that lingers, heavy with unspoken fears and the whisper of turning tides.
I lifted my gaze to the horizon, narrowing my eyes as the breeze stirred once more.
"Before…" I murmured, voice low, "…another gust of fate tries to take our breath."
Ronette gasped audibly beside me, as though the very wind had tightened around his chest. "Don't say things like that," he whispered, his hand clutching the edge of my coat. "That felt like a curse."
"Then we best outrun it," I replied, folding the paper neatly and slipping it deep into my inner pocket—where not even fate's fingers could pry it free.
He nodded, eyes still wide, as if expecting the clouds themselves to reach down and drag us back into the mansion by our heels.
But no storm came. Only the road stretched ahead, winding like a ribbon through the edge of town, past the twisted trees and old stone markers that watched us go like silent witnesses.
And so, we set off—shoulders squared, breaths steady.
Paper in hand.
Hearts light.
And danger looming—always looming—just beyond the bend.