I dropped to the ground on all fours, defeated.
The dry dirt pressed against my palms as I muttered curses into the earth. Once again, I had led us in the wrong direction. Somehow, in all my heroic ambition, I'd taken us to the exact opposite side of town.
And as always, Ronette—the ever-patient, ever-saintly Ronette—said nothing.
Instead, I felt the gentle weight of his hands on my shoulders.
"It's okay," he said softly, his voice like balm on a wound. "Everyone's bad at something. Yours is just… directional challenges. I know people like that too."
I sniffled and looked up at him with glassy eyes. "As bad as me…?"
Ronette hesitated. Froze like a statue caught between kindness and honesty. Then he looked away with forced cheer. "Sure…"
I managed a shaky laugh, and slowly pushed myself up, brushing the dust from my knees. Above us, the sky had already slipped into shades of lavender and fire—a dusky canvas stretched thin across the heavens.
"It's too late to look for Mr. Witson now," I sighed, shading my eyes against the sinking sun.
Ronette nodded in agreement. "Do we… head back to the inn?"
"Sure," I said, reaching out to pat his head. "I bet you're hungry."
He blinked and shook his head. "Nope. We can't feel hunger, remember?"
"Mm," I grunted. "And yet my stomach would beg to differ."
As if on cue, it growled with the dramatic flair of a starving beast.
Ronette chuckled. "You're just making excuses to eat again."
"Guilty," I said with a grin. Then I looked at him more seriously, gesturing to his outfit. "Actually, I was thinking… since you're not hungry, why don't we head back to our secret base?"
"Why?" he asked, confused.
I pointed at his dress—still intact but dust-streaked from our misadventure. "We're going to change your disguise."
Ronette's eyes lit up, grateful and touched. "I thought you'd forgotten about that."
I reached over and flicked his forehead gently. "I said I wouldn't break that promise. I may get us lost, but I keep my word."
He smiled—soft, genuine, and warm as candlelight in a storm.
Then, as if determined to ruin the moment, my stomach growled. Loudly.
Ronette's smile twitched. He pointed. "Should we feed it first?"
I looked down at my treacherous abdomen and narrowed my eyes. "It just needs some discipline."
The growl didn't return. Whether out of fear or embarrassment, I wasn't sure. But I chose to take it as a victory.
"See?" I said smugly. "Obedience."
Ronette laughed. "You're unbelievable."
"I know," I said proudly, clasping my hands behind my head. "Come on. Let's get back to the base."
And so, beneath a twilight sky painted in sleepy hues of plum and gold, we turned our steps toward the path we knew by heart. Past crumbling fences and half-forgotten trees, to the little shed we called our own—our secret base, tucked away from the world.
Where disguises waited.
And where the promises we made still held strong.
With Ronette leading the way, we arrived at the shed in no time.
The moment he opened the door, he practically bounced on his heels. "Finally! I can stop crossdressing!"
I tilted my head at him, all innocent confusion. "Hmm?"
He stopped mid-bounce and glared at me. "You said I wouldn't have to be a girl anymore. Remember?"
I blinked slowly. "No. I promised you wouldn't have to wear a skirt or a dress."
His arms flailed like distressed windmills. "That's the same thing! You're bullying me! You promised not to bully me!"
I shrugged. "When?"
"In the hidden passage!" he huffed, puffing his cheeks like an angry chipmunk.
"No, no, no," I said with a playful wave. "I promised I wouldn't bully you in my next life. Not this one."
His scream could've cracked glass. "What?!"
I wagged a finger at him with a wicked grin. "Details, Ronette. Details. Always read the fine print."
He opened his mouth—closed it. Opened it again—nothing. Desperate, he scrunched his eyes shut, summoning tears with sheer willpower, like a wizard conjuring a storm.
"But—but—!" he choked, "Women in the olden times only wore skirts and dresses! Not trousers! If I wear pants, I'll be scorned! Publicly! Socially executed!"
I grinned, my expression shining with wild conviction. "You may be right, dear Ronette. However…"—I struck a dramatic pose and pointed at him as though calling down thunder from the heavens—"I shall make you so angelic, so divine, that none shall dare snare nor scoff. Nay! They shall bow in awe! They shall weep in envy! You will be the set trender, the paragon of fashion, the herald of a new era! The Revolution!"
Ronette stared, mouth agape. Words failed him. My confidence had blown through his defenses like a battering ram through a sugar wall.
I laid a gentle hand on his trembling shoulder, my smile dangerously serene. "Just accept your fate, Ronette."
I swept up the cosmetics and tools of transformation into my arms like a maestro preparing for a final symphony. I advanced.
Ronette's eyes widened, shimmered, then brimmed with tears. He let out a scream that could raise the dead. "NNNOOOOOOO!!!!!"
It echoed across the town, a cry of theatrical despair that sent flocks of birds fleeing from rooftops.
—
Several hours later…
I collapsed on the floor, arms sprawled like a fallen warrior.
"Ugh…" I groaned. "I think… I outdid myself this time…"
I lay on my back, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling. Every muscle in my body had declared mutiny. My eyes fluttered like dying fireflies.
Sleep wrapped its arms around me. I fought it—but only half-heartedly.
Then, at last, the world went dark.
Meanwhile, Ronette sat in the chair where I had dressed and painted him into glory.
Unmoving.
Unblinking.
A hollow husk of a man.
His soul had long since fled, seeking asylum somewhere far away from lipstick and eyeliner.
The next morning arrived with no grace or mercy.
We awoke to the sun blazing down on the shed like it held a personal grudge. Heat had seeped into the wooden walls, the floorboards, the very air we breathed. It was like waking up in an oven that smelled faintly of dust and regret.
I groaned and shifted, only to immediately hiss. My back wasn't resting against the floor anymore—not because I had moved, but because the floorboards were that hot. Still, the heat clung to my skin like a second, sweaty blanket.
"Ugh…" I muttered, half-melted. "At this rate, I'm going to dry up like jerky."
Forcing my arms to cooperate, I pushed myself up on trembling elbows. It felt like lifting a bag of bricks out of a volcano.
"Whew!" I gasped. "That's scorching! I could fry an egg on my spine!"
My clothes stuck to me like glue. My hair had turned traitor and plastered itself to my forehead. Every inch of me was either sweating, stuck, or steaming.
I glanced at Ronette, who lay limp and silent, his arms splayed dramatically over the edge of the chair. For a second, I wasn't sure if he was still asleep or if the heat had claimed him entirely.
Ronette hadn't moved. Not a twitch, not a snore, not even a heat-induced whimper.
I crawled over to him on all fours like a delirious desert traveler reaching an oasis. I peered into his face. His eyes were shut, his mouth slightly open, and he looked exactly like a lifeless wax statue of a saint… one who'd tragically died of fashion-induced trauma.
"Ronette…" I whispered, poking his cheek.
No response.
"Ronette," I repeated, louder this time. I gave his forehead a flick.
Still nothing.
I narrowed my eyes. "So it's war, then."
With the solemnity of a sorcerer preparing a ritual, I rummaged through our stash of props until I found the Holy Grail of chaos: a feather duster.
I raised it high above my head like a weapon blessed by mischief gods and struck with surgical precision—straight into Ronette's nose.
He twitched.
I dusted again, this time adding a tiny devilish whisper. "The spiders are here, Ronette… They've come for your eyelashes…"
His body jolted. "HNGH—WH-WHAT?! SPIDERS?!" he yelped, flailing and nearly toppling off the chair.
"Good morning, sunshine," I said sweetly, offering a mock salute. "The sun's trying to kill us and your eyeliner's already melting."
Ronette blinked in confusion, eyes bleary and bloodshot. His hands flew to his face. "But… we're still alive. I think…"
I nodded solemnly. "But not for long. By the way, we better fix that eyeliner. You look like a sleep-deprived angel who fell into a frying pan."
He stared at me like I was speaking in tongues.
I stood up—or attempted to, before my legs betrayed me and I had to catch myself dramatically on a beam. "Because you're radiant, Ronette. The world fears your beauty, and so it tries to destroy you with the sun."
He sniffled, clutching a rag to his chest. "Why is the world so… so violent…?"
"Come," I said, reaching out like a hero offering to pull their fallen comrade from battle. "We ride for Mr. Witson today. But first—water, shade, and maybe… ice."
"Please let there be ice…" Ronette croaked as we staggered out into the blinding morning, sweat-streaked, sun-struck, and glittering like reluctant, overcooked heroes marching toward another chapter of chaos.