*Ronald will be referred to as Seraphina, and Llyne as Otto, until their next disguise.
With Seraphina leading the way, we strolled through town toward Mr. Witson's house.
Heads turned as we passed. Some gasped, others whispered—tones hushed, unreadable, leaving their meaning dangling in the air. Praise or ridicule? Admiration or mockery? It didn't matter. Seraphina, who had flailed like a melodramatic diva the night before, now walked with serene confidence, as if every glance merely confirmed his rightful place atop the fashion pantheon.
And yet, he kept looking at me.
Finally, I turned. "Yes, my dear Seraphina?"
"You're… a male."
"Clearly."
"Not a minstrel."
"No fiddle in sight."
"Just an ordinary man?" Seraphina gave me a once-over—top to bottom, bottom to top, and squinted. "Dull, too. Are you sick, Otto? Did the sun fry your brain?"
"We can't both be eye-catching," I said matter-of-factly. "With your radiant glory and my 'John Doe' aura, we strike a perfect balance. Yin and yang. Sparkle and shade."
Seraphina narrowed his eyes in deep suspicion.
I ignored him. "Anyway, didn't we agree on using pseudonyms?"
"I still think 'Seraphina' is a bit much."
"It matches your look," I said without hesitation.
"Then why is your name just 'Otto'?"
"In German, it means 'the wealthy one.'"
He eyed me flatly. "You look like a man who's allergic to wealth."
I shot him a glare. "Have you ever seen a rich and dashing man?"
"I thought in the olden times, it was common to see both."
I stopped walking. Seraphina halted beside me.
"Seraphina," I sighed, placing a hand on my hip. "Back when you were Lord Lerrington… would you say you were rich?"
Seraphina nodded solemnly.
"And dashing?"
He paused. Pondered. Then slowly shook his head.
"There's your answer," I said, resuming our walk.
Seraphina blinked, his mouth forming a small 'O' as though the great mystery of the universe had just been solved. Enlightenment, at long last.
Soon, we reached Mr. Witson's house, nestled quietly on the outskirts of town.
It was… surprisingly ordinary.
A modest two-story cottage, its walls painted a soft, pale yellow that had begun to peel just a little near the shutters. The garden was neat but unremarkable—flowerbeds trimmed, a few weeds stubbornly peeking through the soil. There was even a picket fence, freshly painted white, with a squeaky gate that groaned like it needed oil and a good nap. Curtains fluttered lazily behind the windows, and a pair of worn leather boots sat by the front step, as if waiting for a man who'd just gone inside for tea.
But then there was the sign.
It hung from a crooked wooden post beside the gate, swaying gently in the breeze. The lettering was done by hand—sloppy, rushed, maybe even slightly unhinged.
"WITSON. Scholar. Collector. Listener."
And below it, in a smaller, scratchier scrawl:
"Enter at your own delight or despair."
I stared at it.
Seraphina stared at me.
I pointed to the house. "Looks like someone's trying very hard to be mysterious. No wonder those heretics left that summoning book here. They clearly saw the sign."
Seraphina clutched my arm. "What if he is mysterious? What if this is how it starts? We go in, and next thing you know, we're stuck in a talking mirror dimension or cursed to speak in riddles forever. Let's not go in."
"I'd honestly take the mirror dimension," I muttered, pushing the gate open while dragging Seraphina in.
It creaked in protest—because of course it did.
We looked at each other.
"This is trespassing," Seraphina hissed, his voice pitched with panic.
"I've done worse," I replied breezily.
"Not me!"
"Well, now's the perfect time to be a bad boy."
"I don't want to be a bad boy!"
I grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to the door. The knob turned easily in my hand, and the door creaked open with the enthusiasm of a haunted house auditioning for theater.
"Well, that was welcoming."
"How is that welcoming?!"
"I didn't have to pick the lock."
"You're not supposed to pick locks!"
"Right, right," I said with a nod. "Let's go, accomplice."
Seraphina tried to resist, digging his heels into the floor like a man being pulled into his own doom, but his efforts only made me drag him in further. Eventually, he gave up and latched onto my arm like a terrified toddler at a theme park.
The house was quiet. Not ominously so—just still, as though it had taken a long nap and hadn't quite decided whether to wake up yet.
"Hello?" I called out.
Seraphina gasped. "Don't shout! What if he heard us?!"
"Too late," I said, giving his forehead a flick before pressing on deeper into the room.
We passed a dusty grandfather clock and a hallway lined with crooked portraits. The air smelled faintly of tea leaves and old books.
I turned to Seraphina. "Alright. I'll take the ground floor. You check upstairs."
He rubbed his arms, eyes wide with dread. "Must I?"
"Yes," I replied flatly.
Seraphina exhaled like a martyr and began his slow, reluctant ascent up the creaky staircase, dragging his feet as if every step was a personal betrayal.
I moved through the house, taking slow, quiet steps over the hardwood floor. It was surprisingly… normal.
"Huh," I murmured, brushing a finger across a clean mantlepiece. "Guess he wasn't in as bad a shape as we thought. According to his diary, this place should be wrecked."
I tried to recall the contents clearly, murmuring as I pieced it together. "Of course… things only spiraled after he saw the witch again. And then she got burned alive, so…"
I let the thought hang in the air like smoke.
"I guess he won't be too sad after all," I added, only half convinced by my own words.
I continued my quiet search—sifting through shelves, peeking behind curtains, checking for signs of life or despair—until a voice shattered the calm.
"Otto!" Seraphina's voice called down from above. "He's here!"
I snapped upright.
Without wasting another second, I raced upstairs, my feet thudding against the steps.
I found Seraphina crouched over a man lying flat on the floor.
He wasn't moving.
I scanned the scene and made my verdict. "He's dead. Case closed. Killed by Seraphina."
"What?!" Seraphina snapped his head toward me. "I didn't kill him!"
"Understood. Killed by sorcery, then."
"Stop killing him off!" Seraphina hissed. "Maybe he's just sleeping."
"On the floor?"
Seraphina ignored my commentary and carefully rolled the man over. He pressed two fingers to the man's neck to check his pulse. Just then, the man's eyelids fluttered open.
Without warning, Mr. Witson slowly raised a hand and reached toward Seraphina's head, his eyes glazed but focused.
"Ah~ An angel," he whispered dreamily, fingers brushing Seraphina's wig with reverence.
Seraphina's entire body tensed. Then, as if on reflex, he punched Mr. Witson square in the stomach.
The man's eyes rolled back. Foam bubbled at the corner of his mouth as he crumpled unconscious.
I leaned in close to Seraphina, clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Nice job. If he wasn't dead before, he's definitely dead now. Want to bury him together? Might ease your conscience a little."
Seraphina stood there, completely frozen. "R-Really…?! He's dead?"
I gave him a solemn look, then tilted my head. "When have I ever been wrong?"
Seraphina's soul visibly left his body for a moment. He stared at the unconscious man, then at me, then back again, mouth opening and closing like a distressed goldfish.
His eyes glazed over. Inside that pretty little head of his, utter chaos reigned.
Miniature Seraphinas sprinted in every direction across the smoldering landscape of his mind, some clutching flaming documents, others frantically blowing whistles or colliding with one another in a wildly disorganized emergency drill.
"Call an ambulance!" one squeaked, waving a paper labeled Protocol: Man Down.
"There are no ambulances in this era!" another wailed, flipping through a dusty Historical Handbook for the Chronically Unprepared before bursting into tears.
A dramatically unhelpful Seraphina was sweeping an invisible floor, whispering under his breath, "Clean up the evidence, clean up the guilt…"
One unfortunate soul stood banging a frying pan against his head like a metronome of doom, shrieking, "WE'VE GOT A MURDER! A MURDER! CODE RED! CODE RED!"
Another Mini-Seraphina skidded into a desk marked Brain Logic Department, sending a towering stack of files labeled Composure and Reasons We Are Not Guilty flying into the air.
"Sir!" he yelled to a bloodshot Seraphina in a monocle and cravat, who was frantically sipping tea from an empty cup. "We've knocked out a man!"
"Deploy guilt! Deploy guilt!" the monocled Seraphina shrieked, slamming a big red button labeled MORAL COLLAPSE.
A klaxon blared.
Elsewhere, a battalion of armored Seraphinas were lobbing their high heels at a chalkboard scrawled with How to Undo Accidental Manslaughter, while a fashion-forward Seraphina paced a trench in the floor, muttering, "Prison stripes clash with pastels… Prison stripes clash with pastels…"
Atop a teetering podium made of stacked regrets, a trembling Seraphina with a cracked megaphone announced to no one in particular, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are officially criminals!"
Back in reality, full-sized Seraphina let out a high-pitched whimper, still frozen in place like a criminal deer in judgment headlights.