We were back at the shed—the scene of many questionable decisions and, apparently, one more to add to the pile.
Seraphina trudged toward the makeup chair like a condemned man on his final walk. His arms dangled limply at his sides, his expression that of someone who had bartered away his soul for a handful of magic beans and regretted everything.
He slumped into the chair, exhaling the breath of someone emotionally bankrupt. "Do it quick. Release me from this agony."
I raised an eyebrow. "It's just crossdressing, Seraphina. Not a sacrificial ritual."
"You say that," he muttered darkly, "but my dignity is dying."
I ignored him and started sifting through the makeup kit, humming. "You didn't seem to mind the last time you were Ronette."
"I. Do.," Seraphina snapped, each word a stone of denial hurled into the pit of his dignity.
"Sure, sure," I said airily, selecting a blush shade that screamed 'innocent debutante with a secret'. "Only your heart knows the truth."
"If Master Vod sees this, I'll be so dead," Seraphina whimpered, slinking lower into the chair like he hoped it would swallow him whole.
"He'll die too," I whispered, elbowing him gently. "Die from laughter."
Seraphina groaned and let his head fall back with all the tragic flourish of a man bidding farewell to his last shred of dignity. "Just get it over with…"
I leaned in, brush poised like a maestro before the opening note, or perhaps a painter about to commit a crime against reason. "Showtime," I murmured, grinning.
And so began the delicate, terrifying transformation of Seraphina… into the witch.
Hours passed—or at least it felt that way. Time slowed under the weight of contouring, eyeliner, and far too many shades of sorrow. When the final stroke was complete, I stepped back and admired my handiwork like a mad scientist gazing upon their stitched-together monster.
*Ronald will be referred to as Raven, and Llyne as Otto, until their next disguise.
Raven stared at the mirror, fingers rising slowly to his face.
Silence.
Not a gasp. Not a shriek. Not even one of his usual melodramatic wails.
"…No response this time?" I leaned in, brow arched. "Boooooring." I tossed a brush back into the kit with a clatter.
At last, Raven turned to me, his expression somewhere between disbelief and mild existential crisis. "Seraphina looked a million times prettier than this."
"Of course she does. She's my masterpiece," I declared, letting a sorrowful tear trail dramatically down my cheek before flicking it away with the grace of a stage actor exiting a tragedy. "It's a shame she only lasted a few hours."
I sank to my knees like a grief-stricken mourner. One hand clutched my chest, the other raised to the heavens. "She was… so young…" My head drooped low with theatrical despair. "As a wise man once said, 'Beauty can never last long'—and alas, he spoke the cruel truth."
Raven, ever the sentimental fool, chimed in softly, "But inner beauty lasts forever."
I slowly rose to my feet, brushing off invisible dust as though returning from war. "True… unless they've gone twisted. Then their inner—" I let out a long, low whistle like a ghost wailing from the depths.
Raven shuddered.
"Anyway," I clapped my hands, instantly dispelling the gloom, "moving on. We better find Mr. Witson before he leaves this town."
Raven blinked in confusion. "Why would he leave? Won't he be visiting her grave?"
I turned toward him. "I didn't build a grave for her. So how would she have one?"
"You didn't?!" His voice rose in horror.
"She tried to enslave and kill me," I said flatly. "Would you build a grave for her if you were in my shoes?"
"Yes!" he answered without a second's hesitation.
I stared at him in silence for a moment, then sighed and patted his head like a parent indulging a misguided child. "You're too pure for this world, my love."
And with that, we pushed open the creaky shed doors, stepping into the light and scanning the streets with purpose.
I thrust a finger dramatically toward the horizon. "Onwards! To execute Mission: Heart Breaker. P.S. Your name shall be Raven."
Raven trudged beside me, lips puckered in a pout, hands dragging at his sides like soggy noodles. "I don't like this mission, neither the name," he yelped, voice cracking with dread.
I didn't spare him a glance. "Not every mission is supposed to be fun, soldier."
"But this one feels cruel!"
"Cruelty is just honesty in a more fashionable outfit."
He whimpered.
I marched ahead, boots thudding with purpose, cape—okay, it was a jacket, but I felt like it was a cape—fluttering in the breeze. Raven shuffled behind like a reluctant child dragged into a dentist appointment. The mission had begun… whether he liked it or not.
And so began our very dignified search.
We roamed the crooked streets like two undercover agents—if those agents wore smudged makeup and one of them looked like he was about to cry at any moment.
I approached a baker, flour dusting her apron like battlefield ash. I tipped an imaginary hat. "Good morning, madam. Have you, by any chance, seen a love-struck zombie who thinks he can see ghosts in broad daylight?"
She blinked. "Pardon?"
"Middle-aged. Uncombed hair. Smells like rejection and failed inventions. Passion in his eyes, death in his breath?"
The baker squinted as if recalling a distant trauma. "Oh… oh! Yes, I think he ran past here an hour ago. Looked like he hadn't slept since the last full moon."
"Sounds about right. Thank you for your service." I gave a solemn salute.
Raven followed me, tugging on his dress and whispering, "Can't you ask like a normal person?"
"I could," I said. "But where's the fun in that?"
I marched to an old man feeding pigeons next. "Excuse me, wise sir. Have you laid eyes upon a man recently possessed by romantic delusion and probably in the early stages of heartbreak-induced madness?"
He didn't even flinch. "He was muttering something about destiny and a 'great reunion'. Went that way." He pointed lazily with a wrinkled hand.
We nodded our thanks and continued on, Raven growing more nervous with every step.
"I don't think I'm ready for this…" he muttered, voice trembling like a leaf caught in a breeze.
"Don't worry, Raven. You have me." I patted my chest with mock pride, grinning like a cat who thought it was a lion.
Raven glanced at me sideways, lips twitching.
'That's… reassuring?' he thought, though the sinking feeling in his gut told him otherwise.
Next, we stopped at a group of children playing hopscotch like tiny goblins hopped up on sugar.
One of the boys pointed a stick at me like he was challenging me to a duel. "You mean the weird guy who tried to trade his shoes for a map of the town?"
Raven turned to me, brow furrowed with concern. "What if we're chasing the wrong person?"
I didn't even blink. "Only one senile man in this town would barter footwear for geography." I crossed my arms. "And that, dear Raven, is Mr. Witson."
I turned back to the children, flashing them a bright, almost predatory smile. "Yes, that one."
"He went that way," a girl chimed in, pointing toward the town square. "He said something about 'finding her where the wind whispers and the roses remember'."
Raven clutched his head. "Oh no, he's gone full poet mode. That's the worst kind!"
"Poetry is just madness that rhymes," I muttered, nodding grimly. "Come on, let's move."
We passed a butcher sharpening his cleaver. I gave him a polite nod. "Excuse me, sir. Seen a man stumbling about, possibly humming tragic ballads and crying into his own collar?"
The butcher blinked slowly. "He asked me if pork could be shaped into a heart."
"…And?"
"I said no. He cried. Bought sausages and left."
Raven tugged at my sleeve, horrified. "He's getting worse."
"I fear he's entering Stage Four: Symbolic Romantic Despair." I put a hand over my heart. "If he starts painting roses black, it's over."
"Do we have time?" Raven asked, eyes wide.
"We must act swiftly," I said with exaggerated seriousness. "Before he writes a sonnet that triggers a town-wide cringe epidemic."
We marched on.
And just as we reached the fountain at the center of the square, we spotted him—Mr. Witson—perched dramatically on the rim like some lost, lovesick bard from a budget opera. His arms were outstretched to the heavens, sleeves flapping like desperate wings.
"My one true love!" he cried into the breeze, voice trembling with tragic devotion. "I know you can hear me! Your soul sings to mine across the realms!"
Raven gasped, clutching his chest. "Oh no. He's summoning her ghost!"
"Worse," I muttered, shielding my eyes. "He's doing it in public."
A nearby pigeon stared at him in quiet judgment.
I leaned over to Raven. "You never know where the cameras are these days. One wrong move and boom—instant fame or instant ruin."
Raven blinked. "They don't have internet in this era."
I paused, lowered my hand from my forehead, and let out a long breath of relief. "Good. I'm safe."
Raven squinted at me, lips slightly parted in confusion. There was a long silence before he whispered, "What did you do?"
I smiled, not answering, and patted his head like I always did when evading moral accountability.
"Let's just say… history remembers what it wants to."
Raven looked even more concerned, but before he could dig further, Mr. Witson threw a rose petal into the fountain and yelled, "TAKE ME TO HER, OH SACRED WATERS!"
Raven tugged at my sleeve. "We need to stop him before he drowns himself in two inches of decorative plumbing."
I nodded. "Agreed. Let's reel in Romeo before he waterboards himself with his own emotions."