Night had draped its velvet cloak over the village by the time we returned to the inn. The final rays of sunlight filtered lazily through the windows, casting the hallway in a warm amber glow. After bidding the townsfolk good night—amid handshakes, hugs, and a few too many tearful blessings—Ronette and I made our way upstairs to the room we had secured for the evening.
A rosy-cheeked inn girl skipped ahead of us, her apron fluttering behind her as she stopped just outside our door. She turned with a bright, bashful smile, her cheeks blossoming a deeper pink.
"Here's your room, good sir," she said softly, her voice laced with a hopeful lilt.
With the flourish of a true minstrel, I took her hand and pressed a gallant kiss to her knuckles. "A thousand thanks, my fair lady. May your dreams be sweeter than starlight, and your smile forever guide weary travelers home."
She squeaked, giggled, and scurried down the hall like a startled squirrel.
I closed the door behind us and exhaled. "Ah, what a day! We've gathered quite the trove of intel, have we not?"
Ronette didn't respond. He threw himself onto the bed with the dramatic grace of a man who had barely survived a battlefield. "I've lost count of how many times I've been cornered by men twice my size."
I let out a hearty laugh. "Ah, but such is the burden of beauty, my dear Ronette."
Ronette sat up and glared. "Luckily, you weren't able to finish that blasted curse song. Your fiddle playing was so catastrophic, people were dropping like flies—left and right!"
I scratched the back of my head, unbothered. "They were merely overcome by the depths of my musical genius. Some call it fainting. I call it emotional transcendence."
Ronette stared at me with skepticism. "If that's what helps you sleep at night…"
"But you got one part wrong," I added, reaching into my tunic and retrieved a crumpled sheet of parchment, the edges stained with smudges of ink and a suspicious smear that might have been sauce. I held it out like a prized treasure.
He squinted at it. "What's this?"
With a wicked grin, I shoved it into his hands. "The lyrics to the curse song. Completed."
Ronette's eyes widened in horror. "How?! When?!"
I clapped a hand over his mouth, nearly knocking him back onto the bed. "Are you trying to wake the whole neighborhood?"
He mumbled an apology. I giggled, clearly enjoying myself, then slowly removed my hand.
"Read the lyrics," I said, dramatically gesturing as though unveiling a sacred prophecy.
Ronette unfolded the parchment with trembling fingers and began to read under his breath, his eyes darting across each line like they might catch fire.
Ballad of the Crimson Blight
(as sung by the townsfolk with lutes, drums, and furious love)
Verse 1
In shadow's veil and twilight's fall,
There came a choir, cloaked and tall.
Crimson robes and ash-born lies,
With hunger burning in their eyes.
They whispered oaths with tongues of flame,
And hissed the Vampire God's dread name.
"Bow," they urged, "and serve the night,"
But Lerrington stood, bathed in light.
Chorus
Oh Crimson Choir, cursed be thy creed,
Who sowed the dark with selfish need.
You took our light, you stole our grace,
But you'll find no rest, no hiding place!
Let winds howl truth from mount to shore,
Lerrington lives in hearts and lore!
Verse 2
The Acolyte, with ash in breath,
Spoke kindly first, then swore in death:
"Worship, kneel, or you shall see—
The wrath of fangs and heresy."
But Mr. Lerrington, steadfast soul,
Would not be bent, nor bartered whole.
So in the dark, they took him hence—
A coward's act, a grave offense!
Bridge (slower, mournful)
They dragged him far beneath the ground,
Where sunlight weeps and hope is drowned…
But we, his kin, shall raise our song—
To curse the Choir, to right this wrong.
Final Chorus
Oh Crimson Choir, tremble in your lair,
No lullaby shall ease your care.
This song shall fly on raven's wing,
Till even monsters fear to sing!
Bring back our light, undo your crime—
Or rot in song through endless time!
Outro (spoken)
Let it be known in every tongue and tale:
The Crimson Choir shall know no peace,
So long as music breathes and voices rise.
"How did the Crimson Choir get roped into this?" Ronette asked, his brow furrowed, eyes flicking between me and the crumpled song sheet like he'd missed several crucial pages in a book.
I leaned in close, my voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Apparently, the townsfolk told me that the Crimson Choir once visited Mr. Lerrington, tried to persuade him to become one of their devoted followers."
Ronette frowned. "Mr. Lerrington refused. I know. I have his memories."
"Right," I nodded sagely. "So I simply added that they had motive… and naturally, they must've kidnapped him."
He stared at me, slack-jawed. "But… you're not a follower. You don't have red eyes, or blood-stained lips, or—"
"Because," I cut in, throwing my arms wide with theatrical flair, "I wasn't one of them! I was merely hired by them to do the dirty work. A lowly mercenary consumed by greed!"
Ronette blinked. "Then what happened to the kidnapper?"
I dragged a finger across my neck in a slow, dramatic gesture.
He flinched. "You…?"
"Exactly," I said, folding my arms with satisfaction. "And thus, we arrive at our current setting—heroes cloaked in mystery, mourned by none, praised by many."
Ronette gawked. "And they bought all of this?"
I grinned. "Well, we did lead them in cursing the Crimson Choir instead of the kidnapper. What do you think?"
He rubbed his temple. "How?"
"Olden times, Ronette," I said with a shrug. "People are easy to trick. Give them a dash of drama, a sprinkle of song, and wapow!—truth becomes whatever you tell them with a fiddle and a flair."
Ronette squinted at me, eyes narrowing into tired little knives. "Evil…"
I rolled my eyes. "That's not the most important part."
He sighed. "What is?"
"They decided to forgo my instrumental accompaniment," I said, as if speaking of a national tragedy. "Apparently, my fiddle is to be reserved… for special occasions."
I scratched my head, expression drifting somewhere between wounded pride and deep philosophical pondering. "Though I do wonder… when is the right time?"
Ronette laid back, sighing deeply. 'Never', he prayed in silence. 'Please let that time never come.'
After his silent prayer to the heavens—and possibly the gods of music—Ronette sighed and turned over, the paper still crinkling in his hand. His eyes flicked to the back of the parchment. He squinted. Then frowned.
"…Torture?" he murmured, uncertain if he'd read that correctly.
Before he could fully process it, I plucked the paper from his hands with a swift, practiced motion and tucked it neatly back into my tunic.
"None of your concern," I said smoothly, giving him a smile that was far too charming to be reassuring.
Ronette stared at me, clearly weighing whether to ask further. But the day had been long, and exhaustion was quickly winning the war against curiosity.
"…If you say so."
With that, he rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head, choosing the sweet embrace of sleep over whatever nonsense I might have fed him next. I doused the lantern with a puff of breath and settled onto my own bed, arms folded behind my head.
And so we slept, soundly and undisturbed, while the curse song of the Crimson Choir drifted on the wind beyond our windows, carrying whispers that would soon stir storms.
The next day, the morning sunlight streamed through the window, gently coaxing the room into a golden hue. Ronette groggily sat up, scratching his unruly bed hair and blinking against the light. His mind was still clouded from sleep when a knock echoed through the door, followed by a gentle voice.
"Ermm… Good sir and lady, your breakfast is ready downstairs."
Ronette shot up like a startled cat—only to roll clean off the bed.
THUD!
The crash reverberated through the room.
Outside, the inn staff gasped and knocked again, more urgently.
"Oh dear! Are you alright? Are you hurt? Should I fetch a doctor?"
Ronette scrambled upright and cleared his throat—then quickly disguised his voice with a high-pitched falsetto. "Oh no! No need for a doctor. Louis just… rolled off the bed. He does that sometimes!"
There was a short pause, then a giggle. "Alright then, but do hurry! Breakfast grows cold quickly!"
"Will do. Thank you."
As the footsteps moved on to the next room, Ronette let out a breath of pure relief. "I don't think she caught on…"
"Nope. She didn't," came a lazy voice behind him.
Ronette stiffened. Slowly, mechanically, he turned to see me half-buried under the quilt, only my eyes and pout visible.
"How could you throw me under the carriage like that?" I huffed, tugging the quilt up to my chin in mock offense. "Who taught you such deceit?"
Flustered, Ronette rushed to don his outfit, muttering, "Well, we're in the olden times, aren't we? If a woman makes a mistake, society gasps in scandal. But if it's a man? No one bats an eye!"
The quilt rustled as I pushed it away, stretching like a satisfied cat. Ronette jumped at the sudden movement, looking like he might bolt for the door.
"You're getting awfully good at excuses, Ronette." I yawned.
With each stretch and twist I made, Ronette flinched—as though expecting a pillow to come flying at his face at any moment. I rose from the bed, sauntered over, and placed a hand on his trembling shoulder.
He let out a tiny squeak.
"Good job, Ronette," I cooed, lifting his hand with all the flair of a theatre performer and pressing a dramatic kiss to it. "Shall we?"
Ronette exhaled a long, shaky sigh—part relief, part exhaustion. At least he wasn't going to get whacked with a pillow or a fiddle. "How about… you get changed first?"
I gave him a dazzling smile and hummed cheerfully as I walked over to change, the room filling with the rustle of fabric and Ronette's barely contained anxiety.