After rubbing ourselves down with the muscle relaxant and polishing off breakfast like two ravenous beasts, we collapsed into a brief, well-earned rest.
Ronette patted his stomach with a heavy sigh. "It's… so big…"
I squinted at the bulge beneath his clothes and burst out laughing. "You look like a woman three months into pregnancy."
Ronette scratched his head sheepishly, cheeks flushing pink.
"But!" I declared, raising a finger like a street prophet proclaiming doom, "in these olden times, an unwed pregnant woman would be paraded through town in the walk of shame!"
His face drained of color. "W-What?! What do we do?!"
I scanned the room, and a wicked idea sparked. "Aha!"
I lunged, seizing a thin cloth from a nearby chair, eyes gleaming with unholy inspiration.
Ronette leaned back, suspicion and terror warring on his face. "I'm getting déjà vu… and not the good kind."
Moments later, a shriek echoed through the room. Grunts, squirming, and some truly questionable cloth-folding sorcery later, Ronette's stomach bump had vanished like a conspiracy hushed at dawn.
I stood back, panting, victorious. "I do say, I'm a genius."
Ronette clutched the cloth binding, face pale and mouth half-open, one breath away from redecorating the floor with breakfast.
"Now you may walk beneath the sun, free from shame!" I declared, arms raised to the ceiling in victory.
Ronette gave me a weak, uncertain smile—more fear than gratitude in his eyes. "...Thanks...?"
With our strength patched together and our dignity mostly intact, we strode down the stairs like we owned the place.
The moment the inn staff spotted us, her face lit up. "Mr. Minstrel! Young lady Ronette!"
I flourished my fiddle in a sweeping arc, struck a dramatic pose at the landing, and plucked a single, vibrant note.
"Ah, again and again! Though I walk this earth as a humble minstrel, know ye this—my name is no mere 'Mr. Minstrel,' but rather Louis, the young, the energetic, the devilishly handsome, and yet ever so modest!"
I flashed a grin timed perfectly with a beam of morning sunlight slanting through the window. For one glorious instant, it felt like the world itself applauded my performance.
"Yes, Mr. Minstrel," she replied serenely.
My grin froze, cracking like bad paint. I turned to Ronette, jaw twitching.
"Did she not hear a single word of my glorious self-introduction?"
Ronette shrugged, palms up in the ancient gesture of don't ask me.
I sighed, shaking my head in tragic resignation. "Alas, I fear by the time we escape this cursed town, I shall still be but 'Mr. Minstrel' to the world. Tragic, really. A tale worthy of ballads."
Ronette, the diligent soul, moved to question the staff, soft voice threaded with quiet earnestness. Meanwhile, I turned to the guests, fiddle perched on my shoulder like a battle standard.
"Good madam," I bowed with a flourish. "Might you know of a gentleman by the name of Mr. Witson? Tall, brooding, practically drowning in tragic poetry?"
The woman blinked. "Who?"
"Ah… never mind."
Guest after guest, staff after staff—same puzzled look, same shake of the head. Ronette fared no better.
We regrouped by the hearth, shoulders sagging.
"Well?" I asked.
Ronette shook his head. "Nothing."
"Same here. It's like the guy's a ghost."
"I hope not…" Ronette shivered, eyes darting to every shadow. "What do we do now?"
"We shall venture out," I declared, pointing toward the door, "and inquire with every breathing soul in this town!"
Ronette pulled a slightly crumpled map from his pocket, smoothing it with careful fingers.
I squinted at the sprawl. "This town's barely stitched together. A handful of crooked buildings and empty land. I bet with the mayor gone for a month, no one even noticed."
Ronette's brows furrowed. "When I was the mayor, there wasn't much paperwork. I mostly spent time with the family."
"Oh?" My eyebrow arched. "Such a devoted family man."
He scratched at his cheek, face warming.
"But then again," I teased, grin tugging at my lips, "how can you be a family man when you're so scandalous?"
"Scandalous?" Ronette blinked.
"You think I didn't see you charming those ladies just now?" I poked his arm.
Ronette flushed, stammering, "I was just being courteous! Besides, I don't think women would be charmed by another woman."
"True," I said, wagging a finger. "You're a crossplaying maniac."
"I am not! And don't act like you don't know why I'm crossplaying in the first place."
"Sure~" I hummed, letting it drop.
Ronette huffed, cheeks puffed in quiet outrage.
I waved the moment aside. "Anyway, this place is so small, we should finish before sundown."
Ronette folded the map with a groan. "Sundown? That's still hours away."
I shot him a knowing look. "Did you forget about our muscle ache?"
His face fell. "Oh… right…"
The morning sun greeted us as we stepped into the dusty street, bodies aching but spirits stubbornly alive.
"Well," I announced, hand on hip and the other pointing east, "I shall head east, and you, my gorgeous Ronette, shall brave the west. Rendezvous at the central fountain before sundown."
Ronette nodded sharply. "Got it."
And with that, we split—two fools on parallel quests.
Ronette, all gentle voice and careful words, asked his way through town. At first, it went smoothly… until he approached a small group of men idling beneath a tree. His polite smile, soft tone, and disguised beauty glimmered a bit too brightly.
They blushed.
They stood.
Then… they lunged.
"Wait! I didn't mean to—!" Ronette squeaked, skirts fluttering as he bolted, hair streaming like a banner of panic.
He turned every corner, dove between laundry lines, and even somersaulted over a fence or two before finally shaking them off… nearly an hour later.
Meanwhile, I roamed the streets, fiddle slung over my shoulder like a knight's sword.
"Excuse me, fair citizens," I'd begin, strumming a jaunty tune. "Do you perchance know a certain Mr. Witson?"
Yet, every time I opened my mouth, it was as if the entire animal kingdom was summoned to ruin my day.
If a person had a pet by their side—be it cat, dog, or even parrot—they would snarl, bark, hiss, or squawk at me with the fury of a thousand offended beasts.
If no animals were present, fate kindly spawned one from nowhere just to bite my ankles.
I climbed trees. Dove into barrels. At one point, I found myself hiding behind a scarecrow, clutching my fiddle while a goat tried to chew it.
By midday, my heroic quest had become a desperate struggle against fur, feathers, and horns.
When the sun began its slow descent, we limped back to the fountain—bruised, disheveled, and equally empty-handed.
The moment our eyes met, we both spoke at once, "What happened to you?"
A beat of silence. Then a sigh. That deep, world-weary sigh shared only by fools on hopeless errands.
Ronette slumped onto the fountain's edge, shoulders drooping. "How come no one knows about Mr. Witson?"
"Because," I muttered darkly, batting away a stubborn feather, "he's a failed, shut-in, perverted painter. That's why."
Ronette looked scandalized. "Why are you being so mean to him?"
I tilted my head, tapping my chin. "Hmm… I wonder why."
Without pause, the tirade spilled from my lips, "Oh right! I spent the whole day scouring half the town, mostly dodging flocks of angry animals while trying to question the townsfolk. And not a single soul knows who this man is. You'd think, with all this talk going around, he would have appeared out of thin air!"
Ronette frowned, thoughts turning. "There's still one place we haven't searched yet."
My annoyance faltered. "Where's that?"
He gave me that look. The look that always heralded disaster wrapped in innocent suggestion. "The manor."
My breath caught. Smile froze.
"…Oui," I rasped, the word dragging out like a death sentence.
'Of course. It was always the manor.'
'Always.'