"Are you mad? Did the sun fry your brain, Ronette?" I jabbed a finger in his direction.
"There's a good chance someone at the manor might know Mr. Witson," he protested, wilting backward under my glare.
"Nah‑ah. The staff there are certifiable, there's that murderous spirit‑butler, and I'd sooner let a lion eat me. Besides"—I swept an accusing hand at his skirts—"your family might spot you and decide their lord is a closet cross‑dresser."
"B‑But… he needs our help!"
I dug at my ear, unimpressed. "I doubt it."
"If you won't go, I'll go alone." Ronette hmphed, squaring his shoulders with the conviction of a rabbit challenging a wolf.
"Alone? Straight to a cell, then. I've sampled that prison firsthand—filthy doesn't begin to cover it."
"But… but… but—" He flapped for words and came up empty.
I sighed, breath dragging out like surrender. "Fine. We could pay a polite call on Madam Lerrington—pure courtesy, of course—then nose around the servants' wing for gossip about Mr. Witson."
His eyes lit, hope flooding in. "That's brilliant!"
"One snag: the butler. He might recognise you."
Ronette twirled, skirts flaring in desperate optimism. "He'll notice in this get‑up?"
"He stares at your face every day, remember?"
The twirl wilted like a crushed flower. "Right. What do we do?"
I tapped my chin; a spark flickered. "Back to the inn. I've a little magic left up my sleeve."
Ronette perked, cautious but curious. "What kind of magic?"
"The sort that turns a wanted cross‑dresser into someone entirely new." I flashed a grin. "Come along, Ronette—prep time awaits."
Before heading back to the inn, we raided our thinning purse, swooped through two cosmetic stalls, and staggered up the stairs to our room laden with jars, powders, and enough rouges to disgrace an opera chorus.
Operation Make‑Over commenced.
Thirty frantic minutes later, the air choked with spirit‑gum and old perfume, I stepped back, hands on hips. "Voilà—my masterpiece!"
Ronette turned to the cracked mirror, saw his reflection—and recoiled. "Monster!"
I whacked him lightly. "Hush, idiot! You'll start a riot."
"But… but—" He jabbed at the glass, horrified by sunken eyes, bruise‑blue shadows, an artful scar crawling down one cheek.
I draped the veil fully across his face. "With this, even that cadaverous butler won't recognise you."
He frowned behind the lace. "But everyone in town's seen 'Ronette.' Won't they wonder why I look like I fought a bear?"
"That's the brilliance." I held up a tin of lurid crimson salve. "We tell them a newly bought cosmetics caused an allergic eruption. Swollen eyes, blotchy skin, tragic scar—very fashionable."
"Why not just keep the veil?" Ronette tried to peer through the lace.
"Because," I hissed, voice low as steel scraping stone, "if that black‑hearted spirit‑butler thinks you're hiding something, he'll rip the veil right off. And when he does? Everyone will see exactly what the story promised: a hideous rash. The moment that happens, sympathy pours onto us like rain on thirsty fields, and the butler—well, his reputation crumbles faster than wet paper."
I continued. "It's beautiful, really. We don't just block his move—we turn it back on him and score twice as hard. Killing two birds with one stone? Hah. It's practically an art form."
Ronette's shoulders sagged. "Madam Lerrington would stop him, though."
"That's only if the lord hadn't been 'kidnapped.'" I made air‑quotes. "Security will be tighter than a miser's purse. No more strangers waltzing in unvetted."
A silent "oh" shaped his lips.
I clapped my hands. "Enough dithering. Curtain rises soon."
Ronette braced himself, shoulders wrapped in cloth, and together we swept from the inn—one flamboyant minstrel, one veiled "allergy victim."
We reached the manor gates without a single wrong turn—miracle or mercy, take your pick—and found two iron‑helmed soldiers barring the path, arms crossed, eyes sharp as drawn swords.
Their glare said: Thieves or troublemakers; choose your last words wisely.
I offered my most disarming grin, lifted my fiddle like an olive branch, and plucked a single bright trill—a playful note hanging in the air like a question.
Even the manor's crows seemed to hush.
"Gentle sirs," I began, voice warm as mulled cider, "the minstrel Louis returns bearing an humble tune and the courtesy of a call upon Madam Lerrington. My veiled companion"—I gestured to Ronette, swaddled like a tragic relic—"suffers a dreadful cosmetic affliction but brings no ill intent, only polite concern."
Ronette bowed stiffly, veil fluttering like a mortified moth.
The soldiers traded a look—the silent, weary kind that asked, Do we truly want this headache?
The senior guard's gaze sharpened on my fiddle. Leaning closer, he muttered, "That's the lunatic I told you about—the one who makes crows drop from the sky the moment he hits a string."
The second guard's eyes flicked from me to Ronette's veiled face, then back again—torn between plague‑carrier and violin‑wielding omen.
Their whispers weren't exactly subtle. Ronette shifted, uneasy. I drummed idle fingers on my fiddle's neck, pouting.
"Yes, yes," I murmured to Ronette, "apparently I inspire wildlife to seek safer pastures."
"They fear for their lives," Ronette whispered behind the lace, voice quivering.
I pouted harder.
Creak…
Creak…
A carriage emerged beyond the gates—lacquered black, trimmed in gilt, drawn by two glossy mares. Its wheels whispered over gravel, slow and deliberate.
The soldiers straightened at once, spears snapping up. Ronette and I stepped aside, shoes crunching.
The carriage rolled to a halt. Velvet‑curtained window slid open.
She appeared like dawn behind clouds: chestnut hair pinned with pearls, skin luminous, eyes cool yet not unkind.
"Good day," she greeted, her voice a quiet bell that stilled the courtyard.
Ronette bowed wobbly. I swept my hat off, fiddle tucked beneath my arm like a knight's sword.
"Good day, my lady." My words danced between nervousness and bravado. "You must be Madam Lerrington. We are the…" I cast wildly for a name—until a lone sheep wandered past the gate, oblivious. "…the Hogg siblings." I finished, radiant.
Ronette's eyes screamed 'Hogg?' but he managed a polite nod.
Madam Lerrington's brows rose, then softened into a small smile. "Ah, the Hogg siblings. I have heard of you."
"We are honored, Madam," I replied, heartbeat calming. "Had circumstances allowed, we would have paid our respects sooner."
She hid a smile behind her fan. "Considering recent… disturbances, your delay is understandable." She flicked the fan toward the guards. "See our guests shown in."
Spears lifted in salute; the gates groaned wider.
"Please," she said, her smile gentle yet unreadable, "enter. A carriage will convey you to the main house. You shall be well attended."
Ronette and I bowed as one.
A footman approached, voice like river‑stone. "If you would wait a moment, sir, young lady. The carriage is on its way."
Moments later, a glossy coach rattled up. The door swung open. Velvet seats beckoned.
I all but leapt inside, the cushions sighing under my weight. "First time I've ridden in a proper manor coach," I breathed, bouncing lightly. "I'm on fire!"
Ronette winced. "Please don't set the carriage ablaze."
I ran a hand over the embroidered seat, grin bubbling up. "I'll try," I promised—though mischief still sparked in my eyes.
The door thudded shut. The carriage lurched forward, gravel grating under gilded wheels.
Through the window, hedged parterres unfolded like stitched embroidery, fountains flashed sunlight, and roses coiled around stone columns like pampered serpents. "So that's what it looks like from above," I murmured. "All I ever saw before were roots and mulch while I was… er, hunting for you."
Ronette blinked. "From… the ground?"
I gave him a pained look. "To find you, dear sister, you've no idea the indignities I endured beneath those shrubs."
Before he could ask more, the carriage curved around the final bend.
There they were: two rows of maids flanking marble steps—at the center, the head butler. That head butler. His tailcoat hung like a raven's wings; eyes pale and cold as old bone.
Instinct bit down. I seized Ronette's hand, grip iron. "Alert, alert! Evil spirit‑butler dead ahead."
Ronette caught sight and shuddered, voice small as a prayer. "I just hope we live past today…"
The carriage slowed, wheels whispering to a stop. Outside, the butler stepped forward, his thin smile stretched tight—like a spider testing a trembling web.