Creak.
Creak.
Creak.
Each step we took, the warped wooden floor groaned underfoot—less like timber protesting, more like something alive breathing beneath the boards, restless in the dark.
"Hmm…" Ronette whispered beside me, knuckles white around my arm. "Was the mansion always this creepy?"
"Eh? How should I know?" I smirked, leaning closer. "You're the Lord here—though I suppose now you're the lady of the manor."
He pouted, cheeks puffing slightly. I snorted, the sound swallowed by the chill.
Soon, we stepped free of the main wing and into the open night air. The breeze that met us carried a damp chill, as though it had seeped up from a sunken crypt rather than the open sky.
"Okay…" I peered down the stone path ahead. "So, where to now?"
Ronette pointed left. "If we go that way, we'll reach the bath-house wing."
"Bath-house wing? What kind of rich people nonsense separates the bathing quarters? What if someone's got urgent business—number two business?"
Ronette furrowed his brow, genuinely wrestling with it. "But… no one needs urgency for that…"
I stared at him. "So what, they just hold it in and pray to the porcelain gods later?"
His eyes glazed slightly, still trying to logic it out—only to realize how ridiculous it all sounded.
"Never mind," I muttered, sighing into the cold. "Let's just get it over with."
The walk was long—far too long for a structure this size. Ten minutes of eerie silence and echoing steps, brought us to the looming silhouette of the bath-house wing.
By the time we reached the doors, my calves ached. "I swear," I muttered, massaging one leg, "even if you didn't plan to bathe, you'd need one after that hike."
Ronette nodded, equally worn.
We took a breath and pushed the carved double doors open.
Inside, two perfect rows of servants waited—unmoving as porcelain dolls, faces drained of life, posture rigid as gravestones.
I leaned toward Ronette, hand half-hiding my mouth. "This looks straight out of a horror movie."
He blinked, puzzled. "Really?"
"Yeah. Don't you watch horror shows?"
"I don't like horror," he confessed, voice low. "And… I've never watched a movie before."
I gasped. "That's tragic! When we get back, we're binge-watching everything I 'borrowed' from Lady Nozomi and Master Sylph."
He looked at me with worry that clearly screamed, 'Did you borrow… or pilfer those?'
We stepped forward. The servants bowed as one, an eerie tide of synchronized movement. Their voices chimed together, flat as an empty bell.
"Dear Young Master Hogg, Young Lady Hogg. Welcome to the bath-house wing. Allow us to assist you."
Their heads lifted in eerie unison. Eyes empty. Unblinking.
Ronette inched closer, almost brushing my side.
This place stank of ritual.
And something else.
Something watching.
We were led apart, each toward separate bathing chambers. The servants moved beside us with silent precision—less human attendants, more the steady drift of specters.
As Ronette reached his door, he turned, red-faced, and spoke to the servants. "Thank you, but I prefer to bathe alone."
I, meanwhile, threw my arms wide with a flamboyant whistle. "I wonder what it feels like to be pampered like nobility. Come in, my loyal attendants!"
The thought vanished the moment it began.
They guided me to the center of the changing room—methodical, seamless. First the outer layer peeled away. Then the inner…
A crawling unease prickled my skin.
'Something feels off… what is it?'
I looked up—and froze.
Across the room, tall and unmerciful, a full-length mirror reflected not Young Master Hogg, but the unmistakable curve of a woman.
Panic lanced through me.
'Oh. Right. I'm not a male.'
A strangled sound slipped out; I slapped my arms across my chest. The servants paused mid-motion, heads tilting as one—confusion barely rippling their doll-like faces.
I forced a laugh, brittle and false. "Ha! On second thought, I'll manage my bath solo. No help needed, thank you kindly."
Before they could react, I hustled them out, heart hammering, and slammed the door shut. Leaning back against it, I let out a long breath.
"Oui… If I hadn't stopped in time, my purity—ahem, my disguise—would've been completely ruined."
The thought alone made me shudder.
Some time later, I stepped out—steam curling around me, skin flushed, heartbeat steadied. My hair hung damp and fragrant; the air carried the faint sweetness of something old and nostalgic.
"Ah! How long has it been since I had such a good bath?" I spun lightly across the polished tiles, breath catching in delight. "This scent is divine… it's giving me the uncontrollable urge to sing."
Without hesitation, I crossed the chamber to where my fiddle waited—resting on a chair, patient and gleaming in the lamplight.
I lifted it, felt its familiar weight settle against me, and drew a single, bright note—crisp and alive, scattering the shadows.
With a flourish, I launched into an improvised ballad, a grin curling my lips.
O bath-house bright, with steam so fair,
Where eerie maids tend ghostly care,
My troubles drowned in scented bliss—
But heavens save me from a servant's kiss!
The strings sang back; marble walls caught the melody and threw it back softer, like an echo from a far hall.
For a moment, I stood alone—queen of a haunted stage, crowned in steam and silence.
Then, a knock.
Soft. Deliberate.
Ronette's muffled voice followed, cautious. "Louis, you done?"
I threw the door open with a flourish, one arm raised high. "But of course, my sweet Ronette. I am ready when you are!"
Then, turning away, voice dipping into theatrical tremor: "But Ronette, why, oh why, are you here? Don't tell me you—"
My hand flew to my forehead, breath quickening in mock scandal. "Oh, we can't, my lovely Ronette. We are siblings! Though not by blood, still—this… this is scandalous! If anyone were to find out… What would become of us?"
The words rose to a melodramatic crescendo, and with a final gasp, I collapsed to the floor—tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, catching the candlelight like tiny pearls.
Ronette crouched beside me, his brow knit with a blend of concern and bewilderment. He regarded me the way one might observe a lunatic who had slipped through the cracks of an asylum—half worried, half unsure whether to step closer or call for restraints.
"You okay, Llyne?" he asked, voice low, uncertain.
I leaned closer, mirth evaporating, voice dropping to a whisper. "You should call me Louis. What if someone heard you?"
Relief eased across his face, lips twitching into something near a smile. "No worries. You've already knocked them all out cold with your fiddle playing."
He turned, pointing down the corridor.
I peered past him—and froze.
The corridor lay littered with bodies. The servants—every one of them—were sprawled across the floor, motionless. Their eyes shut, their limbs slack, and beside them…
I squinted. "Are those… weapons?"
Daggers, needles, wires—laid neatly beside each fallen form like part of some grim ritual.
"I don't remember those dangerous things being there before," I murmured, voice thin.
Ronette nodded, somber. "They were waiting for the right time to strike."
A shiver coursed down my spine. I tightened my grip on my fiddle. "Oui… that's terrifying."
Ronette chuckled, brushing dust from his sleeve. "But nothing is more deadly than your fiddle, apparently."
I blinked. "Huh?"
He grinned. "You didn't even notice, did you?"
I scratched my head, confusion fluttering, then let out a laugh anyway. Because sometimes, it's better not to ask questions when your music might have just saved your life.
And so, we stepped carefully over the unconscious assassins, as though they were nothing more than discarded props after a play's final bow. The faint scent of lavender still clung to my skin, twining with the cold.
With a victorious push, we opened the bath-house doors and stepped back into the night.
I threw my head back, breath frosting the air, and laughed—wild, sharp, triumphant. "Wakakakakaka!"
Then, raising a fist skyward, voice cracking with relief and mischief: "We're alive, you dunce!"
The path back to the guest wing felt lighter somehow. Frost crackled faintly beneath our steps, cold biting at our ankles.
Ronette shot me a glance, voice edged with confusion. "What was all that bloodless sibling drama about back there?"
I smirked, eyes half-lidded. "Hmm? Oh, that? I just felt like trying out one of those over-the-top chaebol family scandals. You know, the ones where everyone's dramatic, rich, and emotionally unstable."
Ronette tilted his head, brows drawn in that wide-eyed, innocent way of his—like a puppy handed a riddle.
I chuckled, ruffling his hair until it stuck up in gentle chaos. "Looks like we've got a lot of series to catch up on. Not just movies, but dramas too."
My laughter rang into the night, light and strange, echoing through the cold darkness.