By the time we stumbled back into our room, every last shred of strength had deserted us. We dropped onto the bed like discarded marionettes, strings cut and limbs sprawled without dignity.
"My body…" I groaned, rolling onto my back with the tragic sigh of a dying bard. Every joint in my body voiced its protest, a chorus of quiet agony.
"…So tired," Ronette whimpered beside me, his face half-buried in the sheets. Then, after a beat of mournful honesty, he sniffed, "I never thought I'd say this… but I miss Master Vod."
Silence fell. Heavy. Unmoving. Even the haunted creaks of the old manor dared not disturb it.
Sleep rose like a black tide, swallowing me whole. Not even Ronette's thunderous snoring—an ungodly rasp in my ear like a saw on stone—could drag me back to the waking world.
But hours later, something stirred.
A faint rustle across the floorboards, cautious and uneven, like a creature uncertain of its next step.
Then came a voice—soft, weak, cracking like frost underfoot.
"Help… Louis…"
It was Ronette's voice.
I groaned, eyelids too heavy to lift. "Ugh… What's the noise? Ronette, keep quiet…"
Half-awake, I swung my arm toward where Ronette should've been, expecting my palm to meet warm annoyance and a muttered complaint.
Only to meet the hollow, empty give of a blanket.
"...?"
Silence.
Something cold coiled at the base of my spine.
My eyes snapped open.
"Ronette!"
The space beside me was empty—still faintly warm.
The shuffling. That voice. Someone had been here. Someone had taken him.
Panic ripped through my chest, clawing its way up my throat. I vaulted out of bed, feet slamming against the cold marble like the drumbeat of coming disaster.
My gaze swept the room—windows shut, door bolted, shadows unmoved.
'Kidnapped? But by who? The butler? That dead-eyed maid? And why only Ronette? Was this some sadistic game of 'choose your favorite sibling'?'
My pulse tried to somersault its way into my mouth.
"Calm down, calm down…" I clutched my head, willing my lungs to remember how to breathe. "Breathe. In… out… in… out…"
When my heartbeat slowed from a panicked hummingbird to a merely hysterical hamster, I forced my thoughts back.
'No creaks. No footsteps. No doors or windows shifting. Could he… still be here?'
'Only one way to know.'
The search began.
I dashed across the room like a caffeinated squirrel hunting cursed acorns.
First, the closet.
I threw the doors open with theatrical flair worthy of a stage magician.
Empty.
Not even a dramatic coat for atmosphere.
"Suspiciously empty," I muttered, eyes narrowing.
Next stop, under the bed.
I dropped to the floor, chin grazing cold marble, squinting into the kingdom of dust bunnies.
"Ronette, I know how much you love bunnies," I whispered. "But dust bunnies are different. Entirely."
No reply. Just the realization that the housekeeping staff should be immediately fired.
I backed away with a disgusted sneeze.
Then, the fireplace.
Its flames danced mockingly, heat pushing against my face.
I crouched low, peering past the fire like a detective regretting every life choice.
"Ronette… you in there?" I asked, shielding my brows from the Judgmental Heat.
A loud whoosh of flame.
"Alright! Not in the fire! Got it!" I stumbled back, frantically patting at my eyelashes. "If I come out of this with singed lashes, someone's paying for new ones."
The curtains next. Heavy, velvet, suspiciously layered.
I stalked over and yanked them apart as though unveiling a villain's secret lair.
More curtains. Rich. Pointless. Mocking.
"For the love of fiddles…" I groaned.
'Still no Ronette.'
Sweat pricked my hairline—part fear, part the cardio of high-speed detective work.
"Think, Louis, think…" I slapped my cheeks lightly. "If I were a Ronette, where would I hide?"
My gaze landed on a towering antique vase in the corner.
Eyes narrowed.
"…No way."
I crept toward it like a bomb about to sprout legs. It was the kind of absurd ornament only nobles—or lunatics—would keep.
"Ronette? Are you doing a reverse birth ritual in there?" I whispered, leaning over.
A hollow knock on porcelain. No answer.
I poked it with a stick.
Nothing.
The chandelier.
'Was it impossible? Absolutely.'
'Was I going to check anyway?'
'Yes.'
I dragged a chair under it, climbed up, and peered into the glittering chaos.
"Ronette… if you've turned into a bat and started roosting, I will swing you down."
Just crystals. And dust. So. Much. Dust.
I climbed back down, coughing and covered in particles that were probably older than me.
Still, I wasn't done.
Next, the dresser drawers.
I ripped them open, socks and folded linens spilling out.
Then—a stuck drawer. My eyes gleamed.
"Could it be?!"
I pulled harder. The drawer shot out, smacking my foot.
"GAH—Ronette!! You'd better be in here or I'm mailing your unconscious body to Master Vod!"
Inside, nothing but underwear.
I slammed it shut and limped toward the bathroom.
The toilet.
I lifted the lid. Just water. And shame.
The cabinet under the sink.
I crouched, heart hammering, and flung it open.
"RONETTE!!"
Just cleaning supplies. And a bottle labeled 'Witch Hazel – Do Not Drink.'
I slammed the doors shut and collapsed on the floor, arms splayed, staring up at the ceiling.
Silence.
"This is fine. This is totally fine. My best friend has vanished from a locked room, and I'm talking to myself on cold marble at three in the morning."
I exhaled.
"Everything. Is. Fine."
And then—sound.
Faint. Muffled. A soft thump.
"From… behind the bookshelf?"
My eye twitched.
"Oh, no."
I scrambled to my feet like a drama heroine discovering her fiancé was also her cousin. My eyes locked onto the suspiciously large bookshelf, sitting against the wall like it had something to hide. Which, at this point, I was sure it did.
I tiptoed toward it, dramatically sliding along the wall like a spy in socks.
"Ronette… if you're in there, I swear on my fiddle I will drag you out by the ankles and demand an explanation."
I pressed my ear to the wood. It was faint, but there—another sound. 'Like a sneeze.'
'Or maybe a muffled hiccup?'
My eyes widened.
'Was this… a secret passage moment?! A dream come true!'
I scanned the shelf. Old books. Dusty tomes. A decorative skull. A porcelain cat staring judgmentally.
Then I saw it, a thick red book, no title, jutting out just so.
My breath caught.
I reached out. Pulled.
Click.
The shelf shuddered.
"Don't you dare tell me this is actually working," I whispered, pulse hammering like festival drums.
Stone grated against stone. The shelf edged open, darkness yawning beyond.
And there—tangled in faded velvet curtains—was Ronette, blinking at me.
"Louis?"
"RONETTE?! WHAT THE HELL—"
"I don't know what happened!" he blurted, words spilling like marbles. "I woke up to pee, tripped on my blanket, grabbed the red book, and next thing I knew, I was sliding backward into this velvet cocoon of darkness!"
I just stared.
"You… tripped. Into a secret passage. In your own house."
"I didn't know there was a passage there!"
I fell to my knees, hands limp at my sides.
Then laughter bubbled up—wild, unstoppable.
"You absolute narrative disaster of a human. Get out here."
Ronette crawled forward, blinking like a startled mole. I dusted him off, shaking my head.
"Ronette, for you, I interrogated fireplaces, toilet bowls, and antique vases for fifteen minutes or more."
"…You checked the toilet?"
"It was a dark time, Ronette. A dark, confusing time."
We stood in the half-ruined room, breath ragged, still wearing pajamas, eyes ringed with exhaustion.
My gaze fell to the red book in my hand.
"…So," I began, voice edged with manic glee, "want to go explore the mysterious secret passage that randomly exists in your mansion for no reason?"
Ronette blinked, face frozen between horror and resignation. "Do we have to?"
I placed a hand on my hip, chin tilted. "Ronette. It's a mysterious passage. I wasn't asking—you're coming."
"But… you ended your sentence with a question mark."
"That means nothing," I shot back, already brushing past him.
"But it does, though."
"Oh, who cares. Just follow me!"
And so, I marched forward—candle in hand, red book clutched tight, hair mussed, determination radiating like a questionable hero from a cheap fantasy novel.
Ronette sighed—deep, long-suffering—and trudged after me.
Two idiots in pajamas, one half-melted candle, a mansion of secrets—and absolutely no common sense.
Because nothing says good idea like following a hidden passage at three in the morning… led by someone who had just interrogated a fireplace.