My body felt warm, like being wrapped in a gentle ray of sunshine. My back sank into something soft, fingers brushing across a surface so fluffy it felt almost unreal.
For a fleeting moment, half-awake and half-dreaming, I wondered. 'Is this what dying feels like?'
"Mmm…"
I turned, cheek pressing deeper into that inviting softness, catching a faint sweetness—fresh linen laced with a whisper of vanilla. Bliss threaded through my thoughts.
'How nice… I hope this lasts forever…'
A sigh escaped me as I sprawled onto my back, sinking again into the impossible comfort.
But peace, like luck, is fickle.
The next heartbeat, a monstrous snore exploded beside my ear—loud enough to wake the spirits lurking three floors below.
"AAACKKK!!!"
I jerked upright with the speed of a terrified cat, heart pounding in violent staccato. Staring up at the all-too-familiar ceiling, I blinked, dazed.
"Huh?" My voice cracked. "Weren't we just in the hidden passage? Why—"
Before I could finish my thought, another deafening snore shook the room.
I snapped my head to the side—and there he was. Ronette, sleeping like a serene princess on the world's fluffiest mattress... yet snoring like a dragon with sinus issues.
"Oui… You could wake the dead with that racket," I groaned, clutching my head.
For a few foolish minutes, I sat there, glaring at him—hoping, praying I'd somehow adapt to the noise. The universe, as always, refused.
"Okay. Enough is enough."
Fueled by righteous exhaustion, I seized the nearest pillow and hurled it at his stomach with the full weight of my annoyance.
"OOF!" Ronette wheezed, curling into himself like a startled hedgehog.
Blinking awake, he met my gaze—eyes round with confusion. "What? What happened?"
I couldn't even summon the effort to lie. I turned away, muttering under my breath.
Ronette rubbed his eyes, scanning the room. "Wait… How did we get back here?"
"Dunno," I sighed, collapsing backward to the bed. "I'm just glad I didn't end up as a cobra's midnight snack."
Suddenly, a knock on the door jolted us both upright.
Our gazes locked—panic sparking like steel on flint.
"Young Master Hogg. Young Lady Hogg. Are you awake?" A voice, polite yet hollow.
As if rehearsed, my minstrel persona flared to life. "Ah, yes. We are," I called sweetly, smoothing my hair as if the walls could see.
"Breakfast is ready. Madam will be eating with you. Would you like us to assist you in anything?"
The mere thought of servants coming in—of seeing us for who we truly were—lit a fire of terror in my chest.
"No!" we blurted together, voices fused by desperation.
"We can manage on our own," I added, softening my tone into practiced civility.
A pause. Then, "Understood. One of us will be waiting to guide you to the dining hall."
"Ah, I see. Thank you kindly," I sang, offering a pointless curtsy toward solid oak.
Ear pressed to the door, I held my breath. Silence. Then, faint footsteps fading down the hall.
I exhaled, turning to Ronette. "I guess the cobra situation can wait. We've got an important client to entertain."
Ronette nodded, face pale but resolute. Without another word, we scrambled into our roles—two scoundrels wrapped in velvet and borrowed names.
When we finally opened the door, the maid was there—waiting with a smile so lifeless it could chill boiling water.
"Hiek!" Ronette squeaked, gripping my sleeve like a kitten bracing for thunder.
The maid only tilted her head, smile frozen. "Please follow me, Young Master Hogg, Young Lady Hogg. The Madam is awaiting your presence."
"Ah, marvelous," I replied, voice honeyed and smooth, bowing slightly.
And so, we followed—each step down the manor's endless corridors feeling less like walking to breakfast and more like walking to judgment.
Velvet drapes swept past. Chandeliers overhead gleamed coldly. By the time we reached the grand double doors, I half-expected a herald with a trumpet to announce us.
Instead, the maid swept them open and intoned, "Young Master Hogg and Young Lady Hogg."
And there she sat.
A beauty that seemed carved from moonlight itself. Pale skin untouched by flaw, hair cascading like molten silver, lips shimmering in soft pink gloss. She raised her porcelain teacup with such refined grace that even gravity dared not interfere.
When she set the cup down, it made no sound—as if air itself dared not trespass on her perfection.
She turned toward us, and smiled. "I hope you've slept well."
Warm. Soft. Genuine. A light so gentle it seemed to part the gloom hanging over the mansion.
"Oh, no worries. We slept like a log," I managed, blinking against the brilliance.
She inclined her head, gesturing for us to sit.
Ronette and I stumbled toward them, trying to maintain dignity but ultimately looking like a pair of chaotic toddlers at a royal dinner party.
The Madam giggled behind her hand, and the sound was so pure and bright it reminded me of church bells ringing on a clear spring morning.
A graceful flick of her hand sent the gathered servants gliding out in perfect formation, leaving us alone at her table.
The table itself was a quiet war: silver cloches lifted to reveal fruits sculpted into dragons, pastries dusted in edible gold, dark stews bubbling ominously in tiny silver pots.
And then… that.
On polished crystal sat a gelatinous horror—quivering, translucent, alive with twitching tendrils that spoke of centuries lurking in dark sea trenches. It smelled faintly of expired seaweed and wet socks left to rot in a forgotten basement.
I swallowed hard and scooted my chair back an inch, hoping it wouldn't lunge at me.
Ronette stared at it, frozen, soul halfway out the door.
Without missing a beat, I reached for a croissant—because one should always be armed with carbs when confronting cosmic breakfast horrors.
A nudge under the table. Ronette followed my gaze. His color fled.
The Madam, smiling too sweetly, gestured toward the monstrosity. "Please, eat. This is a special dish I've crafted myself… from a secret recipe passed down through generations."
Ronette's eyes bulged. 'Secret recipe?! The last time he'd dared to taste it, he'd spent three days in bed—hallucinating, weeping, and briefly speaking fluent squirrel.'
He kept casting desperate glances my way, silently pleading for me to steer clear of the culinary abomination. Alas, his telepathic signals were tragically lost on me.
In a polite attempt not to offend the Madam, I smiled graciously, speared a quivering piece with my fork, and brought it cautiously to my lips—like a knight bracing to duel a dragon made of jelly.
One nibble.
Instant regret.
It tasted like heartbreak soaked in expired vinegar and aged in a compost bin. If despair had a flavor, this was it. Even a zombie with rotted tastebuds would have gagged.
Meanwhile, the Madam, glowing with pride, scooped a generous spoonful of the wiggly monstrosity and offered it to Ronette with the reverence of presenting holy communion. He stared at it like it had just hissed at him.
But refusing was not an option.
Trembling, Ronette took his own spoon and dipped into the substance. As soon as it touched his tongue, I watched his soul leave his body—like it was sprinting toward a better afterlife, far from this breakfast table.
The Madam, oblivious to the astral projection happening before her, leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Well?" she asked softly, her hand now resting atop Ronette's with unsettling intimacy.
He was still in limbo—body present, mind and spirit somewhere between purgatory and panic.
I slouched and kicked him under the table.
He jolted violently, eyes blinking as his spirit crash-landed back to reality.
The Madam waited, unblinking.
I kicked again.
He let out a startled squeak, then turned to me. I flicked my eyes meaningfully at the abomination on his plate.
Ronette finally understood. He turned slowly to the Madam and forced a smile that could have been mistaken for a grimace. "It's… wonderful."
Her smile blossomed, bright as dawn. "Marvelous!" she beamed, ladling an even larger helping onto his plate. "Here you go. I'll go prepare more!"
And with that, she rose, gliding from the room—humming softly, as if she hadn't just gifted us a dish that might break lesser minds.