Ronette and I sat in stunned silence.
Slowly, we turned to each other, then down at the wobbling monstrosity still quivering on Ronette's plate like it was sentient—and malicious.
"Honestly," I muttered, voice flat as the grave, "that thing tastes deadlier than my Master's poison. I always thought she'd be the one to accidentally end my life, but… I guess not."
Ronette nodded, solemn as a man who'd seen his end and barely come back to tell the tale.
"You should store it in your inventory," I said casually, as if suggesting he tuck away a spare handkerchief.
Ronette flinched like I'd asked him to hug a banshee. "For what? It's terrifying."
"For emergencies," I replied, unfazed. "If we ever need to assassinate someone and lack a weapon, at least we'll have that."
He stared at the quivering heap, expression somewhere between dread and surrender—a man asked to carry a cursed relic through enemy lines. Silence stretched between us, dramatic as a stage curtain.
"Oh, my dear Ronette," I sighed, resting my chin on my palm. "You have two options. Consume it before the Madam returns with something worse… or store it before it consumes you."
Ronette let out a long, defeated groan before reluctantly sliding the plate into his inventory like it was a cursed relic he'd have to answer for in another lifetime.
"See? Not that hard, is it?" I grinned, heart lighter than it had been since sunrise.
Ronette pouted in response, the very picture of a man betrayed by fate—and breakfast.
The Madam returned, empty-handed, her presence somehow softer than before.
She approached with an apologetic smile, hands folded neatly. "I'm terribly sorry," she murmured. "It seems we've run out of ingredients."
Relief, sharp and bright, surged through me. I pressed a hand to my chest and flashed my brightest minstrel's smile.
"Oh, there's no need to apologize, Madam. We are deeply honored to have tasted your secret special dish." With a flourish, I produced my fiddle. "In fact, I would be more than happy to sing a song in its honor."
She chuckled—her laughter gentle, like wind chimes catching a soft spring breeze. "There's no need for a song, dear."
I tucked the fiddle away, exchanging a quick glance with Ronette.
Outwardly, we remained polite, the perfect picture of gracious nobility.
Inside, we were dancing barefoot on tables, tossing confetti, celebrating like knights spared by the executioner's axe.
'Freedom had never tasted sweeter.'
After our not-quite-fatal meal, the Madam leaned in, posture as perfect as carved marble. Her hands folded gracefully in her lap, her eyes bright.
"How was breakfast?"
"Splendid!" I declared, thumb shooting up so forcefully it nearly launched me from my chair.
Ronette, loyal as ever, nodded solemnly.
"I'm glad to hear that," the Madam said, her smile deepening. She leaned back ever so slightly, just enough to relax, but her posture remained impeccable—straighter than a soldier at inspection, straighter than the tallest pole.
She radiated an elegance that could probably scare unruly ghosts into fixing their posture.
Then came her questions. Each soft, polite… and relentless. Ronette and I did our best to answer earnestly, though some responses may have been... creatively filtered.
"Is there anything you need during your stay?" she asked.
"A priest," I replied without missing a beat.
"And maybe a manual on surviving haunted mansions for dummies?" Ronette added.
She chuckled, clearly taking our panic as charming wit.
"Would you like me to prepare more of my secret special dishes?" she asked sweetly.
Internally, Ronette was already begging the universe for mercy. Out loud, "We would be honored!"
A swift kick under the table.
"We wouldn't dream of burdening you, Madam!" I corrected, smiling serenely. "Your culinary genius must be protected."
She laughed again, bright and untroubled. Then, leaning forward, eyes sparkling, "Are you excited to meet the other guests?"
"Oh yes, I can't wait to meet the living ones," I answered brightly.
Ronette blinked, voice dropping. "Wait—the living ones?"
The Madam's smile only turned more mysterious.
"Did you explore the manor much yesterday?" she asked.
"Yes! We did a little," I laughed. "We're very lucky to still be alive."
"He means," Ronette added, "that the manor's so big, we ran out of breath."
"Do you enjoy the art collection in the halls?" she asked next.
"Absolutely!" I said. "Especially the painting that blinked at us. Very interactive."
"Ten out of ten," Ronette added dryly. "Would get jump-scared again."
Her laugh chimed softly. "Is there anything you would change about the manor?"
"Fewer suspicious whispers at midnight?" Ronette offered.
"Friendlier rats," I said. "Ours gave us judgmental looks."
"Would you like a tour of the manor after breakfast?" she offered.
Ronette leaned in, whispering, "Last time we 'toured' we fell through a hole…"
"We would love a tour!" I declared, unstoppable. "Adventure builds character!"
"Have you toured the garden yet?" she asked.
"Oh no, we haven't," I shook my head.
"Now would be the perfect time," she said warmly. "The sun is gentle and the morning breeze is cool."
"I hope we won't get lost," I muttered.
"I hope it doesn't move or eat you alive when you're not looking," Ronette added.
After what felt like an eternity of relentless questioning, a sudden knock broke the rhythm. Ronette and I perked up like prisoners hearing keys rattle.
The butler entered—grave as a funeral bell. For once, that grim expression felt like salvation.
He leaned to whisper to the Madam. Her smile faltered—barely—but quickly returned. The butler straightened and left as silently as he had come.
When he disappeared, our hearts sank, thinking our brief flicker of hope had gone with him.
But then, the Madam clapped gently, summoning a maid. "Please guide our dear guests to the garden."
Turning to us, she added softly, "Alas, I must attend to other matters. Pray, forgive my absence."
Without hesitation, I swept into a deep, theatrical bow. "Madam, to mind your departure would be a sin most foul. Go forth, and may fortune light your path!"
The Madam offered a smile like a sunrise and, with the grace of a queen leaving her court, glided from the room.
'Victory!' Ronette and I cheered silently.
The maid stepped forward, bowing. "Are you ready, Young Master Hogg, Young Lady Hogg?" Her tone was flat as a dungeon floor.
With a flourish, I raised my fiddle, striking a bright, triumphant chord. "More ready than a knight at dawn, fair maiden! Lead us hence to the garden's embrace!"
Unimpressed, the maid simply nodded and gestured for us to follow.
The corridor stretched on—long, silent, and mind-numbingly dull. Naturally, Ronette and I found ways to entertain ourselves.
First, grotesque faces, each more absurd than the last, until we nearly cracked our ribs from silent laughter.
Then, poker, betting dares like "kiss the nearest pillar" or "compliment the ugliest statue." Each loss is a masterpiece of humiliation.
Later, Ronette—somehow—produced paint balloons. We lobbed them at each other like mischievous sprites, staining our clothes in streaks of blue and red.
Not yet finished, we snatched swords from an armor stand, engaging in exaggerated duels complete with dramatic death scenes and overacted cries of "Mon dieu! You have slain me!"
Even a clumsy three-legged race followed, ankles tied with a handkerchief, half-sprinting, half-tripping down the marble hall.
"Behold!" Ronette cried between wheezes, "Lord of Mischief and Balloons!"
And then, the maid spun around.
We froze mid-chaos, Ronette clutching a balloon behind his back, me caught mid-fencing pose.
Her eyes narrowed, scanning us top to toe.
'How are they so childish?'
'Are they not supposed to be nobility?'
'Paint stains… twigs in their hair… is that jam on his sleeve?'
'The Madam will faint if she sees this rabble in her garden.'
Expression blank as a polished mask, she turned silently and walked on, posture stiff as stone.
Ronette and I exchanged sheepish grins—two sinners caught, promising silently (if not sincerely) to maybe behave.
Maybe.