Page 23 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

“I’ve hated you since—”

“Oh alright.” Waldemar rolled over.

At some point, the lounge chair was knocked over. The room cooled, the fireplace containing nothing but white ash, while the curtains shone ever stronger, unable to hold back the light.

Exhausted, Waldemar lost all hold of his form. He stretched the gray, lanky limbs of a ghoul, his tail flicking like a cat’s. A blanket had found its way to the floor, and the pillows from the chaise, which, bundled atop the plush carpet, formed a sort of nest.

Lambert stumbled into the room, eyes heavy with exhaustion. He carried a tray with two teacups and a steaming pot, the smell of bergamot overtaking that of sweat.

Waldemar yawned, then froze at the sight of the long, pointed tongue that unfurled from his mouth. “Say,” he said, “do you think it might be interesting if I—”

Another hour passed.

The tea, once they returned to it, was cold and over-brewed.

“Don’t do that,” Lambert muttered, his eyes half-closed with sleep. “These were my mother’s. She never let us drink from them – said they were only for special guests.”

Waldemar had been gnawing at the rim of his cup. He lowered it to the carpet, grimacing at how badly his ghoulish jaws wanted to exert their strength. His own severed hand, abandoned in the corner, was too much of a temptation. Perhaps Lambert could be persuaded to spare a bone from the kitchen… but no, such an act wasn’t fit for a gentleman. Instead, Waldemar ground his teeth. “Clothing,” he said, brushing claws down his bare, gray skin. “Madeline will be wondering after me. I suppose they’ll have found my body in the street by now. You must provide me with clothing, so that I might deal with her, and retrieve my possessions.”

“And you’ll tell her… that…?”

“I’ll tell her whatever I please.” Waldemar yawned extravagantly, and succeeded in not being distracted by his own tongue. “Your wallpaper is hideous, by the way. Never thought you’d be one for florals. But no, I imagine I’ll simply pack my luggage without much discussion, and return here.”

Lambert drew back the curtains with a rasp, blinking in pain at the light. “Did I invite you to stay?”

“You killed me with a ghoul, Beadle. Least you can do is host me.” He wrapped the blanket about his waist as Lambert Beadle led him, with a gesture, down the hall. “I must confess, I’m quite peeved with Pietro. If he’d kept his contentions within the boundaries of parliament, I would not have been cannibalized on a public street. Oh, Beadle, this is disgusting.” They’d just entered his bedroom.

To his disappointment, the claims Lambert had made about his family tree proved to be hyperbolic. A four-poster bed dominated, opposite a wardrobe and ornate mirror. Lithographs of the city dotted the walls, mass-produced, and standard to the point of causing pain. He’s decorated after the platonic ideal of an urban witch, Waldemar thought with a twitch of his mouth. It was all so… new money.

Ignoring him, Beadle flung open the wardrobe and pawed thoughtfully through its contents. “You have a narrow frame,” he said after a time. “These fit me when I was younger, and thinner. Before the, ah, paunch. They should do.”

Waldemar rested his chin on Lambert’s shoulder, peering at the fabrics in distaste. “That’ll do,” he said, doubtfully.

He shifted his form and dressed himself in the moth-eaten items, then swallowed a howl upon glancing in the mirror. “Better not to use illusion,” he said, through gritted teeth. “If I’m seen by a witch who has heard of my death, they may misunderstand which part of myself I’m cloaking. So, I shall leave it like this. Yes. Just like this. With no adjustment.”

It took Lambert’s firm hand at his back to get Waldemar through the door. Once outside, he ducked his chin to his chest, avoided the eyes of all passersby, and kept a hand bunched in his trousers to prevent them from falling about his feet. It was the opposite of the previous night’s triumphant passage through the city.

It proved easy enough to slip down familiar streets to his home, though he detoured around the site of his death. At his front entrance, he hesitated, eyeing the ward runes that ornamented his door. Would they still recognize him as their caster?

His spells had never been particularly vicious. At worst, a ghostly apparition would rise from the steps, shouting “INTRUDER!” and pointing with gnarled fingers. He could risk it. Holding his breath, Waldemar grabbed at the door handle. No apparitions arose. He muttered a quick spell to shift the lock, and slipped inside, only allowing himself to breathe with the door shut at his back.

“I’m home,” he called, hoping there would be no answer, and – without waiting for one – dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. His luck didn’t hold. “Madeline,” he said, upon entering his bedroom.

A fashionable woman with a handsome jawline sat on his bed, flicking moisture from her eyes. She sniffed at the sight of him, her raised eyelids the only sign of her surprise. “Oh. I suppose you’re not dead, after all. Whose body was that, all torn up in the street?”

“It was mine.” He paused to admire his furnishings. Gold abstract patterns overlaid a cool green, transforming the walls into something like snakeskin. His four-poster bed – much larger than Lambert’s – complemented the colors with its emerald hangings. In place of mass-produced etchings, oil paintings crowded his walls: portraits of his mother, his grandfather, and of himself as a child, spaced between hung mirrors in gilded frames.

Waldemar made his way to the dresser. “Madeline,” he said. “I have become a ghoul. And, for the time being, I shall be leaving this house to stay as a guest of Lambert Beadle.”

“Alright.” Madeline rose, patting her skirts flat, and moved to the drinks cabinet. She trailed her fingers along several bottles, tapping with her nails, before making a selection. “By the way, I’m fucking the butcher.”

“I know,” he said, grabbing an armful of vests. “And how do I know this? Because you bring it up every damn time we speak.” In a mirror, he watched as Madeline poured whiskey in an amber arc.

“You never have a reaction. I’m just waiting for a reaction.” She twisted the glass in her hands, watching as it bent the light. “And what’s a ghoul supposed to be, anyway? Is that a new word for molly?”

“This is a ghoul,” he said, and turning sharply, he raised his hands and hissed.

Madeline rotated the glass again. Blooms of amber light refracted across the wall. “Stop that. You’re embarrassing yourself. I suppose you’ll want to call off the engagement, then.”