Morning sunlight filtered through the beige curtains of the hotel room.
Clara was already awake, sitting on the edge of the mattress while going through the small shoulder bag.
"We cannot keep renting rooms here," Clara said as I sat up. She looked up at me, her violet eyes soft with hesitation. "Could we stay at your residence for a few days?"
"My place?" I managed.
"Yes," she nodded. "It is a private apartment, is it not? It would save our funds."
"Well... yeah, sure... technically," I mumbled, my mind racing in panic.
My apartment was an absolute disaster.
I hadn't set foot in my rented room in days, and before that, I had lived like a feral bachelor drowning in masturbation.
There were half-eaten containers of Chinese takeout molding on the coffee table, greasy pizza boxes stacked in the corner, piles of dirty laundry souring on the floorboards, and a bathroom that hadn't seen a scrub brush in six months.
Bringing a Countess who took scented bubble baths and commanded private castle maids into that wasteland was social suicide.
If she walked through that doorway and smelled the stale grease and old socks, my Affection scores wouldn't just drop…
They would crater into negative infinity.
"Give me forty minutes to run ahead and... prepare the security perimeter," I pleaded.
“Why?”
“Because of Luna's infiltration spell!” I said, “Just in case.”
“Very well.” Clara said, “But you only have thirty minutes."
"Thirty it is!"
I rushed out of the hotel lobby, sprinted down the street, and leaped into a yellow cab like a fugitive on the run.
Inside my apartment, I turned into an Olympic-level cleaning machine.
Half-eaten containers of General Tso's chicken; empty beer cans; crumpled tissues lay scattered like autumn leaves around the bed; and sitting right on the nightstand was my masturbation cup.
I shoved them all in the trash bin and had an informal farewell.
Grabbing a mop, I pushed the dust bunnies under the rug, and emptied half a can of lavender air freshener into the living room until the air tasted like synthetic flower perfume.
I opened the front door, panting, just as Clara stepped off the stairwell landing.
She walked inside, glanced around the tiny studio.
"Your lodgings are..." she noted. "Rather compact, but secure enough."
I let out a long breath of relief. Crisis averted.
Before I could collapse onto the sofa, Clara turned to me. "Since my wardrobe is now gone. Take me to one of your grand trading halls for garments. Do this, and you will receive a very special reward."
“I thought you had endless clothes in your world.”
“Yes.” She said, “But not here. And not the garments that fit in your world.”
I rubbed my tired face and let out a defeated sigh. "Alright. Let's go to Bloomingdale's."
Taking a medieval feudal ruler to Bloomingdale’s was like a fever dream.
From the second we stepped through the revolving glass doors, every pair of eyes in the cosmetics hall snapped straight toward Clara.
Even in a simple black dress and flat boots, her posture was regal, radiating an untouchable grace.
Then there was me.
I was trailing three steps behind her, wearing my oversized hoodie and worn-out sneakers, looking like someone who was either stalking her or about to snatch her purse.
As we browsed the designer racks on the third floor, a tall salesman in a sharp Italian suit glided over. He bowed slightly toward Clara, ignoring my existence.
"Good afternoon, Miss. Are you looking for evening wear, or perhaps something from our new autumn line?"
"I require suitable garments for travel and formal gatherings," Clara replied in her crisp tone.
The salesman glanced at me. "And who might this… guy be?"
"I am her bodyguard," I muttered.
The guy gave out a judging look. "Of course you are, but we’d like you to stay outside."
“Then we’ll go to another place.” Clara insisted.
This actually moved me quite a bit.
“In that case…” the salesman gave up. “Please don’t touch anything, sir.”
“Right… Sure.”
Fuck you, man.
Clara, however, took her shopping expedition very seriously.
When inspecting a cashmere overcoat, she rubbed the fabric between her fingertips and asked the sales associate, "How many yards of wool went into this weave? And which northern province sheared the fleece?"
The young sales clerk blinked in confusion. "Uh... ma'am? It's Italian cashmere. It's a size six."
"A size six?" Clara's brow furrowed. "Six what? Six spans of the hand? Six imperial inches?"
“Nah, nah, nah…” I interrupted, “Six is perfect. Thank you.”
When trying on a pair of designer leather boots, Clara tapped the polished heel against the floorboards and frowned. "The leather is supple."
"Ma'am, these are French leather ankle boots for brunch," the clerk replied.
"Branch? I don’t think this can help me climb trees." Clara concluded with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Huh?”
“It’s her humor.” I had to explain, “I've already gotten used to it.”
“Ah? Ah…” The clerk laughed dryly.
By the time we made our way to the registers, I was buried under a mountain of glossy black shopping bags.
I was basically a pack mule in sneakers, sweating while Clara signed the receipt with a flourish.
Girls were all the same.
We took a taxi back, hauling the massive haul up the stairs and piling the shopping bags into the corner of my tiny studio. The room was now half-full of designer paper bags.
I kicked off my sneakers, dropped onto the edge of the mattress, and looked up at Clara.
"Alright," I said, reaching down to take off my pants. "I carried your bags through three floors of Manhattan. Time for that special reward you promised."
Clara looked at my hands on my waistband. “What are you doing?”
“Preparing for the reward, of course…?”
She reached deep into her leather shoulder bag and pulled out a thick book, handing it to me.
"Here, you lecher," she said.
I stared at it in disbelief.
"A book?" I groaned. "Are you serious? I haven't read an actual physical book since high school. This is your idea of a special reward?"
"Trust me," Clara said, "You will find the contents... stimulating."
I frowned, looking down at the leather cover.
Archaic runes were stamped across the top. Beneath them, written in elegant calligraphy, was the title:
The Private Chronicles and Daily Observations of the Court Witch.
“A personal journal written by Luna herself?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute...” I asked, “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes.” Clara grin.