The Fine Print

The wind howling around the spires of Gloompeak Manor sounded less like a weather phenomenon and more like a warning from a very depressed ghost. It was a jagged, miserable sound that cut right through Elsie Pringle’s sensible wool coat.

Elsie stood before the massive oak doors, clutching her handbag. Inside that bag was a letter from the *Strange & Unusual Employment Agency*, a packet of ginger biscuits, and a very sturdy pair of rubber gloves. She was ready.

She knocked. The sound echoed as if the house itself was empty.

The door creaked open. No one was there.

"Standard gothic entry protocol," Elsie muttered to herself, stepping inside. "Drafty hallway, self-opening doors, smell of damp stone. Check, check, and check."

The Great Hall was cavernous. Shadows clung to the vaulted ceiling like bats, and the fireplace—large enough to park a small sedan in—was cold and dark. In the center of the room stood a lonely podium holding a singular piece of parchment and a quill.

A note was stuck to the podium: *Sign here. Start immediately. Master is in the West Tower. Do not disturb him unless the house is on fire. – The Previous Agency.*

Elsie adjusted her glasses. The lighting was terrible—just a few sputtering torches on the walls—but she was efficient. She needed this job. Her last position as a librarian had ended when the library was converted into a trendy juice bar, and Elsie had discovered she had zero passion for kale.

She picked up the quill. The ink pot was filled with a thick, shimmering red liquid.

"A bit dramatic," Elsie critiqued. "Blue or black is standard professional courtesy."

She squinted at the text. It was written in a swirling, archaic script that hurt her eyes. *Terms of Binding... duration of the season... to have and to hold the manor’s duties...*

It seemed standard enough. Elsie Pringle didn't believe in wasting time. She signed her name at the bottom with a flourish.

*Elsie Pringle.*

The moment the ink dried, the parchment burst into golden flames.

Elsie yelped and dropped the quill. The flames didn't burn the paper; they consumed it, swirling into the air and vanishing with a sound like a heavy lock clicking shut.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

The roar shook the dust from the chandelier.

Elsie spun around.

Standing on the landing of the grand staircase was a monster.

He was at least seven feet tall. He wore a velvet smoking jacket that had seen better days, ripped at the seams to accommodate the massive, fur-covered muscles of his arms. Curling ram horns protruded from his forehead, scraping the low-hanging tapestry. His face was a landscape of scowls, shadowed by a heavy brow and a beard that looked like it could sand wood.

He leaped from the landing, landing on the stone floor with a thud that rattled Elsie’s teeth. He stormed toward her, his clawed feet clicking against the stone.

"I asked you a question, human!" he bellowed, looming over her. "What did you just sign?"

Elsie, who had spent ten years shushing teenagers in a library, held her ground. She smoothed her skirt. "The employment contract. And you must be Lord Thorne. I’m Elsie. I’m here about the dusting."

"The dusting?" The Beast blinked. His eyes were a startling, luminous gold. "You think you summoned the Vow of Goldfire for *dusting*?"

He snatched the air where the paper had vanished. A spectral copy of the document materialized in his hand. He shoved it under Elsie’s nose.

"Read Clause 1, Section A!"

Elsie squinted. Now that the magical fire had done its thing, the text was much clearer.

*I, the undersigned, do hereby pledge my hand, heart, and soul to the Master of Gloompeak, to be joined in the Holy Bonds of Matrimony, effective immediately, until death or annulment do us part.*

Elsie felt the blood drain from her face. "Oh."

"Oh?" The Beast threw his hands up. "She says 'Oh.' You just married a monster, woman! Accidentally! Do you have any idea how much paperwork this is going to create?"

"I thought it was the Keeper contract!" Elsie defended. "The lighting in here is a workplace hazard! And why do you keep marriage contracts on a podium by the door?"

"Because the courier was supposed to pick it up for the succubus down the lane!" The Beast roared, pacing back and forth. "The Agency sent the wrong courier! They sent a housekeeper!"

He stopped pacing and looked at her with sheer horror. "You're... ordinary."

Elsie bristled. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're small. You're beige. You smell like... oatmeal."

"It's vanilla and almond body wash, thank you very much," Elsie snapped. "Look, this is clearly a mistake. I’ll just un-sign it."

"You can't un-sign a blood-ink pact!" Bram rubbed his temples between his horns. "We have to file for an annulment with the High Council of Arcane Bureaucracy."

"Fine. Let's do that."

"We can't!" Bram gestured to the window.

Elsie looked. Outside, the whiteout conditions had turned into a wall of solid snow.

" The Winter Lock has set in," Bram groaned. "No couriers in or out for at least six weeks. Maybe eight."

Elsie looked at the snow. She looked at the Beast, who was currently hyperventilating. She looked at the cobwebs in the corner of the room.

"Well," Elsie said pragmatically. "If I'm stuck here for eight weeks, I am certainly not sitting in the dark. Do you have a broom?"

Bram stared at her. "You are trapped in a castle with a beast who has claws the size of steak knives, and you want a broom?"

"Someone has to clean up this mess," Elsie said, taking off her coat. "Husband."

Bram let out a sound that was half-growl, half-whimper, and stormed back up the stairs.

\---