The War of the Dust Bunnies

The first week was a battle of wills.

Bram—as Elsie decided to call him, since "Lord Thorne" felt too formal for a spouse—was determined to drive her out. He seemed to operate under the assumption that if he was scary enough, Elsie would simply evaporate through the keyhole.

He would hide in the shadows of the library and jump out with a roar when she walked by with a laundry basket.

"ROAR!"

Elsie didn't flinch. "Lift your feet, please. I need to vacuum under the rug."

Bram would sulk and lift his massive, clawed feet. "You are ruining my atmosphere. This is a house of gloom. You have put... doilies... on the gargoyles."

"They looked cold," Elsie said.

"They are stone!"

"Stone gets chilly," Elsie corrected. "Now, move. You're shedding on the velvet."

Bram’s attempts to terrify her became increasingly desperate. He left ominous scratch marks on the walls (which Elsie buffed out with wood polish). He hung upside down from the rafters in the kitchen (Elsie handed him a potato peeler and put him to work).

The turning point came on a Tuesday.

Elsie was in the Great Hall, battling the fireplace. The draft was terrible. The castle was freezing, and Bram refused to wear anything other than his tattered smoking jacket because, as he claimed, "Monsters do not wear cardigans."

Elsie had spent three nights knitting. She used the thickest wool she could find—yarn meant for tapestry repair.

She found Bram in his study, brooding over a book entitled *The Melancholy of Shadows*. He was shivering. His fur was standing on end.

"Here," Elsie said, tossing a bundle at him.

Bram caught it with his reflexes. He unfolded the object.

They were socks. Enormous, knitted grey socks with reinforced heels to accommodate his talons.

He stared at them. "What are these?"

"Socks," Elsie said. "For your feet. The stone floors are freezing, and I’m tired of listening to your claws click-clack everywhere. It’s disruptive."

Bram looked at the socks. He looked at his feet. He looked at Elsie.

"They are... hideous," he grumbled.

"They are practical."

Bram sat down and pulled them on. They fit perfectly. A look of confusing comfort washed over his face. He wiggled his toes.

"You are a strange human," Bram muttered. "Most people run screaming when they see the horns."

"I grew up with three brothers," Elsie said, dusting a skull on his desk. "I’ve seen worse manners and worse hygiene. You’re just a tall man with a dermatological condition and an attitude problem."

Bram snorted. It was a low, rumbling sound. "I am a cursed beast."

"You're a drama queen," Elsie corrected. "Now, come downstairs. I made stew."

Bram didn't argue. He followed her down, the wool socks silencing his footsteps, looking less like a nightmare and more like a very large, confused sheep.

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