A Mirror’s Revelation

Ghervil’s profound ignorance of currency’s purchasing power inadvertently revealed her ‘amnesia’.

Mrs. Keith’s lingering doubts were finally assuaged: their new neighbor was an amnesiac, her condition so severe that she recalled only her name and a smattering of general knowledge.

Ah, yes, being the last remaining member of the convent was, in fact, the very reason she had inherited such a substantial estate.

“One Gold Thaler is equivalent to sixteen Soldos, and one Soldo is equivalent to twenty Silver Denarii, which in turn equals two hundred forty Copper Groats.” On the table before Mrs. Keith, a single coin of gold, silver, and copper lay neatly arranged, accompanied by a dark blue legal banknote.

“So, then, one Denarius is equivalent to…”

“Twelve Groats?” Ghervil, perceiving Mrs. Keith’s deliberate pause as an invitation to respond, ventured the answer.

The astonishingly high value of gold relative to silver was entirely unexpected; in the era she remembered, the price of gold had never been so vastly superior to that of silver.

“Precisely. It appears you received a formal education before your amnesia; your swift, almost unhesitating reply demonstrates commendable basic arithmetic abilities. However, your illiteracy… perhaps that’s where an issue lies.” Mrs. Keith, placing another savory meat pie onto Ghervil’s plate, extended a napkin, a benevolent smile gracing her features as her gaze lingered on Ghervil’s lips.

“If you find yourself dining in public, you absolutely must not consume a quarter of a pie in under a minute. Such haste might lead others to doubt your identity as a nun.”

“…I understand…” Ghervil, noticing the lingering filling at the corner of her mouth, accepted the napkin with a touch of embarrassment and wiped it clean.

The meat pie, indeed, was utterly delectable, filled with succulent roasted lamb. Beyond that, Mrs. Keith had prepared an array of other exquisite dishes, including smoked pork and a rich vegetable stew.

The realization that this sumptuous dinner had not cost her a single coin stirred a complex array of emotions within her. She understood that this good fortune stemmed entirely from the goodwill the previous Abbess had cultivated, and she herself had merely stumbled upon an unbelievable stroke of luck. To inherit an estate from someone she had known for less than three days, and then to be cared for by that person’s friends, seemed utterly preposterous.

Could such an incredible stroke of luck truly be real?

She had no answer, and now, there was no way to repay such profound kindness.

“According to current market rates, one kilogram of wheat costs approximately one Denarius and six Groats. The sum of money you initially presented would suffice to purchase enough wheat to sustain you for two months, or even longer. Even if you chose not to buy wheat and instead opted for meat products, you would still acquire a considerable quantity…” Observing the young woman lost in her meal, Mrs. Keith continued to patiently furnish her with essential common knowledge.

Ghervil, in turn, could only moderate her eating pace, listening with rapt attention as she consumed her food, reserving her questions for matters she genuinely failed to grasp.

It was not until darkness had fully descended, and only at Mrs. Keith’s fervent insistence, that Ghervil, clutching an unwieldy stack of thick, heavy books that sent an ache through her lower back, swayed precariously as she exited the Keith family’s front door.

According to Mrs. Keith, among the stack were several volumes dedicated to the Elephantine language, officially designated ‘Fentish’, covering fundamental spelling, pronunciation, and grammar, alongside explanations of common nouns and sentence structures. She had briefly guided Ghervil through them, hoping to preempt any further inquiries.

Yet, asking for clarification now seemed utterly impossible, for the characters she perceived remained grotesquely twisted. Even when she had attempted to follow along, she had merely been feigning understanding, parroting sounds without true comprehension.

As she unlatched the door to Unit 101, a parting admonition drifted from next door.

“For your amnesia, you might consider consulting a doctor from the Dream Weavers’ Order. They invariably possess methods for treating the most peculiar of ailments.”

“I’ll go if the opportunity arises,” Ghervil replied.

Though the words left her lips, she gave them no heed. Her ‘amnesia’ was, in large part, a convenient veil for her ignorance and profound unfamiliarity with this world. Seeking a doctor would almost certainly expose her deception, particularly since she had no notion of the medical advancements this world possessed.

She then recalled having explained more than once during dinner that she hardly qualified as a nun. Nevertheless, after a fleeting moment of bewilderment, Mrs. Keith had settled into an expression of serene understanding.

“Perhaps you yourself haven’t fully grasped the extent of your amnesia. To my knowledge, the Abbess had no living relatives; it has been so for decades. Consequently, to inherit her estate, one must indeed be a nun from the convent, and the will you spoke of unequivocally confirms your status as the last surviving member of that very convent.”

Did this then mean she had, in a rather circuitous manner, become a nun? A distinct feeling of having been thoroughly swindled began to settle within her.

Returning home, she strained to deposit the heavy tomes onto the table, utterly devoid of any inclination to even glance at their covers or titles. The chaotic swirl of characters encircling the grandfather clock’s face, coupled with the position of its hands, informed her that it was approximately half past eight in the evening.

With the toe of her left foot, she nudged off the heel of her right boot, then repeated the motion for the other. Settling onto the sofa, her two small black leather boots flew free, and she leaned back, intent on a good rest to aid digestion and alleviate the burden of her overly full stomach.

The prolonged conversation, spanning several hours, had revealed that Mrs. Keith was far from the uncomplicated ‘housewife’ she initially seemed. Her range of knowledge was remarkably vast, encompassing geography, chemistry, economics, philosophy, and art; she even appeared to possess some understanding of firearms.

Kellam-Keith and her husband, Mort-Keith, had a son, Ratte-Keith, who was nearly thirty years old.

Both male members of the family worked away from home for the majority of the year, seemingly engaged in the metal trade, though the specific nature of their business remained undisclosed. They typically returned home about once a year.

Ghervil had also gained a general understanding of Lily of the Valley Street: of the more than twenty houses, fewer than half were actually inhabited, the remainder standing vacant. Most of the resident families were also frequently away from home.

Ghervil surmised that the residences on this particular street were likely reserved for the affluent or those of significant social standing, a theory that further explained the lavishness of the Keith family’s dinner.

At nine o’clock, Ghervil, now clad in an old, worn long coat and armed with cleaning tools, materialized at the top of the second-floor staircase.

She harbored a strong aversion to postponing decisions until the following day. Tonight, she was determined to at least thoroughly clean a bedroom fit for sleeping before the hour grew too late.

Fumbling in the pervasive darkness, she located and flipped the rocker switch for the corridor light. At the far end of the hallway, directly across from where she stood, a familiar wooden door emerged into view.

That door bore an uncanny resemblance to the bedroom she had once occupied within the convent.

“Click… click…”

“Clink… clink…”

Footsteps and the metallic jingle of keys reverberated through the silent corridor.

She carefully placed her cleaning tools on the floor.

Pausing, she fumbled through the cluster of keys, identifying two specific ones. The lock on the door before her had been painted a stark white.

The Abbess had apparently added the key to her former room in the convent to this very ring; they were easily distinguishable by their noticeably larger size.

The same key, the same door… could it truly be?

Ghervil increasingly dismissed the thought as mere fanciful delusion. How could a room from the convent possibly manifest itself here?

She inserted a key, twisted it, and with a soft ‘click,’ the door swung open. Moonlight, at that precise moment, poured into the space, affording her a rough, fleeting glimpse of the interior.

It was, indeed, a bedroom.

The room’s arrangement… there was a door at the very back, and the mirror and bed had exchanged positions, with the mirror now facing the entrance. The grandfather clock, however, was not within the room but situated near the doorway.

This was ample evidence that it was not the convent room; perhaps it was simply a matter of the Abbess’s personal preferences, with room layouts being largely similar.

Before she could fully relax, a distinct sense of incongruity emanating from the nearby grandfather clock captured her attention.

A sequence of numbers, accompanied by peculiar pronunciations, silently articulated themselves within her mind.

The characters adorning the grandfather clock’s face should have been utterly illegible to her. Yet, this time, a striking difference emerged: the twelve characters were impeccably aligned, each corresponding to an hour, no longer appearing twisted or chaotic.

They were the numbers one through twelve…

She could actually comprehend and read them!?

A jolt of excitement propelled her towards the base of the grandfather clock.

The pronunciations and script were unlike any language she had previously encountered, leaving her uncertain if they belonged to some unfamiliar nation on Earth.

They bore a faint resemblance to an overly complex, elaborate form of French, with superfluous strokes appended to its original structure.

However, these details were not what truly mattered. She quickly realized that as she mentally recited the sequence, it simply ceased after the number twelve.

Her burgeoning enthusiasm abruptly extinguished.

Her mind recognized only these twelve digits.

Why had they remained in a twisted, chaotic state throughout the day, and even just half an hour ago?

A vivid flashback seized her, showing the Abbess retrieving that particular bottle of eye-color-masking potion from a chest that very morning.

The potion’s ten-hour efficacy had, by now, undoubtedly expired.

A faint reflection materialized in the deepest recesses of the room.

Slowly, she raised her head. In the mirror, positioned directly opposite the door, moonlight cascaded over her figure: snow-white hair, and strangely captivating crimson pupils. A young woman, undeniably herself, stared back.