Nights devoid of dreams typically promised a decent quality of sleep.
The following morning, Ghervil rose early, dedicating half an hour to her books before consuming the potion, an act she referred to as entering a ‘foolish’ state.
Even the Arabic numerals, which usually offered her such clarity, now dissolved into an indistinct blur, everything appearing as a formless mess. What else could it be but foolishness?
Then there were her eyes; those crimson irises were certainly ill-suited for public view, especially after dusk.
She now grasped the Dean’s thoughtful foresight.
Indeed, she owed her gratitude, for countless times when stepping outside, she’d encounter house numbers, shop fronts, currency, and a myriad of other places adorned with written symbols.
To continue observing them for more than a few hours would likely plunge her into a state even worse than her ‘foolish’ one.
Having spent an hour cleaning the remainder of the second floor, she inserted the key into the lock of the adjacent room, a sudden memory surfacing: the Dean had mentioned residing next door.
Would it reveal a bedroom, or perhaps a woman in her thirties, clad in a nun’s habit, already inside?
With a blend of curiosity and apprehension, she pushed the door open, only to be met with disappointment.
The room, vast as it was, was entirely consumed by rows upon rows of bookshelves, laden with books from floor to ceiling.
It was clearly a small library, utterly unsuitable for habitation.
Moreover, the mere sight of books now triggered a vivid recollection of the skull-splitting pain she had endured.
Thus, she swept through the room in a ‘perfunctory’ manner, swiftly escaping what felt like a ‘haunted house’ filled with twisted, unnamable entities.
The remaining rooms—bedrooms, studies, and utility closets—presented no such challenge to clean.
On the second-floor balcony, the flowers, though visibly nearing their demise, strangely yielded no fallen leaves or petals.
Their serrated leaves and thorny stems bore a striking resemblance to roses, yet their hue was distinct: a profound, almost sinister red permeated them from root to stem, through leaf, and into petal.
While the inner surfaces of the petals retained a semblance of their original color, their exteriors were so dark a red they verged on black, like congealed blood.
Their fragrance, however, had all but vanished.
After a perfunctory watering of each pot, Ghervil dismissed them from her thoughts.
As they were left by the Dean, she couldn’t simply discard them.
From the exterior, they still presented a pleasant sight; though their petals and leaves were fading, their stems remained upright, offering a beautiful tableau on the balcony from afar.
She found no key for the third-floor door among the cluster she possessed, whose number precisely matched the rooms on the first and second floors.
Such an upper level typically served as an attic or storage, rarely frequented.
It was plausible the Dean had locked away important items there, with the key secreted elsewhere, forcing Ghervil to abandon her cleaning plans for that floor.
By the time these tasks were completed, it was half past seven in the morning, leaving her with a window of thirty minutes to an hour.
Having inquired with Mrs. Keith yesterday, Ghervil knew the nearest market was located on Canary Street.
Being a morning market, it naturally followed that the earlier one arrived, the better.
After letting the water run for nearly ten minutes in the washroom, she suddenly recalled that this accursed place lacked hot water.
It appeared the gas supply for heating had been disconnected, likely due to the Dean’s infrequent residency, despite the presence of a water tank and a gas-powered heating unit.
‘Surely the Dean doesn’t simply forgo bathing often, does she?’
Shaking her head, Ghervil quickly discarded such an impolite conjecture.
In this era, those who bathed infrequently often masked their scent with perfume, and she had never detected any such fragrance on the Dean.
Yet, she acknowledged that one couldn’t generalize; local customs and habits also played a significant role.
As for electric water heating or similar devices, she was uncertain of their prevalence in this particular era of this world.
While such methods would undoubtedly be more efficient, the cost was a concern.
As an unemployed individual, her inheritance would eventually dwindle, making frugality a necessity.
Twenty minutes later, Ghervil, balancing a basin of water heated on the coal stove, stood precariously on a stool.
With considerable effort, she managed to pour the water into the tank, making several trips until it was half full, then tempered it with a measure of cold water.
Wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead, she glanced at her reflection.
The girl in the mirror, perched on the stool, head thrown back and panting raggedly, bore a striking resemblance to a pathetic little puppy.
She swore that once she had earned enough, she would hire someone to install an electric water heater in the house.
Alas, in her current physical state, a single cold shower would likely condemn her to several days of severe illness, and the medical bills would surely far exceed any electricity cost!
By the time she had finished her awkward, hurried shower, the clock had advanced to approximately eight o’clock.
Despite having seen it with her own eyes, she repeatedly rummaged through the trunk, stubbornly disbelieving that the Dean had truly only provided her with nun’s habits.
This presented a fresh dilemma.
Her original clothes, now soaking in the backyard pond, were utterly out of the question for wear.
Her gaze reluctantly settled upon the array of habits, predominantly black and white.
As she sorted through them, she noted several that left her calves entirely exposed; some even featured side slits so severe they offered glimpses of her thighs.
Most were little more than flimsy, single-layered robes, their styles largely indistinguishable.
This, she simply could not accept.
It wasn’t merely a question of whether she was a nun; any robe that failed to cover her calves would leave her feeling profoundly self-conscious and ill at ease.
Her previous cinched long skirt, at least, had boasted a hemline that reached her mid-calf, and with its thick lining, she had never felt any uncomfortable drafts while walking.
One by one, she pulled them out, unfurled them, and held them before her to compare.
By the seventh attempt, she finally discovered a set that was not merely satisfactory, but exceedingly so.
It was an ankle-length robe, featuring a triangular opening on the right seam that extended to the waist, revealing a white inner layer that sealed the gap.
An additional, unseen inner layer further ensured it was neither flimsy nor prone to drafts, a perfect solution to her concerns.
The cuffs, reaching her wrists, were neatly cinched in white.
The short outer jacket, also black, featured a folded high collar and a row of white buttons stitched as decoration, creating a layered, non-monotonous effect.
On each side, a white triangular shawl, adorned with a hanging cross, completed the ensemble.
Donning it, she found the overall effect quite pleasing.
The fabric was soft, and both its appearance and feel were just right, though the waist was noticeably tighter than her previous long skirt, accentuating her figure somewhat.
The headscarf, black on the outside and white within, was long enough to fully cover her hair, subtly obscuring parts of her face.
While wearing a headscarf in this season seemed an imprudent choice, going without one might be perceived as a breach of church etiquette, rendering her appearance somewhat unseemly.
In this unfamiliar world, adherence to its rules was paramount.
She possessed no knowledge of its laws or customs, and the mere fact that the police had dismissed her as a suspect solely because she was a nun from Solis Abbey indicated that she ought not to treat this attire with a casual demeanor.
Finally, she fastened a silver cross necklace, intricately carved with a closed eye at its center, completing her attire.
By half past eight, she had prepared herself and stepped out, only to unexpectedly spot Mrs. Keith in the adjacent yard, tending to her flowers with a watering can.
“It suits you remarkably well, in every aspect,” Mrs. Keith remarked, having noticed Ghervil. “It appears you’ve rediscovered your sense of being a nun.”
“Tha—thank you,” Ghervil stammered with an awkward smile, offering a slight curtsy. “Good morning, madam.”
“Good morning, little Ghervil,” Mrs. Keith replied. “Do you have something important planned for today?”
“Important… planned?”
“This particular style of habit,” Mrs. Keith explained, her gaze assessing, “I’ve only ever seen worn for services and weddings.
For funerals, it’s similar, but typically white.”
Ghervil remained silent.
No wonder it was so thoroughly concealing; Ghervil now understood that the habit she wore was intended for solemn, dignified, or more formal occasions.
“There’s no decree in this parish requiring you to wear your habit at all times,” Mrs. Keith offered, noticing the girl’s troubled expression.
She set down her watering can and smiled kindly. “If you require everyday attire, there are several reputable tailors and clothing shops just down this street, roughly a hundred meters south of the morning market.
The prices, however, might be a little steep… If you wouldn’t mind, I could fashion something for you free of charge; you would only need to supply the fabric.”
Carrying a market basket out in the morning, her intentions were quite transparent.
Ghervil had already been impressed by Mrs. Keith’s vast knowledge and worldly wisdom; she had not, however, anticipated her skill in handicrafts.
‘Mrs. Keith must be a noblewoman.’
Such elegance and impeccable manners, she reasoned, were typically the hallmarks of nobility.
Only those with ample wealth and resources could afford to cultivate such a breadth of knowledge and experience.
Common folk, perpetually engrossed in the struggle for survival, rarely had the luxury of time to pursue hobbies or self-enrichment.
‘How wonderful it must be,’ she mused. ‘For my former self, who spent most days confined to bed, simply learning various subjects and leading a mundane life would have been an unimaginable luxury.
Now, however… I can seize the moments when the potion’s effects wane, to immerse myself in books and acquire knowledge.’
The Dean had mentioned that with gradual adaptation, the potion’s effects could extend up to three days, though Ghervil had no idea how long it would last this time.
“Thank you for your generosity,” Ghervil replied, her posture relaxing as she held the basket casually at her thigh.
She tilted her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips, one she herself was unaware of. “Is there anything you need assistance purchasing? If you don’t mind, I could also run that errand for you, free of charge.”
“If only my good-for-nothing son were a daughter,” Mrs. Keith murmured softly, her gaze momentarily lost in thought.
“Pardon me, did you say something? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Then… perhaps you could help me purchase a small apron,” Mrs. Keith finally said, a gentle smile returning. “If you find yourself with spare time, I might even be able to teach you some cooking.”