As night descended, Ghervil, having just bathed, settled at her desk, her chin propped in her hand. She idly thumbed through a three-page notebook, a collection of entries she wasn’t even sure qualified as a diary.
She was awaiting the lifting of her ‘idiot’ state.
The potion, consumed at half-past six that morning, progressively extended its duration with each dose. Estimating conservatively at fifteen hours, it was now approaching eight in the evening.
Should the effect not dissipate within another hour, she resolved to retire early, ensuring ample rest to dedicate more time to her studies the following day.
Regrettably, by eleven o’clock, the words on the yellowed pages remained stubbornly unaltered.
This was the absolute limit.
Overwhelmed by a profound drowsiness, she reluctantly burrowed into the soft embrace of her bed.
Awakening early the next morning, she found the potion’s effects still stubbornly lingering.
With reading out of the question, her Thursday schedule was essentially set.
After completing her rudimentary household chores, she spent the entire day under Mrs. Keith’s tutelage, learning the fundamentals of cooking. Through patient, hands-on instruction, she mastered basic knife techniques and the preparation of simple dishes.
She proved remarkably helpful with both breakfast and dinner, even independently preparing a simple vegetable stew, which earned her Mrs. Keith’s commendation.
Throughout the day, a constant undercurrent of anxiety churned within her, a fear that the potion’s effects might suddenly dissipate. Mercifully, they endured until evening.
As eight o’clock approached, Ghervil settled at her desk to update her diary, effectively transcribing her thoughts as if from dictation.
An hour later, the diary’s pages finally transformed, the garbled characters resolving into legible text. She eagerly flipped back to review the recorded entries:
[Neighbor Mrs. Keith’s household: A son nearing thirty and a husband of similar age to herself.
Scope of knowledge:
Culinary Arts—Exceedingly proficient, with a masterful command of various dishes. Should Mrs. Keith ever choose to earn a livelihood through this skill, her establishment would undoubtedly become the most sought-after in the vicinity, particularly renowned for her roasted lamb chops.
Literary Knowledge—Conservatively estimated to be on par with that of a schoolteacher.
Musical Knowledge—Unknown, though likely not lacking (an expensive piano was observed on the second floor).
Firearms Knowledge—Ranging from basic understanding to mastery…
Assessment: Enthusiastic, patient, and eager to assist, she embodies a reliable and trustworthy neighbor.
…]
Upon review, she found no significant issues, save for the somewhat unsightly handwriting and inconsistent alignment; yet, the text remained perfectly comprehensible.
She planned to transcribe and replace these Chinese diary entries once she had mastered the Finter script.
For the next two hours, she continued to pore over the dictionary, ensuring that the knowledge she had acquired and the words she had written herself would not be lost to the potion’s effects.
Had it not been for her apprehension about potential side effects from prolonged concentration, this study session could easily have extended to three hours.
Waiting to read until tomorrow morning would yield the same result; to alleviate the persistent headache and dry eyes, the only remedies were an immediate dose of the potion or a restorative night’s sleep.
****
On Friday morning, a persistent knocking at her door roused Ghervil from her slumber. Her gaze drifted to the wall clock, its hands pointing unequivocally to eight o’clock.
The sound itself was not loud, merely a polite, gentle tapping; yet, its ceaseless persistence, stretching for nearly half an hour, proved utterly vexing.
She dressed, washed, and tidied her attire with unhurried deliberation, then took a sip of the potion before descending the stairs, a faint trace of displeasure etched upon her features.
With such an early disturbance, reading was clearly out of the question. She was determined to discover the identity of this remarkably persistent visitor.
Through the thick wood of the door, she overheard snippets of conversation from several individuals.
“Sir, is she truly within this house? We’ve been knocking for an age; perhaps we should consider a more direct approach?”
“Continue knocking for a while longer. I’ve already inquired, and Mrs. Keith confirmed she hadn’t seen her depart this morning.”
“Given what transpired, it’s possible she might have already…”
“Silence your ill-omened tongue! Just knock as you were instructed, cease with the idle chatter!”
“I must disagree with that latter sentiment.” Opening the door, Ghervil offered a polite, albeit pointed, smile. “No door, Officer Clovie, can endure such persistent torment.”
The female officer paused, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, then visibly relaxed. Ceasing her reprimand, she rested her hands on the fence.
“You’ve finally emerged.”
“Good morning, Sister Ghervil! It is truly splendid to see you so full of vigor. You cannot fathom the extent of the trouble I went to for this visit…” Valo-Ramsey launched into nearly three minutes of effusive greetings and complaints, completely neglecting to introduce the unfamiliar faces accompanying him.
Beyond the fence stood five individuals: four men and one woman. Three were clad in police uniforms, while the remaining two wore dark overcoats. Aside from Clovie and Valo-Ramsey, the others were strangers to her.
Notably, standing beside Valo-Ramsey was a man heavily bundled, his coat collar drawn up to his chin and his hat pulled low, obscuring his features entirely. He exuded an air of impenetrable aloofness.
That gaze… From the moment she stepped outside, the intense scrutiny fixed upon her had not wavered. Every individual beyond the fence observed her, with two young male officers, one tall and one short, softly murmuring about her age and appearance, occasionally expressing sorrow for her tragic circumstances.
Only that one individual remained utterly silent, his gaze fixed and unwavering, a stare that made her profoundly uncomfortable.
She was certain this was their first encounter; she couldn’t recall ever having given him cause for offense.
Most of those present were adept at reading social cues, and the two male officers were already murmuring their indignation on Ghervil’s behalf. They questioned why the man was acting so arrogantly, treating a nun with such disdain, clearly conveying their profound dissatisfaction with his demeanor.
Clovie periodically turned to admonish the pair, while Valo-Ramsey, feigning complete unawareness, extended several neatly packaged documents.
“These, Sister, are the good tidings I bring.”
“What might these be?” Ghervil inquired, her gaze fixed on him with a hint of perplexity.
Although she had a fair inkling, she reminded herself of her current ‘idiot’ state, which rendered all text incomprehensible. Should there be any errors in the documents, it would undoubtedly entail further troublesome errands later.
“Simply put,” Valo-Ramsey explained, raising an eyebrow, “these are the legal documents proving your ownership of this house and all its contents.” He beamed, clearly pleased for the young woman.
“But as you are aware, sir,” she responded, “I currently possess no memory of written text. How, then, am I to discern their contents?”
…
She distinctly perceived a fresh wave of disdain emanating from the man; he tilted his head, turning dismissively to one side, as if finding her unworthy of his gaze.
“Ah, yes, that is indeed the case!”
Valo-Ramsey slapped his forehead, retrieving the documents. As he did so, he pulled a small pipe from his pocket and let it dangle from his lips.
Ghervil stared, momentarily taken aback. He truly did carry a pipe. Could the man beside him be his Watson? No, Watson would never be so discourteous.
“First, these two,” he began, deliberately slowing his movements. He stacked the documents and lowered them, allowing Ghervil to view their headings.
“The deceased… death certificate,” he enunciated, “issued by the Mistfall City Police Department.”
He then flipped to another document. Within a transparent file sleeve lay several yellowed pages, roughly one-third to one-half of each having been consumed by fire.
“This,” he continued, “is the diary of Dean Anthea, which we recovered from the ruins. A portion of it contains entries pertaining to you: ‘On the rainy night of July 1, 1939, I discovered an infant abandoned at the abbey’s entrance… She was a child of impossible cleverness; the very day after I bestowed upon her the name Konehl-Ghervil, she comprehended it was her own and tottered towards me. Indeed, she had only just learned to walk, perhaps even before I found her, though her steps remained somewhat unsteady… She was remarkably sensible and possessed a natural charm…’”
He concluded his recitation, all under her astonished gaze.
“Through a meticulous comparison of handwriting samples,” Valo-Ramsey explained, “we have definitively identified these as Dean Anthea’s personal notes. Consequently, these fragmented diary entries, when combined with the inheritance deed, will serve as irrefutable proof of your identity. No one will question the legality or authenticity of your claim.”
At this juncture, Valo-Ramsey feigned a deep sigh, all the while subtly observing the young woman’s reaction.
For a fleeting moment, Ghervil almost believed the tale to be genuine, so meticulously crafted that it seemed utterly flawless. In her heart, she thanked the Dean, marveling that the woman had considered so much, going to such extraordinary lengths. It felt, even now, like an overwhelming kindness.
Any sadness she felt was minimal, a mere prick of disappointment. After all, July 1st was precisely the day she had arrived in this world; the Dean, it seemed, hadn’t even bothered to invent a new date.
“And the other documents?” she inquired, observing that Valo-Ramsey still held several unpresented papers.
“Compared to the first two,” Valo-Ramsey elaborated, “the remaining documents are less critical. This one, which resembles a ledger, is the inheritance value assessment. And this final document is the Church’s official approval, personally sealed by Bishop Sartre of the Cathedral. Of course, this is merely a formality, as the Abbey’s own seal carries equivalent authority.” With a cursory glance, he passed the papers to the young woman.
Ghervil found her curiosity about Solis Abbey intensifying. Valo-Ramsey’s remarks undeniably suggested that the Abbey’s standing was on par with Mistfall City Cathedral itself. The Dean had indeed spoken of possessing such authority; perhaps her words had been a humble understatement.
“Now, tell me,” Ghervil inquired, unhurriedly and without any gesture to detain or dismiss them, “what is the ill news you have brought, apart from these welcome tidings?”
“Oh! You… how did you know that? I distinctly recall us not having…” the shorter officer exclaimed, taken aback.
The taller officer began to chime in, but upon catching his female superior’s warning gaze, both men instantly fell silent.
How, she wondered, had these two ever become police officers?
Ghervil couldn’t help but ponder this question.
Merely delivering a few documents would hardly necessitate such an imposing display. Three police officers were present, not to mention Valo-Ramsey, and the man who had remained silent throughout their entire visit likely possessed an identity of no small significance.
Such a formidable group arriving at her doorstep could not possibly be on a mere errand.
Indeed, if they had apprehended the serial arsonist, then the official paperwork would seem utterly trivial in comparison.
Furthermore, the normally quite vocal female officer remained largely silent, her face betraying an undeniable gravity. Any astute observer would deduce that something significant had undoubtedly occurred.
“If it is convenient,” Valo-Ramsey began, still chewing on the unlit stem of his pipe. He maintained his pleasant smile, and as he looked up, he removed his hat, his eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze settled on the nearly withered flowers adorning her balcony.
“I was hoping you might be so kind as to brew us some morning tea.”