An incident earns the name ‘accident’ precisely because it defies all foresight; thus, it was that Director Anthea, on the eleventh anniversary of their fateful agreement, met her demise in a blazing inferno.
The question of how to manage the remaining patients was, for the moment, set aside.
Indeed, it seemed the ongoing investigation into the arson attacks at the Canary Street Market and Solis Abbey conveniently eclipsed the pact made over a decade prior.
What truly perplexed Ghervil was the revelation that, during the plague eleven years past, several Plague Knights stationed in Mistfall City had been held primarily accountable, subsequently banished to more remote outposts as a consequence.
Their failure to perform their duties was absolute, their incompetence so profound that it paled even in comparison to the singular act of arson committed by Director Anthea.
What conceivable difference could a handful of knights have made against a catastrophe of that magnitude?
The question gnawed at her, utterly baffling her attempts at understanding.
To this lingering query, Bishop Sartre merely offered a cryptic smile, remaining silent.
Prior to resuming his duties in the church hall for the service’s closing rites, the Bishop guided Ghervil past the solemn chamber where the victims of the arson attack lay.
Their interment awaited the definitive conclusion of the investigation.
The Bishop, she surmised, had hoped this grim sight might stir some forgotten memory within her.
She declined, having already viewed the police photographs, which depicted bodies so charred as to be utterly unrecognizable, their identities irrevocably lost to the flames.
Above all, the Director remained very much alive, a fact that rendered these charred remains either those of other unfortunate souls or the result of some grievous error.
Having gleaned the full chronology of events from eleven years prior, a particular theory began to form in her mind:
Perhaps the Director had orchestrated this elaborate ruse of ‘fake death’ to evade her duties with the patients, while simultaneously drawing the scrutiny of all concerned parties.
Yet, upon closer reflection, this seemed implausible; the arson had claimed numerous lives, and finding so many substitute bodies would prove an insurmountable task.
“The methodologies employed by certain physicians are, regrettably, not always… laudable. Though we share allegiance to the same order, my hands are tied. The Hospital Department maintains its own distinct operational protocols, and both Her Majesty the Queen and His Holiness the Pope possess their own profound reasons for this arrangement.”
Lingering at the sanctuary hall’s back entrance, the Bishop offered a grave admonition,
“You must exercise extreme caution, striving never to reveal your affliction in their presence. This applies particularly to physicians of ‘Chief’ rank, for they wield the authority to unilaterally dispose of patients as they see fit.”
A wave of helplessness washed over her, and she nearly confessed that her condition had already been revealed.
She couldn’t help but wonder if the old man was feigning ignorance.
Regarding the complete edition of ‘Somnolence and Illness’.
Bishop Sartre had, by then, plainly demonstrated his stance concerning the afflicted, an attitude that undeniably mirrored the sentiments of the majority within Mistfall City’s diocese.
Thus, Ghervil dispelled her apprehension of being apprehended by the order; with no further pretext for refusal, she reluctantly accepted the priceless, yet unobtainable, ‘dream’ tome.
In essence, this journey had served to unveil certain secrets from the past, exposing the order’s true disposition towards both the ailing and herself. It was far from unproductive, and the book’s significance was, without doubt, profound.
According to the Bishop, this ethereal, floating script was inscribed within dreams, capable of directly conveying the author’s thoughts to the reader. Most individuals lacking the ‘dream’ talent, he explained, would find only blank pages upon opening the book.
It all sounded profoundly mysterious. Both he and the woman named Komel insisted she possessed this talent, yet only Ghervil herself knew how few dreams she truly experienced, with several instances being questionable as actual dreams at all.
For the present, she resolved to regard this peculiar book and the day’s revelations as the Bishop’s expression of gratitude for the assistance the Director had rendered years ago.
Whoosh—
A summer breeze swept through, setting his white robes a-flutter as the white-haired elder waved a farewell and disappeared through the back door.
The young woman instinctively smoothed the barely disturbed hem of her long robe, then, through strands of dancing hair, lifted her gaze towards the towering bell tower.
She harbored no inclination to partake in the service; by her reckoning, it was time to begin the journey back.
****
“I have successfully passed their assessment and been appointed a provisional agent. Should this mission prove successful, I shall be elevated to the rank of full agent.”
As she passed a door left slightly ajar, the murmur of voices drifting from within arrested Ghervil’s steps.
It was the distinct voice of Ms. Komel.
“I hope your aspirations come to fruition.”
Within the room, Lalviye-Komel knelt directly before a black-robed woman who prayed with closed eyes, her voice devoid of almost any emotional tremor.
“Is there truly nothing else you feel compelled to tell me?”
The younger woman seethed with anger at the older woman’s impassive demeanor, the patience in her questioning rapidly eroding.
“You have, inevitably, tread the same treacherous path as your father.”
“You are utterly unqualified to speak of him.” The young woman’s voice turned frigid,
“And do not dare to obfuscate the truth. A cursory review of the archives would reveal that ‘Blood Rose’ is entirely incapable of curing illness. Everyone is aware of this fact; only the Holy See persists in its charade of ignorance!”
“There is a way. You are simply unaware of the method—or perhaps you are aware, but unwilling to employ it. Within this very city resides an individual capable of cultivating a truly potent Blood Rose.”
Though a flicker of horror briefly crossed her gaze, she swiftly composed herself, pressing further in her interrogation of the woman,
“Our agents have meticulously investigated; the Blood Roses cultivated by the Director remain accounted for. Therefore, any Blood Roses discovered outside these walls could only have originated from the Holy See.”
“And spare me any talk of transportation. That particular florist has been under constant surveillance since the moment she entered this city. It would have been utterly impossible for her to tamper with anything, not to mention she herself barely escaped with her life!”
“If what you say is true, then you are perfectly at liberty to arrest either myself or Bishop Sartre. The very audacity of their sending you to confront me suggests a considerable degree of trust in your person.”
The woman was utterly intractable, impervious to all persuasion!
From the outset, the younger Komel had failed to seize control of the conversation.
This outcome was, in truth, entirely predictable.
For she was a product of the other woman’s upbringing; no one understood her more intimately than this matriarch, not even Komel herself.
Outside, Ghervil stood utterly dumbfounded. The dialogue unfolding before her clearly conveyed a singular, vital piece of information: the multitude of police and agents surrounding the Holy See were not, in fact, stationed there to prevent dangerous individuals from entering, but rather to ensure that those already within remained confined.
The Epidemic Prevention Bureau (TL Note: A governmental body responsible for public health and disease control) suspected the perpetrator was an insider from the Holy See!
A tremor of fear snaked through her; if the two women within ever discovered that their highly confidential discussion had been overheard, would she not be swiftly silenced?
Whose fault was it that they hadn’t bothered to close the door!
She could still flee now, she reasoned, but having already absorbed so much information…
“You are mistaken on one crucial point: my private visit to you remains unknown to anyone else. From the outset, my sole intention was to converse with you as a daughter.” A flicker of profound regret crossed the woman’s features,
“Mother…”
“This shall be the final occasion I ever address you by that title.”
At last, the older woman betrayed a subtle tremor of emotion; she slowly opened her eyes, yet did not turn, remaining utterly silent.
It was only when the receding footsteps faded towards the doorway that her hands, still tightly clasped around the crucifix in prayer, began to tremble imperceptibly.
Having closed the door, the woman stood just outside, her gaze fixed upon the ceiling, as if striving to suppress a torrent of burgeoning emotions.
Once a measure of calm had settled, she prepared to depart, but then turned her head towards the corridor’s depths, her brow furrowing deeply, as if a sudden realization had struck her.
She deliberately slowed her pace, approaching the spot. Not far along the wall stood a colossal marble pillar, so broad it would require at least three individuals to fully encircule it.
A person passing by, their attention elsewhere, would never discern an individual concealed behind such a substantial column.
Her footsteps drew steadily nearer, then nearer still.
When less than a meter separated her from the pillar, a retractable, foldable blind cane glided from the sleeve of the woman’s gown.
Her fingers delicately twisted, causing the silver handle to detach subtly from the cane’s main shaft.
Beneath the ambient light, a slender, burnished short sword was swiftly unsheathed.
Whoosh—
With a swift, agile movement, she lunged, thrusting her blade behind the pillar, leaving a lingering, elongated echo in the air.
“Was it merely a figment of my imagination…”
The short sword was reinserted into the blind cane, and the woman, turning on her leather-booted heel, departed, leaving the space behind the pillar utterly vacant.
Ghervil, huddled and squatting with her book in the corner of the opposing turn, remained perfectly still.
With both hands clamped over her mouth and nose, she dared not draw a full breath.
She couldn’t even bring herself to peek around the corner to confirm if the woman had truly departed.
A clammy cold sweat slicked her skin, a direct consequence of her extreme tension, while her legs, cramped in their squatting position, began to ache with numbness.
The woman’s intuition was undeniably too keen; the very spot behind the pillar was precisely where Ghervil had first sought refuge after the conversation concluded.
After what felt like an eternity, but was perhaps five minutes, an absolute silence descended upon the corridor.
Rubbing her tingling, stiff legs, she rose, then sighed, lifting her gaze as if to wipe the cold sweat from her brow.
Suddenly, an icy chill traced her nape, accompanied by a voice, deliberately elongated and eerily thin,
“Are you—waiting for me here…?”