As the cellar door creaked open, a blast of damp, frigid air assailed her.
Utter darkness enveloped the space, and even the probing beam of an oil lamp could only illuminate the wooden stairs winding downwards.
During her initial descent, she had been swarmed by rats, leading to a frantic chase that ended in the Dean’s room, followed by an inexplicable collapse and being carried out.
Now, she pondered whether a more conventional approach might be better for meeting the Dean.
‘Perhaps by simply announcing her arrival, the Dean could manifest the room directly?’
‘What absurdities was she even contemplating, Ghervil? How could a being as formidable as the Dean be so easily summoned by her?’
Chiding herself for such naive thoughts, she steeled her resolve and descended the steps, one by agonizing one, into the depths.
As expected, the pervasive darkness swallowed all sight beyond the meager one or two meters illuminated by her oil lamp.
Guided by a vague recollection, she fumbled forward in the direction her memory suggested, until, after approximately thirty seconds, a faint voice halted her progress.
“Your sudden appearance might startle her.”
The darkness swirled away like spreading ink, expanding in concentric circles to reveal a soft luminescence.
Amidst the ethereal, hazy glow, she discerned two figures engaged in conversation.
There stood the Dean, clad in her black habit, beside a woman in a long, currant-colored gown.
Standing side-by-side, they appeared to be of similar height.
From Ghervil’s vantage point, she could only glimpse the woman’s back: waist-length white hair, tied with a black ribbon, its ends subtly curled.
The Dean stood beside her, her profile visible.
Before them lay a flowerbed.
Judging solely by her silhouette and graceful figure, Ghervil surmised she was a remarkably beautiful woman.
The conversation resumed, and the white-haired woman turned her head to address the Dean.
“Even in that form?”
“It has nothing to do with your appearance; your mere presence would cause quite a stir.”
“Especially at a time like this, with the eyes of various factions converged here. They won’t believe the Abbey was so easily destroyed.”
Gathering her skirt hem with a somewhat dejected air, the woman knelt down, her gaze falling upon a vibrant red rose in the flowerbed.
She gently poked its petals with a finger, uttering a soft complaint.
“It’s so dreadfully boring here… they all have their own tasks, why can’t I…”
“Wait until everything is over.”
A rare hint of helplessness colored the Dean’s tone.
“It won’t be much longer. The Abbey has always imposed few restrictions on you.”
“Really!?” the woman exclaimed, suddenly leaping up with childlike glee, a child of similar height to the Dean.
“I knew you were the best!”
Stepping back with practiced ease, the Dean deftly avoided the woman’s attempt to embrace her.
“If she doesn’t require your assistance, I will offer none, and no plea will sway my single answer: such are the rules.”
The woman quickly regained her balance, turning back with puffed cheeks and a hint of resentment.
“Don’t worry, I won’t trouble you again. She will definitely need me!”
****
The scene abruptly zoomed in, and the Dean’s impassive face materialized before Ghervil.
“Good evening, Ghervil.”
“Good evening… Dean…”
Ghervil found herself disoriented; moments ago, she had been gazing upon a garden, and now…
Her eyes darted around, recognizing the Dean’s room from her previous visit.
The layout remained largely unchanged.
‘Was she dreaming?’
“What was that just now?” she ventured, a hint of hesitation in her voice.
“A dream, perhaps distant, perhaps recent.” The Dean offered no opportunity for further questions, taking the oil lamp from Ghervil’s hand and placing it steadily on the desk.
“How have you been faring lately?”
The earlier trace of helplessness vanished from her face; the Dean seemed genuinely pleased to see Ghervil, a practiced smile gracing her lips, her gaze subtly falling upon Ghervil’s left hand, still suspended in a sling across her chest.
Ghervil was easily brushed off. What recourse did she have, after all? The Dean wouldn’t even disclose why she was hiding here.
She recounted the events of the past day or two simply. Upon listening, the Dean offered no comments on the ‘rat plague’ or other incidents, choosing instead to single out the name Lottus-Callan with a sigh.
“To think she joined that department! My establishment would have suited her far better. What a pity.”
“You and Miss Callan were close?”
Ghervil’s interest was piqued. If she could glean some anecdotes about Dr. Callan’s past, she might gain an advantage when dealing with her stingy boss.
“I once nurtured her as a student, back when she was a little girl whose height barely reached my waist, always breaking rules and devising countless schemes to evade punishment.”
Ghervil pictured the scene: a tiny Dr. Callan, clinging to the Dean’s waist, begging for mercy, while the Dean, ever impartial, administered a disciplinary ruler (TL Note: A traditional Chinese ruler, often made of wood, used for corporal punishment in schools or homes.) to her backside.
It was a comical image, yet she knew that if she were to ever utter such a tale, the one likely to receive a beating would be herself, with Dr. Callan stepping into the Dean’s role.
“I always thought she had been like that, untouchable.”
She recalled the woman’s aloof demeanor towards the agents earlier that day.
No wonder the mention of memories of being punished had resonated with her.
So, she too had experienced it.
‘Were there any more juicy tidbits…’
Ghervil gazed at the Dean, her eyes brimming with anticipation.
She needed a piece of information that could serve as leverage, nothing too extreme, just enough not to provoke a backlash.
Yet, she had misjudged. The Dean was not one to gossip or reveal others’ shortcomings behind their backs.
“Perhaps we should discuss the Blood Rose. Haven’t you always been quite curious about this flower? I recall asking you to bring three petals.”
“As per your request, I selected three of the best quality petals.”
Extracting the three folded petals, carefully wrapped in a black handkerchief, from her pocket, Ghervil cautiously handed them to the Dean.
Indeed, when it came to the Blood Rose, she still needed to ascertain its true purpose.
During the overheard conversation earlier, Agent Lalviye-Komel had expressed suspicion regarding the flower’s use, only for her mother to offer a vague, evasive explanation.
Perhaps the Dean could provide the answer as to who was speaking truthfully.
“Excellent. These should suffice for tonight’s preparations.”
After a brief glance, the Dean took her seat at the desk.
Ghervil pulled up a stool and sat squarely beside the desk, ready to observe.
The desk was already laid out with instruments and materials.
There was a small stone mortar and pestle, a stirring rod, a silver spoon, an antique wooden mold shaped like a petal, a cup of clear liquid, and an open small wooden box containing other tools and peculiar dried and powdered ingredients.
The Dean placed the wooden box in the center of the table and, one by one, retrieved and introduced its contents.
“Spiritwood powder, phantom butterfly wings, dreamdew herb, silvermoon flower, and the juice steeped from morning mist moss—these are all potent ingredients for inducing hypnosis and dreams.”
“However, with certain special catalysts, or by taking only a small portion, mixing and diluting them in precise proportions, the resulting effects become entirely opposite.”
‘The opposite effect of inducing dreams… alertness?’
Ghervil remembered her own narcolepsy. Could the Dean be attempting to treat it this way?
Indeed, if it had a stimulating effect, keeping someone awake or excited, it could certainly treat ordinary narcolepsy.
Most of the medications she had taken in her previous life had similar effects, yet it was more common for them to offer no genuine cure.
This new concoction was similar, or rather, it wasn’t entirely ineffective… the ‘idiotic state’ (TL Note: A state of mental dullness or disorientation, often induced by certain substances or conditions.) not only concealed her eye color but also managed to alleviate the side effects of her daily condition.
“So, the Blood Rose petals act as the catalyst?” she inquired, propping her chin on her hands.
“Far more than that.”
With practiced movements, the Dean layered the three petals into the mold, then turned to Ghervil, who watched with an expression of keen curiosity.
“In this particular formula, its primary role is inhibition—to suppress certain powers while harmonizing and transforming the efficacy of the other ingredients.”
“Transforming beautiful dreams into nightmares; this is the very essence of the potion I’ve given you, and the origin of its name: ‘Nightmare Revelation.’”