The only items she deemed truly essential at this juncture were the Nightmare Revelation Potion, of which roughly half remained, and the raw ingredients for other concoctions, tucked away in a wooden chest beneath her bed.
She soon retrieved a large, leather-bound travel trunk on wheels from the utility room, gave it a perfunctory dusting, and rolled it into her bedroom.
Uncertain of the journey’s length, she prudently decided to pack more than strictly necessary.
Dr. Callan’s advice to pack light likely stemmed from her own devil-may-care disposition; Konehl-Ghervil, however, preferred to be thoroughly prepared for any eventuality.
From her collection, she selected a formal, conservative-style dress, opting for a high-necked gown over a black-and-white gothic ensemble.
The gothic dress, with its intricate fastenings and heavy fabric, would prove too cumbersome for practical movement.
One could never entirely rule out the possibility of encountering danger, after all…
Yet, were two sets truly sufficient? Such formal attire was typically reserved for special occasions, meaning, in essence, she possessed only one true ‘uniform’.
After a moment of deliberation, she retrieved three outfits from her wardrobe, folded them neatly, and placed them into the trunk.
That felt much more reassuring.
And then there were the stockings.
From separate drawers, she extracted two sets of undergarments and a pair of white silk tights.
Counting the clothes she wore, this amounted to four outfits, two pairs of stockings, and three sets of undergarments—a reasonable provision.
While the stockings might prove insufficient, there were no spares at home, necessitating a trip out to purchase more.
The trunk was now roughly one-third full.
She then transferred the potion ingredients from the wooden chest into the compartment of her satchel previously reserved for currency, leaving only a few silver coins.
With the entire satchel placed inside, a space roughly the size of a book remained.
‘What else might I include?’ she mused.
Her gaze swept across the room, settling on the slender diary resting on her desk.
Its accompanying fountain pen and inkwell sat beside it.
She decided, on impulse, to bring along the complete edition of ‘Somnolence and Ailments’ from her bookshelf, a tome she could peruse should boredom strike.
Given its considerable value, she tucked the book into the lowest, hidden compartment of the lockable satchel, securing it with a click.
Her packing was almost complete.
Ten minutes had elapsed on the grandfather clock, a perfectly suitable amount of time.
She snapped the trunk shut and, with considerable effort, pushed it towards the door, just as a persistent knocking and an incessant stream of chatter began from outside.
“A truly excellent assistant never keeps their employer waiting,” Dr. Callan’s voice drifted through the door, laced with mock exasperation. “If this were a probationary period, Sister Ghervil, you would undoubtedly be deemed utterly unqualified and, consequently, dismissed…”
“Stop your incessant babbling,” Konehl-Ghervil retorted, simultaneously pushing the bedroom door ajar with one hand and attempting to drag the heavy trunk out with the other.
“Come help me, quickly! There’s too much in here, and the wheels are rusted and stuck. I can’t move it.”
“Ow!”
Her forehead received a sharp flick.
“Did you forget what I told you?” Dr. Callan stood squarely in the doorway, a formidable barrier, with no intention of assisting or allowing her to pass.
“I’ve already brought as little as humanly possible! These are all absolute necessities!” the girl protested, rubbing her forehead while glaring at Dr. Callan.
“Is that so?” Dr. Callan’s eyebrow arched skeptically.
“What are you doing? Stop! I just finished packing it so carefully…”
****
Three minutes later, everything but the satchel Konehl-Ghervil clung to protectively had been tossed onto the bed by Dr. Callan.
When it came to the stockings and undergarments, however, she paused, then gently tucked them into Konehl-Ghervil’s arms.
“You may keep the stockings and undergarments.”
Ultimately, at Dr. Callan’s insistence, Konehl-Ghervil opened her satchel, revealing ample space inside, and reluctantly placed the formal dress, undergarments, and silk stockings within.
“What is this?” Dr. Callan asked, holding up a delicate glass vial that resembled a squat wine glass, shaking it inquisitively before Konehl-Ghervil’s eyes, clearly intending to open it.
“Don’t open it!” Konehl-Ghervil exclaimed, her voice sharp with alarm. “That’s the potion the Dean gave me to alleviate my symptoms; it’s incredibly important!”
Dr. Callan glanced down at the girl, who had stopped meticulously arranging her satchel and was now squatting on the floor, her expression earnest.
Bending down, Dr. Callan carefully returned the glass vial to its original spot, then, unable to resist, reached out and gently pinched Konehl-Ghervil’s cheek.
“Guard it well,” she teased, “for I’d rather not have to wake a little sleeping beauty with a kiss when the time comes.”
‘What kind of melodramatic fairy tale is this, coming from a nun-doctor?’ Konehl-Ghervil thought, utterly bewildered.
‘Did this world, too, possess tales akin to Grimm’s or Perrault’s?’
She found herself utterly perplexed as to how these individuals had deduced her diagnosis of narcolepsy.
Her initial overt symptom—a twenty-hour slumber—had only manifested before Dr. Callan, implying that only the doctor could have possibly guessed.
Yet, by that very afternoon, Bishop Sartre’s suspiciously altered letter had already arrived.
She harbored serious suspicions that Agent Lalviye-Komel had lied to her back then, and that her condition had been discovered long before the investigation into the plague outbreak.
“My mood is exceptionally good today, so I’ll let your impudence slide,” Dr. Callan declared with a dismissive wave.
‘With two hundred Denarii arriving daily from now on, I suppose I can tolerate a little teasing,’ Konehl-Ghervil silently conceded.
‘Ultimately, she mused, it might have been less effort to simply not bother with the trunk at all.’
After locking the door, Konehl-Ghervil pointedly placed the key in a small wooden box hidden beneath a stone, ensuring Dr. Callan witnessed the act—a clear, unspoken message: ‘If it goes missing, you’re responsible.’
Dr. Callan, carrying her own bag in addition to Konehl-Ghervil’s satchel—two in total—watched her from behind.
“I can get in even without a key, you know,” she murmured under her breath, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Before Konehl-Ghervil could voice her indignation, Dr. Callan dashed off towards the distant road to hail a carriage.
The next time Konehl-Ghervil saw the doctor, she was seated within a newly arrived carriage, extending a hand from the open door.
Konehl-Ghervil, however, ignored the offered hand, steadying herself on the doorframe as she ascended into the carriage and settled into the seat opposite Dr. Callan.
The journey proceeded in silence, lasting approximately fifteen minutes before they drew to a halt before a coffee house on the city’s outskirts.
Across the bustling square, several antique covered wagons and domed automobiles were parked.
Leading Konehl-Ghervil to the innermost vehicle—a black ‘Beetle’ model—Dr. Callan set down the bags.
She then waved to a small girl sitting on a shaded bench at the edge of the square, fanning herself with a hand fan.
“You’ve been parked for a little over an hour, but not by much,” the small girl chirped, trotting over, her voice thick with the oppressive heat. “We’ll just round it down to an hour, so that’ll be 4 Grotte.”
“Consider the rest a tip,” Dr. Callan said, handing her a silver coin without hesitation.
“Thank you! May the Goddess bless you!”
The girl’s spirits instantly lifted, and she began to scrutinize the two women.
The blonde-haired elder sister exuded an aura of cool majesty; though undeniably beautiful, the girl dared not stare for long.
But the white-haired elder sister…
‘Wow… I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful…’
The little girl’s eyes remained fixed on Konehl-Ghervil’s face, unable to tear away.
Konehl-Ghervil, in turn, observed the girl, her mind calculating the maximum amount the child could possibly earn in a single day.
Their mutual gaze was then interrupted as a wide-brimmed sun hat, covering half of Konehl-Ghervil’s head, was placed upon her.
“Get in,” Dr. Callan instructed.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Konehl-Ghervil, having removed the hat to readjust it properly, turned to face Dr. Callan, who was already settled in the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
“Beep—!”
The doctor honked the horn, a clear signal of impatience.
“Come on, tell me what you promised.”
“Oh…”
With a small, polite bow towards the little girl, Konehl-Ghervil opened the passenger door and climbed in.
Even after the car had departed the square, the little girl remained rooted to the spot, lost in a daze.
‘Such a beautiful elder sister actually bid me farewell, Goddess above… I hope this dream never ends…’
Seated in the car, a cool breeze swept through, seemingly dispelling the oppressive summer heat in an instant.
“What is it you wish to know?” Konehl-Ghervil asked, resting a hand on the car window and gazing at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Everything,” Dr. Callan replied, her answer crisp and unambiguous.
‘Everything?’ she thought. ‘That’s impossible, for even I remain ignorant of the full extent of the symptoms yet to manifest.’
“Time perception disorder,” she slowly articulated, revealing the name.
“That is what the Dean told me.”
Dr. Callan offered no interruption, listening in quiet contemplation.
“According to the Dean’s assessment, my learning capabilities far surpass those of an ordinary person, ranging from several to over a dozen times faster.”
“Consequently, the strain on my brain is similarly magnified, by several to over a dozen times compared to others.”
“This means that after a single intense period of thought or learning, I may fall into a prolonged slumber, for which no method of awakening has yet been discovered.”
“Accompanying these are symptoms such as amnesia, perceptual distortion, and cognitive impairment, among others. There are likely more, but I haven’t bothered to catalog them all…”
Dr. Callan involuntarily cast a sidelong glance, observing the girl’s expression, which was as placid as an undisturbed pool of water.
She spoke of these profound afflictions as though they were mundane facts of life.
This evoked a sensation within Dr. Callan that she had never experienced before, an unsettling discomfort she struggled to define.
She tried to interpret this unfamiliar emotion as sympathy.
She had witnessed countless deaths in her profession, seen families torn apart, and watched white-haired parents bury their black-haired children.
Yet, none of those tragedies had stirred such a peculiar unease within her as this did.
“What about that vial of medicine?” she asked, shifting the topic abruptly, hoping to stem the tide of that strange, creeping sensation.
“It effectively diminishes my capacity for learning, thereby slowing and delaying the progression of my symptoms.”
‘More specifically, it makes me utterly illiterate,’ the girl silently added.
“Did your Dean not mention any connection between this ailment and dreams?”
“Perhaps they did, but as you know, I suffer from amnesia; many things escape my memory.”
“…”
At this point, a heavy silence settled within the car.
Dr. Callan continued driving, refraining from further questions, until, after a while, she uttered a thoughtless remark.
“It will get better, believe me, I will always…”
“Are you trying to comfort me?” The girl suddenly laughed, a bright, joyous sound.
Konehl-Ghervil’s strategy had succeeded; she had concealed a significant amount of information.
“Are you toying with me?” Dr. Callan’s tone held a hint of annoyance, her question serving as a retort.
No one, she thought, could possibly laugh so happily upon learning of an incurable illness; her sympathy had been utterly wasted.
Just as she considered reaching out to pinch the girl’s cheek, to teach her a lesson, she saw Konehl-Ghervil leaning entirely against the car window, meeting her own reflection in the rearview mirror.
With a calm, hushed voice, she confided in the person in the mirror,
“I only wish you were toying with me too, that I hadn’t fallen ill, but merely dreamt… a slightly longer dream…”