The tunnel, intricately woven from rough vines, proved remarkably short; a mere half-minute of cautious steps toward the distant, faint light brought them to its abrupt end.
The exterior view, veiled by the dream’s deceptive embrace, had led her to believe the journey would be far longer.
Nestled within the organic tangle of vines was a perfectly ordinary, painted walnut door.
“Even Bishop Gomor would be unable to discern our conversation here?”
Before knocking, Konehl-Ghervil posed the question most pressing to her mind.
“This dream, at its core, is fashioned using the power of the Holy Bell, thereby limiting the Bishop’s reach, and other factors are at play as well.”
Govet-Ghervil’s tone was dismissive, almost perfunctory,
“It’s rather complex to elaborate on; I shall explain it to you another time, should the opportunity arise.”
Habit, Konehl-Ghervil mused, was truly a fearsome thing, for she had grown increasingly impervious to Govet-Ghervil’s customary pretexts for sidestepping questions about dreams.
Upon her gentle knock, the door swung open of its own accord.
Beyond lay a dimly lit bedroom, permeated by the faint scent of aged paper.
Though impeccably clean, with an empty ebony desk, the tall bookshelf that stretched from floor to ceiling held only a scant few volumes, neatly arranged, serving merely as placeholders.
Perched at the head of the bed was a man, clad in a white shirt, who appeared no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight.
With blue eyes and brown hair, he was, quite strikingly, the spitting image of his father.
At present, he leaned languidly against the wall, his head bowed, seemingly lost in a book, an air of profound melancholy clinging to him.
“May I enter, Mr. Dandelion-Cambaton?”
With a barely perceptible movement, the man lifted his gaze to meet hers, yet offered no spoken reply.
“I shall interpret your silence as assent,” Konehl-Ghervil declared, unperturbed by the lack of response, and, slipping off her shoes, stepped into the bedroom.
After all, this was an investigation; being verbally scourged and summarily ejected would, in her estimation, count among the more favorable outcomes, a threshold yet to be crossed.
“By your reaction, I surmise you already know my identity, yet I must still offer a formal introduction: my name is Ash-Rowan, an expert on the Blood Rose, summoned by the manor.”
Having completed her polite introduction, Konehl-Ghervil retrieved a low, cushioned stool from a secluded corner and settled onto it.
“They informed me that a friend of my sister’s wished to see me today, and expressed their hope that I would grant her an audience.”
To her surprise, no awkward silence descended. Dandelion-Cambaton, without lifting his eyes from the book, offered a reply, his voice a quiet murmur, almost a soliloquy.
“They?”
“Indeed, those who harbor the audacious ambition of seizing control over the entire Cambaton family.”
Snapping his book shut, he braced himself with both hands behind him, straightening his posture to confront the unexpected visitor.
“My father has squandered an egregious amount of time here, striving to prove his innocence, yet even I am not spared their machinations.”
“Perhaps for protection?”
Uncertain of his current state of mind, Konehl-Ghervil steered the conversation with an air of cautious probing.
“Protection? An excellent pretext indeed, one that simultaneously legitimizes their actions and conveniently shrouds certain truths.”
“Perhaps you should speak of yourself instead.”
Dandelion-Cambaton, offering Konehl-Ghervil no further opportunity to interrogate him, strode to the window and threw it open with a forceful shove. A solitary beam of light, struggling through the gloom, sliced between them, forming an ethereal divide.
“In your profession, errors are an inescapable reality. Even if you yourself have never faltered, your colleagues surely have. I am curious to learn what ultimate fate befalls those individuals.”
“Colleagues…”
Konehl-Ghervil paused, contemplating for a few moments,
“If you refer to those who have distinguished themselves within the Blood Rose field, they are generally afforded a comfortable retirement, living out their remaining years in relative ease.”
“Must I truly articulate my meaning more explicitly?”
Dandelion-Cambaton’s patience visibly frayed; he leaned forward, his eyes blazing with indignation as he glared at her.
“Regardless of your motives, or the deceptive means you employ, if I were to inform The Order and the Hospital Department that my sister has never known a friend named Ash-Rowan, what reaction do you imagine they would have? What measures would they deem appropriate to take against you?”
“I imagine they would confine me to a perpetually dim chamber, starved of sunlight, much like a wretched stray dog.”
“You! You dare to challenge the very authority of the Cambaton family!”
Dandelion-Cambaton nearly erupted in fury. Her words, he realized with a jolt, were not directed at herself, but undeniably at him!
He had never anticipated such venomous wit from a woman who, on the surface, presented herself as a refined scholar.
‘Restrain yourself somewhat; at the very least, master your facial expressions!’
Govet-Ghervil’s urgent voice echoed within her mind,
‘He is not his father; can you not discern his genuine anger? Do you still intend to inquire about the true matter at hand?’
Konehl-Ghervil, in truth, merely found the man entertaining, and sought only to indulge in a brief jest at his expense.
His lack of profound cunning was evident; a few carefully chosen words were all it took for him to betray his emotions and divulge a surprising amount of information.
Compared to the seasoned schemers, she much preferred to engage with such impetuous, hot-headed youths.
Suppressing the subtle upturn of her lips, she allowed a glint of approval to spark in her eyes.
“I assure you, I intended no offense; it is simply that your hypothesis is quite intriguing. I am curious as to how you assert with such certainty that I am not Mrs. Penelope’s friend. Even a devoted sibling cannot be ever-present, and it is entirely plausible that she forged new acquaintances during her visit to Mistfall City merely a month ago.”
“Mistfall City…”
“You are not a native of Florence City… you hail from Mistfall City!”
“And this entire identity of Ash-Rowan is a fabrication as well!”
In a swift, startling transition, his anger transmuted into sheer horror.
Dandelion-Cambaton, awaiting some form of declaration, received none. He then pivoted, cautiously thrusting his head out the window to scan the vicinity before retracting it and softly closing the pane.
It was only then that he resumed his scrutiny of the ‘impostor’ before him, a newfound wariness etched into his demeanor.
“Surely, your sister must have recounted her experiences in Mistfall City to you.”
Konehl-Ghervil effortlessly seized the reins of the conversation, establishing her dominance.
‘You simply divulged your identity? Without even ascertaining his allegiance, or the true orchestrator of the assassination…’
Disregarding the astonished complaints echoing in her mind, she had, from the very outset, harbored no intention of conducting this conversation under a false guise.
A brief moment of contemplation would illuminate why Mrs. Penelope, despite having forsaken her surname, had not yet found a way to completely sever ties with this family: one plausible reason, she surmised, was this very brother.
Thus, approaching him with her true identity would undoubtedly facilitate the building of trust.
Nor was it likely that he was the mastermind behind the scenes; they had, after all, never even met.
What proved mildly surprising, however, was the eldest son of the Cambaton family’s rather excessive reaction.
He ought to possess a more comprehensive understanding of this place.
Konehl-Ghervil, for her part, remained acutely aware that Govet-Ghervil maintained a constant vigil, ensuring no one nearby could possibly eavesdrop.
“She spoke little to me of her travels, but she did mention a most important friend, indeed, a savior.”
He grew noticeably more reserved, casting cautious glances at the young woman, his hands nervously rubbing together as his voice softened considerably.
“To label me a savior would be a considerable overstatement.”
Even to this moment, Konehl-Ghervil found herself ill-suited to the mantle of ‘savior’; the true efforts had been expended by the agents, while she had merely, by chance, offered a crucial clue.
Afterward, she had ascertained from Helm that the rats, propelled by an innate thirst for vengeance, had targeted Mrs. Penelope, the purveyor of the Blood Rose.
The Blood Rose, it was understood, had played an utterly indispensable role in curbing the rat plague.
Had the medicinal rose-infused elixirs not been concocted during the years Bishop Sartre and Agent Komel’s mother were in their right minds, the second wave of the rat plague would have erupted several years prematurely.
“Then you truly are—!?” Dandelion-Cambaton lurched a step forward, his face a canvas of utter disbelief, his former air of languid melancholy abruptly replaced by a surge of renewed spirit.
Having endured such profound emotional fluctuations, it would have been near impossible for him to remain dispassionate.
“Allow me to reintroduce myself.”
Konehl-Ghervil rose, gracefully lifting the hem of her skirt with one hand as she offered a slight curtsy,
“I am Konehl-Ghervil, the last living nun of Solis Abbey.”
From her satchel, she produced a letter and extended it towards him,
“And, moreover, the aid your sister personally sought.”