Drip—
Drip—
The rhythmic dripping sound suggested the drops were landing on the floor to her left, no more than twenty centimeters away.
This distance steadily diminished until the drops began splashing onto the bed.
As they were on the lower bunk, this could only mean something was hanging upside down from the upper bunk.
She and Dr. Callan were positioned face-to-face, one above the other, with her on top.
The hand pressing against the back of her head and the arm cinching her waist held her with immense strength, making any attempt to shift her position and glimpse what hung above utterly futile.
A sense of suffocation enveloped her, quite literally.
The woman’s ample bosom, into which her entire face was buried, made breathing a considerable struggle.
Were it not for the coppery scent of blood and the ceaseless dripping, she might have suspected a drunken indiscretion had led the woman to mistake her for a pillow.
The body beneath her radiated an intense heat, far exceeding that of a fever.
This heat, seeping through three or four layers of fabric, brought to mind Govet-Ghervil’s words from the previous night.
‘Could her illness be flaring up?’
Patients afflicted with the Crimson Lotus disease typically met a gruesome end, their bodies exploding; if left unchecked, she and Dr. Callan would both perish in the blast.
Before that explosive fate, another possibility loomed: being smothered to death.
She had to act, for passive waiting would only guarantee their demise.
Only her left hand was free to move; her right, along with the rest of her body, remained utterly restrained.
She tried to grip the wrist pressing against the back of her head with her left hand, but without proper leverage, she couldn’t budge it.
Drip.
The sound of dripping was now alarmingly close.
The hand at the back of her head quivered, then shifted into a gripping hold, yanking her hair and lifting her head, causing a sharp sting on her scalp.
Gritting her teeth and furrowing her brow, she pushed up with her left hand against the bunk, straightening her upper body to align with the woman’s pulling force, thus managing to sit upright and gasp for air.
This new position freed her right hand.
The woman’s face, contorted in agony, swam into her vision.
Yet, that was nothing compared to the sight of blood oozing from the corner of the woman’s tightly shut right eye, flowing from the Crimson Lotus mark, which rendered her speechless with shock.
A slender column of blood, twisting in a helical dance, floated upwards towards the ceiling of the bunk.
It resembled an infinitely long worm of blood ascending, congealing into a thin, lotus-shaped curtain of crimson, from which drops slowly fell.
The blood droplets that hit the floor and the bed did not spread like normal liquid; instead, they re-coalesced and floated back into the lotus blood-curtain above.
With each cycle of falling and re-ascending, the volume of blood dripping down increased.
Though the blood flow from the Crimson Lotus mark was not rapid, the blood-curtain had expanded to roughly ten centimeters in diameter.
Her intuition screamed that nothing good would come if those blood drops landed on her.
The dangerously close dripping sound she’d heard earlier had been near the back of her head, where Dr. Callan’s hand had blocked it, explaining her visceral reaction.
There was a way.
In the true dream of Florence City, she had used a single drop of her blood to awaken Esli.
The Ghervil bloodline possessed properties that could suppress pestilence, though not entirely.
Whether it would be effective against the Crimson Lotus was uncertain, but she had to take the gamble.
Before making her decision, she mentally called out to Govet-Ghervil twice, but received no response.
In those fleeting seconds, two pea-sized drops of blood landed squarely on Dr. Callan’s forehead.
They easily corroded through the skin, and two new streams of blood surged forth, joining the Crimson Lotus blood-curtain.
Driven by pain, the hands gripping her intensified their hold, pulling her back and twisting her.
More blood droplets swiftly followed, descending.
‘No time!’
She quickly brought her right index finger to her mouth, enduring the sharp pain as she bit down hard.
Before she was pressed back down, she managed to break the skin.
Dr. Callan’s body trembled violently; predictably, her back bore the brunt of all the falling blood droplets.
The blood-curtain, the Crimson Lotus, grew and descended with alarming speed, enveloping them both.
In that final desperate moment, she thrust her bleeding right index finger into the woman’s mouth.
Her finger was seized between teeth, and something viscous caressed her fingertip, drawing away the blood from her wound.
It was as if a person, near death from thirst in a desert, had found water and was now desperately sucking it dry.
“Damn it! Is it still useless?”
The descent of the blood-curtain showed no sign of slowing.
It crashed down heavily upon both of them.
Konehl-Ghervil closed her eyes, her entire body drenched in sweat, whether from sheer tension or the woman’s unnaturally high temperature, she couldn’t tell.
In moments of extreme stress, a surge of adrenaline could mask pain; she was unsure if she had sustained any injuries.
Undeniably, with most of her body shielded, any injuries she might have suffered would not be severe.
A few minutes passed, and still feeling no pain, she slowly opened her eyes to find the woman still suckling her finger, half her face nestled into the adjacent pillow.
Her complexion, the wound on her forehead, and her body temperature had all returned to normal, her breathing even and soft, like a sleeping infant.
Complete tranquility had returned to the compartment, all the spilled blood having receded back into the woman’s body.
Drained of strength, she exacted a symbolic revenge by pinching a chunk of flesh on the sleeping woman’s face with all her might, before weariness overtook her, consigning her to an inevitable slumber.
****
Waking first the next morning, Konehl-Ghervil withdrew her finger; it was pale and wrinkled, coated in a clear, viscous fluid.
“That’s disgusting.”
She rubbed her finger back and forth, smearing the saliva evenly across the woman’s face.
Having committed her mischief, she thumped the woman’s shoulder.
“Wake up, it’s morning.”
“Do you intend to sleep until someone admires your pig-like slumber?”
“Lottus-Callan.”
“Release me now, and I won’t pursue what happened last night…”
Despite her disdainful efforts, the woman finally stirred.
The arm around her waist slowly unclasped, and the woman rubbed her eyes, blinking them open in a daze.
“What happened…?”
“Why are you here…?”
“Such a lovely scent… am I dreaming? Let me sleep a little longer…”
The moment this sleepy murmur left her lips, what transpired next plunged Konehl-Ghervil into despair.
The woman, having rubbed her eyes, closed them once more, her hand instinctively hooking around Konehl-Ghervil’s neck, and began rubbing the saliva-smeared side of her face back and forth against Konehl-Ghervil’s collarbone.
“You brute!”
“Let go!”
“Get your stinky face away from me!!!”
An hour later, after meticulously wiping her body with a damp towel, paying particular attention to her collarbone, Konehl-Ghervil sat cross-legged on the bunk, eating breakfast while pointedly scolding the woman without a trace of kindness in her expression.
“This pumpkin pie tastes like old leather boots. Did you buy it because your brain was waterlogged?”
“Not only is the steak horribly cooked, but why on earth would you use beef as the raw ingredient?”
“What else would one use for steak besides beef…?”
The woman across from her cautiously retorted.
“What did you say?”
“N-nothing, you’re right. One truly shouldn’t use beef for steak…”
Under the young woman’s intimidation, Dr. Callan dutifully sealed her lips.
Konehl-Ghervil continued her tirade.
“The most unbelievable thing is that you were foolish enough to buy vegetable juice! Don’t you know drinking that in the morning will… will keep you from sleeping at night?”
“And this platter! Its appearance alone is enough to kill one’s appetite…”
Her scolding continued until breakfast was finished, at which point she finally felt appeased and leaned against the window, observing the passing scenery.
There were vast expanses of white stone houses, and further still, where the sky met the earth, there seemed to be a sea, with seabirds appearing as mere moving specks in the air.
“Last night…”
Seeing that Konehl-Ghervil had truly calmed down, Dr. Callan moved to sit opposite her.
Or rather, the compartment was so small there was nowhere else to go but either the upper or lower bunk.
“You remember what happened last night?” Konehl-Ghervil asked, glancing over in surprise.
Seeing how soundly the woman had slept this morning, she had assumed Dr. Callan was utterly unaware.
“The scent of blood still lingers in the air; I’m familiar with that smell—it’s mine. I can’t recall the specific events, it was more of a subconscious action.”
“The disease spiraled out of control… the first time in years.”
“Don’t worry too much; the extent of your disease’s rampage was within a controllable range.”
“How did you manage to control my illness?”
Dr. Callan interrupted her, pressing her lips together tightly, as if savoring a memory.
“My role was minor; it was mostly your own willpower and resolve,” Konehl-Ghervil stated, deciding not to reveal the secret of her bloodline for the time being, as Govet-Ghervil had specifically cautioned her against it.
“Is that so…” Dr. Callan lowered her head, a hint of disappointment in her voice.
‘Isn’t that good news? My encouragement backfired.’
‘She couldn’t fathom what this woman was thinking.’
“I promise you.”
To prevent the woman from sinking deeper into despondency, she rose and offered a gentle embrace.
“As long as I am here, the day your illness completely spirals out of control will never come.”