An hour later, at 12 Canary Street, stood the Second Branch of the Mistfall Police Department.
Within a spacious room on the second floor, two exquisitely crafted iron boxes rested upon a table by the window, one already open.
With tweezers in hand, Ramsey meticulously extracted a recently acquired petal from the open box, bringing it close for examination.
“Such a hue,” Ramsey mused, “I doubt anyone else in all of Mistfall City could cultivate a bloom of this caliber… It truly befits the Abbess of Solis Abbey, wouldn’t you say?”
Standing nearby, leaning against the wall with his weight on one leg, Helm uncharacteristically offered no comment on Ramsey’s meticulous inspection.
It was only after Ramsey had finished his scrutiny and placed the petal into a pre-prepared glass vessel, resembling a beaker and containing a purple liquid at its base, that Helm finally exhaled a heavy breath.
“To claim that a Level Two Classified Blood Rose is no secret—you’re quite daring,” Helm retorted. “I lack the clearance to view such files, so who’s to say you aren’t merely humoring me?”
“Before the Florence incident, the confidentiality level of this item fell precisely within my authorized access,” Ramsey replied, his voice uncharacteristically deep and deliberately subdued.
“It’s said that after being nourished with a particular type of blood, its effects are no longer limited to merely influencing the mind…”
“What, then, would they be?”
“For that, you’d have to inquire with those at a higher echelon, possessing Level Two clearance,” Ramsey said, waving a dismissive hand. “In any case, I can no longer access such information.” Opening the other iron box, he carefully transferred a blackened petal into a second empty glass container.
Frowning, Helm found himself disinclined to believe Ramsey’s words.
He had heard of the events that transpired in Florence City approximately two years prior: a particular rose, cultivated as a raw material for psychotropic drugs, had mutated under the influence of the Mist, infecting numerous individuals and precipitating a widespread epidemic.
Considering Ramsey had been the one in charge of that very incident, it was difficult to credit his feigned ignorance.
“It’s not hard to deduce,” Helm pressed on. “Combining your years of experience as an agent, what would be the next step beyond merely influencing control? Alteration? Tampering?”
“I have no interest in guessing,” Ramsey interjected, cutting him off. “Knowledge beyond my purview holds no appeal for me.”
Speaking of purview…
“The residence opposite 101… are we truly not going to concern ourselves with it?” Helm’s brow furrowed even deeper.
“Do you aspire to become the nun’s neighbor? You’d best start saving diligently then!” Ramsey retorted, his eyes fixed on the changes within the container, feigning an air of incredulity.
Clearly, he was feigning ignorance.
“Don’t compel me to hurl you from this second-story window,” Helm warned.
“I believe you’re fretting unduly,” Ramsey replied, his fingers lightly tapping the tabletop, his gaze unwavering. “They, more than us, are likely concerned for her safety; she is, after all, the sole survivor of Solis Abbey.”
“The Order, then… In that case, it truly is none of our concern,” Helm conceded. Though he found some of Ramsey’s antics exasperating, this time, he offered no counter-argument.
‘Was it truly none of their concern, though?’
Staring at the petal, Ramsey appeared lost in thought.
Logically, the incident at Solis Abbey should have caused the most significant upheaval among the Order’s ranks, yet Ramsey had been puzzled by their apparent lack of intervention.
Upon reflection, it seemed plausible they had arrived much earlier.
But what did it mean to hide in the opposing residence without revealing themselves? At the very least, they should have greeted the nun, making their presence known.
‘Did they not trust her? Or did they harbor some other agenda?’
Ramsey disliked interacting with such individuals, finding them rigidly adherent to rules and utterly devoid of flexibility. While such conduct wasn’t inherently detrimental—indeed, it might even prove more beneficial than harmful when the Mist fully descended—it struck him as excessively cruel towards a young woman who had just lost someone so vital, a girl who had been raised by the Abbess as her adoptive mother until now.
“Finished yet?”
His thoughts snapped back as he noticed Helm, impatient, prodding him with hands braced on the tabletop.
“Nearly,” Ramsey replied, picking up the glass container and giving it a shake. The petals inside had turned completely black, while the original purple liquid now resembled blood.
The essence of the Blood Rose petal had been successfully extracted, albeit mixed with other agents.
Pouring the essence into the container with the formerly blackened petal, he watched as the withered bloom visibly regained its original appearance.
“If I haven’t awakened within the hour, rouse me,” Ramsey instructed.
As Ramsey carried the container to the sofa and settled into a semi-reclined position, preparing to ingest both petal and potion, Helm’s indignant voice cut through the air.
“Do you truly believe I’d be unable to withstand the grief of losing a loved one?”
“Don’t be absurd!” Helm exclaimed, striding over to snatch the container and, without hesitation, draining its contents. “Consider why I was permitted to join this organization! Reflect on who has consistently overseen this region!”
Shaking his head with a sigh, Ramsey made space for Helm, then settled back into his original seat, propped his legs, and idly picked up a book from the table to flip through its pages.
The potion’s effects were swift; in less than half a minute, heavy breathing resonated from the sofa. If all went as expected, Helm would witness some of his brother Bate-Scard’s experiences leading up to his death, or perhaps other visions. The worst outcome would be seeing nothing at all, merely a normal night’s sleep.
His slumber proved shorter than anticipated; after just over thirty minutes, Helm awoke, pressing a hand to his forehead. His brow was tightly furrowed, and his expression was grave, indicating a restless sleep.
“This petal… are you certain there’s no mistake…?”
“Good morning, my colleague,” Ramsey inquired, peeking over the top of his book. “What did your dreams reveal?”
“I’m not sure if it counts as a success,” Helm replied. “Two old people, a young man—they were arguing. And in their home… they kept rats… The young man seemed to be the petal’s owner, the coachman the nun mentioned, Angeli.”
****
It was nearly noon by the time Ghervil returned from her meal at the Keith residence.
During their meal, Mrs. Keith, upon learning from Ghervil the police’s purpose and the coachman’s demise, displayed a fleeting shock before subtly urging her not to involve herself further.
Mrs. Keith’s method was thus: she incessantly served dishes, extolling the deliciousness of various delicacies, while earnestly imparting her wisdom:
“It is far more appropriate to entrust professional matters to professionals,” she advised with gravity. “This country still holds countless culinary delights awaiting discovery and savoring…”
‘I merely wished to help resolve the case, not court death,’ Ghervil thought. ‘And how did Mrs. Keith even know I intended to go?’
To avoid arousing suspicion, she hadn’t even disclosed the reason for Scard’s mental deterioration.
Pacing back and forth in the ground-floor hall, Ghervil found herself utterly perplexed, gazing at the stack of several books, only one of which lay open.
Mrs. Keith’s final arrangements during their casual dining conversation had placed her in an awkward predicament.
This morning marked her third dose of the medicine; the previous one had lasted more than twice as long as the first, suggesting this dose would likely remain effective for two to three days.
Yesterday, she had spent the entire day fabricating excuses to evade reading and instead learn to cook. As a condition of this exchange, she was now required to read at home all day today, with Saturday’s leisure time free for her to arrange as she pleased. Her learning progress would then be assessed on Monday.
Should she fail to meet the standard, her next opportunity to learn cooking would be indefinitely postponed until she passed.
As for why the assessment wasn’t scheduled for the day after tomorrow… that was because the day after tomorrow was Sunday, a day for church attendance. As a nun—or at least, a nun in name—her presence was unequivocally mandatory.
This assessment condition had, without a doubt, been a last-minute addition that morning; Mrs. Keith clearly wished to curb Ghervil’s inclination to wander.
If the medicine’s efficacy lasted only two days, she would undoubtedly need another dose before venturing out on Sunday, potentially delaying her next study session until Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week.
If it lasted three days, however, she could just manage to carve out enough time by Monday to roughly skim most of the books, preparing herself for an assessment whose strictness remained unknown.
Simply being literate posed no issue; she had just finished reading the entire elementary dictionary, its contents imprinted upon her mind, allowing her to accurately read and write words by recalling their corresponding page and line numbers.
She possessed this confidence.
However, if Mrs. Keith chose to deviate from the expected, perhaps asking her to recount the history of the nation of Elefant (TL Note: Likely a fictional country name, or a phonetic rendering of ‘Elephant’ if a real-world reference was intended. Kept as ‘Elefant’ for consistency.) or to read aloud from children’s books, Ghervil knew she would be utterly ruined.
Beyond the dictionary, she hadn’t so much as glanced at any of the other books, knowing them only by title.
Thus, the dilemma remained: should she dutifully stay at home, or seize the free time today and tomorrow to find a way to slip out?
Given the current circumstances, reading felt entirely impractical…
“Wait, this is…”
‘Good heavens.’
A wry smile touched her lips.
Her nun’s habit, still enduring the oppressive heat on the clothesline, marked her unconscious arrival in the backyard.
Behind the habit, near a small garden not far off, the entrance to a cellar, concealed by half-meter-high flower bushes, was faintly discernible.