Having returned to the abbey and put away her belongings, she tied on her apron and headed to the central garden, noting that their progress was swifter than anticipated.
Govet-Ghervil had single-handedly completed all the work, now cradling a shovel across her chest, asleep beneath a newly transplanted oak tree.
Shards of sunlight illuminated half of her face—a face thoroughly caked in mud.
Her hair, arms, and knees were all stained to varying degrees with dried, caked mud, and her deep crimson currant-colored dress had transformed into a murky black-brown.
While a sense of relief flickered within her, it was largely overshadowed by a burgeoning headache, signifying that Konehl-Ghervil would soon have her hands full.
Exhausted to such an extent, it was futile to expect her to wash her own clothes.
“Wake up,” she chided. “Do you truly wish for your sister to be flattened on the way back to our room?”
Removing the shovel and setting it aside, she found Govet-Ghervil unresponsive.
Tying her apron tighter, Konehl-Ghervil knelt on one knee, slipping one arm beneath Govet-Ghervil’s bent legs and the other around her waist, attempting to lift her.
She proceeded with utmost caution, wary of getting mud on herself.
It was quite astonishing how corpulent Govet-Ghervil appeared in her chinchilla form, yet in her human guise, her figure was impeccable, with flesh distributed precisely where it should be.
Konehl-Ghervil, of course, felt no envy, for in her estimation, anything on the chest was merely a hindrance; the smaller, the better.
Barely managing to lift her, Konehl-Ghervil gritted her teeth, determined to make it to the bedroom.
Her plan, however, did not unfold smoothly, for a dismal incident occurred five minutes later.
Konehl-Ghervil, now soaked to the waist from falling into the fountain, would undoubtedly have resorted to a ‘cold water awakening’ had she known this rascal was merely feigning sleep, rather than kindly attempting to carry her back.
The mishap transpired as they passed by the fountain.
Unprepared, Konehl-Ghervil found herself embraced by a pair of arms, as Govet-Ghervil’s mud-streaked face nuzzled against her.
The suddenness of the event, coupled with the heavy weight in her arms, caused her to lose balance, sending both of them tumbling into the fountain’s basin.
“Having had the audacity to do that, I trust you’ve prepared yourself for a dinner of roasted, steamed, or boiled chinchilla?”
Wringing her dripping hair, Konehl-Ghervil spoke, a humorless smile barely gracing her lips.
“An accident! It was merely an accident! You must believe me!” Govet-Ghervil exclaimed from the water, initially feigning a panicked apology before, with a swiftness that outpaced the turning of a page, she lifted her chin, arched her brows, and broke into a triumphant grin.
“—Did you truly believe I would utter such pleas for mercy? The truth is, whether in mental suggestion or any other aspect, you are no match for me.”
Watching the idiot’s ‘what are you going to do about it?’ expression, the young girl tilted her head, a frown creasing her brow.
“…Is this a provocation?”
“Is it so difficult to acknowledge an established fact? After all, I am the elder sister, and you are the youngest in the family—little, little, little Konehl-Ghervil.”
“So that’s how it is.”
Once she grasped the other’s intent, resolving the matter became considerably simpler.
Pulling her hair into a single ponytail, she untied her apron and tossed it outside the fountain, then removed her shoes and socks, placing them on the edge of the basin to dry.
She intended to employ a ‘boyish’ method to make Govet-Ghervil understand who truly ruled this household.
“Abbess! What are you doing here!”
With a startled cry designed to capture attention, she swiftly lunged forward before the other could react.
By the time Govet-Ghervil realized she had been tricked, it was too late; Konehl-Ghervil had tackled her wholly into the water, causing her to choke on several mouthfuls.
“Cough… cough…”
She surfaced from the calf-deep water, gasping for air, her head throbbing.
“What just happened???”
“You lost, you foolish elder sister.”
Following the sound, Govet-Ghervil saw Konehl-Ghervil standing with one foot on the fountain’s edge, pulling her socks up from her knees.
Droplets of crystal-clear water clung to her thighs, strands of hair, skirt hem, and chin; she was thoroughly drenched.
“That doesn’t count, let’s do it again!” Govet-Ghervil declared, utterly indignant.
“The current reality is that you lost and refuse to admit it. Even the little rascals on Canary Street Market wouldn’t stoop to such childish cheating,” Konehl-Ghervil retorted, rolling her eyes.
“Oh really? What a pity I’m no little rascal!” Govet-Ghervil sneered, rising and splashing through the water towards the younger girl.
“Wait, you idiot! Let go, I’m still putting on my socks!”
“This is the price for tricking me. You promised to let me hug you, hehe…”
“You’re only tricked because you’re foolish!”
“Don’t even think about backing out of a promise.”
“But not in the water! My hair, which I just wrung dry… curses, you brought this upon yourself!”
****
By three in the afternoon, Konehl-Ghervil, relying on her superior intellect, narrowly emerged victorious from the farce.
It was already five o’clock by the time she finished washing and hanging two sets of clothes on the balcony.
Having expended her energy so freely, her mood brightened considerably, and the anxieties that had accumulated since the Florence City incident were, to some extent, released.
It felt like a belated compensation for a childhood she hadn’t truly experienced, with the sole drawback being the fervent hope that she wouldn’t catch a cold.
As an unspoken gesture of gratitude, she forewent sampling the dinner, instead meticulously recreating it based on the processes Mrs. Penelope had taught her from memory.
The resulting meal, perfectly normal in color, presentation, and taste, earned such high praise from Govet-Ghervil that she nearly wept tears of delight.
In truth, Mrs. Penelope’s cooking methods were not entirely rigid; one could adjust the process according to personal preference.
For a few dishes she felt uncertain about, Konehl-Ghervil enlisted Govet-Ghervil’s help in tasting.
That night, as expected, despite being safely within the abbey and no longer plagued by nightmares, Govet-Ghervil chose to squeeze into Konehl-Ghervil’s bed, ignoring the many empty rooms available.
“Have you ever encountered a peculiar illness?” Konehl-Ghervil asked, seizing the opportunity to inquire about the Pontiff’s condition. “It’s not contagious, yet it manifests with almost every symptom imaginable, both common and rare.
While it can be treated with appropriate medication and surgery, it’s never truly cured, and new symptoms inevitably reappear after a time.”
“If such an illness truly exists as you describe, it would likely overturn all existing epidemiological knowledge and systems within this country,” Govet-Ghervil remarked nonchalantly.
“More peculiar than the plague, which can spread through the Long Night Dreams?”
“The plague, at its core, is tainted by a higher-level power; mere rats alone could never achieve such widespread devastation.”
Govet-Ghervil turned a curious gaze upon the young girl.
“Who has contracted this illness?”
“His Holiness, the Pontiff. It’s said to have reached a very severe stage.”
“…Pfft… That stinky old man, Clemens?” Govet-Ghervil couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“What terrible deed did he commit to bring you such amusement?”
Konehl-Ghervil felt an urge to tug at Govet-Ghervil’s sleeve, to make her cease such disrespectful behavior; after all, he was the leader of The Order.
“He hasn’t committed any evil deeds. If I had to describe him, I’d say he’s an old coot so stubborn he invites disdain.”
Govet-Ghervil, unfazed, rolled over with renewed interest and began to speak volubly.
“Among all the Pontiffs throughout history, none have been more soft-hearted than him. He once allowed over a hundred thousand severely infected plague patients to remain untreated immediately.
Instead, he found a place and expended immense human and material resources to treat them, and surprisingly, he actually cured them.
I suspect the former Bishop of Mistfall City was influenced by him.”
“Isn’t that a good thing? Why use a word like ‘allowed’?” Konehl-Ghervil questioned, failing to comprehend.
For a Pontiff to have achieved such a feat, his standing among the common people would surely be elevated immensely.
“You must understand, those hundred thousand individuals could have annihilated the Capital at any moment. He wagered the Capital, and indeed, the entire nation.”
“…”
Konehl-Ghervil fell silent.
It echoed her thoughts from Florence City: if sacrificing herself could save an entire city’s population, she would, in all likelihood, choose the former.
Comparing it to her situation, she would be one of those hundred thousand, faced with sacrificing herself or the Capital…
Upon closer reflection, the comparison wasn’t entirely apt.
The Florence City scenario had the prerequisite of exhausting all possible means, and even if she hadn’t sacrificed herself to save the city, she wouldn’t have escaped when the mythical creature returned to reality.
Her options had effectively been: ascend alone, or ascend with everyone.
The fact that those hundred thousand people in the Capital were cured suggested the situation hadn’t been quite so dire.
Even so, Pontiff Clemens remained a man of remarkable courage, deserving of profound respect.
“Don’t worry, the old man likely won’t die. Don’t underestimate him and those in the Capital,” Govet-Ghervil reassured. Then, a thought struck her.
“Where did you get all this information?”
“Dr. Callan wants me to accompany her to the Capital on Friday, two days from now.
She mentioned she could bring you along, and all expenses for food, clothing, and accommodation would be covered by her…”
Konehl-Ghervil subtly dangled the bait, knowing that the culinary delights of the Capital would surely rival those of Florence City.
The reply she received, however, took her by surprise.
“Although I genuinely wish to go, it’s simply impossible.”
Govet-Ghervil lay flat on her back, gazing forlornly at the ceiling.
“In the Capital, Morpheme, there are no fewer than five individuals who could recognize my true identity.”