“Hahaha—”
****
“You brute, let go!”
“Haha…”
“I was wrong! Spare me—”
“Hahaha—”
The compartment echoed with pleas for mercy, bordering on tearful laughter.
On the lower bunk, Dr. Callan sat, her legs caging Konehl-Ghervil’s waist, rendering her immobile. She bent her calves back, teasing the soles of Konehl-Ghervil’s feet for a full twenty minutes before finally releasing her, utterly satisfied.
As a physician, Dr. Callan possessed a fundamental understanding of human anatomy; she knew that prolonged tickling of the soles would lead to nerve adaptation and a decrease in sensitivity.
Therefore, she employed two distinct methods, alternating unexpected intensities and switching to the other foot as needed, maintaining a relentless cycle.
“You fiend… if you dare, look into my eyes…”
After a brief respite to regain her strength, Konehl-Ghervil strained to pry away the black-stockinged legs that had her waist trapped as if in a vice.
Beyond the unbearable tickling of her soles, she felt as though her waist might snap.
“A proficient doctor does not repeat the same mistake twice.”
Dr. Callan merely chuckled, refusing to fall for the bait; she had never forgotten the harrowing experience of being controlled by Govet-Ghervil.
Her interactions with Govet-Ghervil had revealed that one activation condition for that arcane power was direct eye contact, a feat not easily achieved, requiring an element of surprise.
“While I won’t grant you the opportunity, I am curious: what did you intend to do after controlling me?”
Dr. Callan slightly loosened her grip, allowing the girl to cease her attempts at prying her legs apart.
It wasn’t that she feared the girl might break free, but rather that such feeble struggles felt like an odd, uncomfortable tickle.
“Revenge! An equal measure, no, double the retribution!”
“Thwack—”
“Ugh!”
A sharp smack echoed, and Konehl-Ghervil instinctively reached to cover her stinging backside, only for her wrists to be seized and clasped behind her back.
“One doesn’t openly declare such intentions. That’s precisely why I wouldn’t allow you to go to the Capital; you’d be easily swindled without even realizing it.”
“There will always be a moment of laxity, and you’d best pray I show mercy then!”
“Thwack—”
Another crisp sound followed, along with the woman’s assessment:
“A pleasing texture. It’s certainly matured since I first applied salve to you.”
The woman’s words and actions left the girl flushed with indignation, her teeth grinding in fury.
The insolent wretch had dared to lift her skirt and strike her!
Not an ounce of mercy was shown!
An impulse to bite the woman to death surged within her.
For two minutes, she twisted and writhed, ceaselessly attempting to break free.
It was only when the woman took hold of her arch and lightly tickled her sole that her struggles finally ceased.
Unable to resist, a profound sense of powerlessness forced her to confront reality.
This quickly morphed into utter resignation.
She was consumed by profound regret.
Regret for her provocation, for coming to Carriage No. 7, for boarding the train, for ever wishing to journey to the Capital.
With this journey stretching nearly three full days, any hope of resisting through sheer strength was futile.
Yet, there were other avenues; understanding her own strengths and weaknesses was crucial. Mental suggestion, lasting only a few seconds and with uncertain success, was immediately dismissed.
Physical force was even less viable.
There remained untapped methods…
Though extremely reluctant, she knew she had to make a slight sacrifice, bending her current disposition.
True wisdom lay in adaptability, and Konehl-Ghervil, far from being rigid, swiftly adjusted her mindset.
“I’m so hungry…”
Casting aside her displeasure and humiliation, she turned, revealing a wronged expression.
“I haven’t eaten a single morsel since last night, and you’ve tormented me for so long on this train; I’m practically starving. You promised to cover all expenses, and if you still uphold your word and possess a shred of conscience, unwilling to watch me perish from hunger…”
‘What a swift change of face!’
Dr. Callan was astonished, a remark poised on her lips, but found herself unable to utter it.
Just moments ago, she had been clamoring, yet now she adopted such a demeanor…
And to her chagrin, Dr. Callan found herself susceptible to it!
A chord within her had been struck.
She tried desperately to suppress the feeling, but alas, she failed.
So long as those captivating, almost unfairly beautiful eyes remained fixed upon her.
A request made under such a gaze was impossible to refuse; it possessed an almost magical allure.
There was no escaping it; her weakness had been precisely pinpointed.
“What would you like to eat? The Night Mail provides exceptionally fine dining.”
Dr. Callan released her legs, gently lifting the girl to sit comfortably on the bunk.
“I can recommend some of our special dishes…”
“My demands aren’t high; just the ten most expensive items, in order.”
“…”
“If that request is too much, please don’t force yourself… I can endure until we disembark…”
“Sigh… I truly wonder how Abbess Anthea educated you.”
Dr. Callan offered a wry smile, gently pinching Konehl-Ghervil’s cheek.
“You are not to show this demeanor to anyone else, not even to Govet-Ghervil.”
After the woman departed the compartment, Konehl-Ghervil crept to the door, pulling it open just enough to peek out with half her head. As the golden-haired figure slowly vanished from sight, she let out a long, relieved breath.
She immediately darted back inside, retrieved the woman’s small case from the luggage rack, and delivered two fierce kicks.
“That’s for tickling my feet!”
“That’s for spanking my backside!”
“You fool, prepare for a hemorrhage in your purse!”
Her voice grew louder and more spirited with each shout.
“What kind of quack doctor, a complete pervert!”
“You want me to work for free? Never!”
“It’s decided! This trip to the Capital will cost at least 100 Trin Gold Coins!”
“Ahem…”
An untimely cough from outside the door startled her, her eyes widening instantly.
‘Oh no, I forgot to close the door! She came back far too quickly!’
“I… I wasn’t talking about you…”
She stood frozen, trembling, daring not to turn around, until further words emerged from beyond the door.
“I apologize for disturbing you, madam… some of our passengers wish to enjoy their journey in peace. Would you mind lowering your voice?”
The voice was female, exceedingly polite, and had clearly discerned her anger.
Awkwardly, Konehl-Ghervil opened the door to find a female attendant in uniform.
“It is I who should apologize. I will ensure silence.”
“Simply closing your door should suffice; the Night Mail’s compartments offer excellent soundproofing.”
“Thank you for the reminder. My sincerest apologies.”
After a slight bow of apology, Konehl-Ghervil closed the door, a lingering trepidation in her heart as she returned to the luggage rack to properly stow her belongings.
‘It was merely an attendant this time; next, it might be the woman herself.’
Half an hour later, the food Dr. Callan brought back left Konehl-Ghervil speechless.
There were baked snails, brandy, red wine, mille-feuille, and several other peculiar dishes whose ingredients Konehl-Ghervil couldn’t identify.
“How much… did all this cost?” she asked, disdainfully poking a sliver of bloody meat with her fork.
“I didn’t tally it precisely, but the cheapest item was 30 Soldeau.”
The compartment was rather narrow; with the table set in the middle, they could only sit on the opposing bunks.
Dr. Callan poured herself half a glass of brandy.
“Care for a sip?”
“I don’t drink… and frankly, for this amount of money, there could have been better choices…”
The cheapest item was two Trin Gold Coins, and the total might amount to fifty Trin Gold Coins.
‘What a dreadful waste…’
“I agree,” Dr. Callan conceded. “If I hadn’t revealed a fragment of my identity, they wouldn’t have sold these items to me. Essentially, they serve as a ‘class filter’ and are not nearly as palatable as ordinary food.”
Throughout their conversation, Dr. Callan, her expression unchanged, poured herself a second glass.
“I am not what you would call ‘upper class,’ so…”
“Just choose what you find edible; I don’t mind if the rest goes to waste.”
“Oh…”
‘Had she become a different person?’
Konehl-Ghervil was surprised the woman wasn’t using the food to torment her further.
Feeling a pang of guilt, she poured a tiny measure of brandy into her cup and tasted it, as if in apology.
It had little flavor, but a faint burning sensation spread in her throat, a fiery sting that deterred her from drinking more.
“What does this wine taste like?”
Seeing the woman across from her so engrossed in her drink, Konehl-Ghervil grew curious.
“Rotten acorns blended with old leather, then infused with honey and sawdust.”
‘What an extraordinary description!’
Sensing the woman’s unusual, heavy drinking, and fearing a drunken outburst that might target her backside and feet again, Konehl-Ghervil dared not engage in further conversation.
She ate a little, then lay down on the upper bunk to read.
She read until she unwittingly drifted off to sleep, only to wake in the late afternoon and find the woman also slumbering, which eased her mind slightly.
Dinner was far more normal, yet two extra bottles of brandy had appeared.
“You can finish all that by yourself?”
“Why ever not?”
This was the only exchange during their meal.
When a familiar person exhibited such unfamiliar behavior, one had to consider if she was under excessive stress, afflicted by illness, or had suffered some unforeseen misfortune.
Konehl-Ghervil found no opportunity to probe, for the woman, having consumed two entire bottles, had slumped against the headrest, deeply asleep.
Konehl-Ghervil gently applied a warm towel to her face, removed her shoes, settled her flat, and pulled the blanket over her. After watching for over two hours without detecting any anomalies, she climbed into her own bunk, still filled with a vague sense of unease.
In the middle of the night, she awoke to the sound of heavy, labored breathing.
Getting out of bed and switching on the light, the sight that greeted her made her heart sink.
The woman’s entire face was crimson, a fine sheen of sweat covered her skin, and the veins on her arms stood out distinctly.
Her forehead, when touched, was burning hot.
She was, without a doubt, running a fever.
“Drinking beyond her limits, yet still trying to act tough…”
Muttering a casual complaint, she prepared to seek help, knowing there were no provisions in the compartment to aid a sick person.
“Fool! What are you doing?”
No sooner had she taken a step than a hand clamped onto her skirt hem.
With a powerful tug, she stumbled forward, falling into a weighty embrace, her head pressed forcibly into the woman’s chest.
“Mmm… what’s wrong with you? Let go…”
Before she could finish her sentence, an intense sense of danger washed over her.
A dripping sound.
A thick, coppery scent of blood permeated the compartment.