Three minutes later, Ghervil sat on the bed, her head bowed, fingers intertwined on her thighs, and her thumbs ceaselessly twirling.
The minimal creases on the bedspread hinted at her profound unease, for she had barely shifted her stinging posterior since settling down.
The right side of her skirt was folded beneath her leg, strategically concealing her reddened thigh and torn stockings.
From the familiar vantage point, ‘Dean Anthea’ sat composedly on the chair opposite her.
The oppressive darkness and chilling gloom that had pervaded the cellar vanished entirely with the dean’s appearance. Every rat scurried, cowering in shadowed corners, too fearful to emerge into any place untouched by the light.
Cellar No. 101 had transformed into a warm chamber, a bedroom seemingly plucked from Solis Abbey itself. Yet, subtle differences remained: bookshelves now filled the space once cluttered with sundries, there were no windows, and the wardrobe had been replaced by a tiered, safe-like contraption.
“I can answer the single question you most desperately wish to know right now.”
The voice from across the room only served to heighten the already palpable tension.
Lifting her gaze, she met a pair of eyes that radiated both patience and profound composure.
‘The single most pressing question… the cellar’s transformation, the scurrying rats, and this woman before her, whose demeanor, voice, and appearance were precisely as she recalled from memory.’
With but a moment’s reflection, she pinpointed the question she most yearned to ask—the one that had, in truth, plagued her mind all along.
“You… truly are the dean? Not consumed by the flames with the abbey, not a mere figment of my imagination, but a… living, breathing person?”
The woman nodded, a faint smile gracing her lips, as if pleased with the appellation ‘dean’. “I am indeed the Dean of Solis Abbey, the genuine article.”
“…”
The answer, however, offered no further elaboration. Ghervil’s query had, in fact, been two questions interwoven, and the response had merely confirmed identity, not whether the dean existed as a living person in this world.
Realizing her subtle cleverness had been perceived, her eyes flickered with a hint of evasiveness. After a brief silence, she nevertheless pressed on:
“How… might you prove that you are not speaking a falsehood?”
“The methods for doing so are quite numerous.”
The woman’s gaze drifted towards the door within the room, a subtle curve appearing at the corner of her lips.
A sudden, unsettling premonition washed over Ghervil.
“On the afternoon of July 2nd, for reasons beyond my control, I asked you to inspect the washroom’s tap water facilities to ensure their proper function. You spent precisely twenty-five minutes and forty-seven seconds on that task.”
Her premonition had become a startling reality!
Ghervil’s eyes widened, her cheeks slowly flushing crimson, yet Dean Anthea evinced no intention of ceasing.
“I can accurately tell you the precise size of the undergarments in that suitcase, for I personally prepared them for you. Should you remain unconvinced, I also know…”
“I believe you! I believe you are indeed the dean and are not lying!” Her face was now a deep scarlet, and if she didn’t interject, she feared the dean would divulge the colors and styles next.
The strained atmosphere eased, if only slightly.
With her identity now unequivocally confirmed, Ghervil harbored no reservations towards this woman who had extended such immense aid.
A property, enough funds to sustain her for a year or two, and a legitimate identity allowing her to establish herself in this world…
It seemed she would have to dedicate a lifetime to monastic service merely to repay such a debt.
“It appears you have adapted quite well,” Dean Anthea remarked, her tone light and conversational.
‘What did she mean by that? Was she referring to her present life?’
“I’ve adapted, albeit barely… Mrs. Keith next door is a truly kind woman, and I’m currently learning to cook from her. The agents from the Epidemic Prevention Bureau and the police have also been remarkably friendly, assisting me with the necessary procedures… and locating those few pages of identity documents…”
While she was content to converse, a flicker of curiosity prompted her to surreptitiously observe the dean’s changing expressions, wondering if such an act, if discovered, might be construed as an attempt to falsify evidence.
“The Elephant Kingdom Epidemic Prevention and Control Bureau…” Dean Anthea pronounced the full name, “Some also refer to them as ‘Dream’s Edge’.”
“A peculiar name,” Ghervil mused, subtly shifting her weight back to distribute some of the pressure onto her thighs. “What connection could epidemic prevention possibly have with dreams?”
Given that this nation reveres the Dream-Tracing Goddess, it seemed plausible that certain matters would be forcefully intertwined with the realm of dreams.
She simply regarded it as a manifestation of the populace’s devout faith.
“They guard the very borders of dreams, punishing the fallen in the Goddess’s stead. While those individuals may not voice this creed aloud, they carry it perpetually in their hearts.”
Dean Anthea regarded her with an amused expression.
“Numerous similar organizations exist, both official and unofficial, conventional and unconventional, numbering over a hundred across the entire nation, ranging from small to vast. Of course, the most populous among them is the ‘Dream-Tracing Goddess Cult’ which encompasses me, and by extension, now you. They possess a specialized department dedicated to ‘handling’ unique patients such as yourself.”
For a moment, Ghervil found herself speechless. The dean had indeed mentioned her illness previously, but surely one sought a doctor when sick? How had the conversation suddenly veered towards peculiar departments?
Moreover, she had experienced no discomfort or physical alterations within the mist. The dean had declared her ill even before she had taken a single step outside the abbey. From her observations over the past few days, the mist did not permeate buildings, but rather drifted placidly above most structures.
This rendered it even less probable that her condition was an ‘epidemic’ contracted from the mist.
“You have not yet grasped the true implication of my words.”
The dean’s subsequent words caused her eyelids to twitch involuntarily.
“From a temporal perspective, assuming you diligently adhered to my instructions and refrained from revealing your natural eye color, today would mark your third dose of medicine.”
“It is indeed the third dose, yet I still find myself somewhat perplexed…”
‘Wait… medicine…’
Her mouth parted slightly in dawning surprise.
Gradually, understanding dawned upon her.
Only patients consumed medicine; the dean was using this as a subtle reminder. After the potion’s efficacy waned, intense headaches and overwhelming fatigue would accompany any attempts at studying. The only remedies were to drink a mouthful of that ‘idiot’ potion or to simply indulge in a profound sleep.
‘So this is the ailment that afflicts me?’
“Temporal Dysperception,” Dean Anthea articulated, slowly enunciating each word.
“As the name implies, it’s quite straightforward: your brain’s perception of time is abnormal. Your efficiency in learning certain things is anywhere from several to over ten times that of an ordinary person, and the corresponding burden upon you is equally immense.”
“No wonder I could so effortlessly comprehend and commit those words to memory.”
“If your condition were merely of this magnitude, then the illness would have been entirely cured the very first time you consumed the medicine I provided,” Dean Anthea stated calmly.
‘Indeed.’
She found herself in complete agreement with the dean’s words.
Her comprehension of text transcended mere ease; it was, frankly, terrifying. Words she had never encountered before she could fully memorize and grasp with a single glance.
This phenomenon presented an inexplicable enigma, akin to perceiving a newly discovered species for the first time and instantly comprehending its entire essence—its habits, reproductive methods, classification, and so forth. However, this extraordinary ability was strictly confined to written words or analogous symbols capable of conveying information.
‘Perhaps I should attempt a career as an archaeologist in the future? Specializing in deciphering ancient scripts; after all, no matter how complex, I’d grasp it with a single glance.’
“There may well be other ‘conveniences’ yet undiscovered, but I strongly advise you to refrain from attempting to utilize them.”
Dean Anthea appeared to have effortlessly discerned her innermost thoughts.
“The Temporal Dysperception I am familiar with, if left untreated, manifests initially as headaches and profound fatigue. Should this pattern persist and recur, the condition intensifies, evolving into somnolence, neurasthenia, intermittent amnesia, the loss of emotions, and ultimately, a perpetual slumber from which one never awakens. This entire progression could span mere months, several years, or, with exceptional fortune, extend to over a decade.”
‘How terribly familiar… every single symptom…’
Her illusions shattered, Ghervil was rendered speechless by the sheer surprise, her hand instinctively clutching the bedsheet.
The symptoms described were eerily identical to those of Kleine-Levin Syndrome from her previous life. It seemed she had returned to her initial state, destined to begin anew.
‘Would she be forced to relive that existence… a lifetime spent confined to a bed?’
‘Perhaps…’
‘There was still hope.’
The exacerbation of her symptoms stemmed directly from her utilization of the ‘conveniences’ the condition afforded. By employing them with moderation, or perhaps by abstaining entirely, she could circumvent this dire progression.
Judging by the dean’s demeanor, it appeared she was being groomed as an heir. To make such a choice, fully aware of her ailment, suggested that, at least from Ghervil’s perspective, hope persisted.
If even the dean held such a belief, what conceivable reason did Ghervil have to abandon herself to despair?
The hand that had gripped the bedsheet so fiercely now relaxed its hold. The scene before her, which had blurred into a scattered double image, now sharpened, resolving into the distinct figure of a woman clad in a nun’s habit.
“What is it you require of me?”
“I am pleased that you were not utterly crushed by this grim news, and that you have managed to rally yourself so swiftly.” Dean Anthea rose and moved to Ghervil’s side, then, with a slight stiffness, raised her right hand to gently stroke Ghervil’s head.
“Beginning this week, every Sunday evening at eight o’clock, you are to bring three petals of a Blood Rose here to study ‘Nightmare Revelation’ with me—which is to say, the precise method for crafting the potion I left for you.”