As evening descended, the lingering glow of the sunset painted the misty sky in shades of hazy orange.
Across from 101 Lily of the Valley Street, thick plumes of cooking smoke billowed from the chimney of number 100.
Ghervil, propping her chin in boredom, sat in the first-floor hall, awaiting the woman in the kitchen to finish preparing dinner.
She had offered to help, but within minutes, she was sneezing and rubbing tears from the corners of her eyes, choked out by the pungent smoke rising from the roasted chili peppers.
Prior to this, she had exchanged names with the woman, incidentally learning why she couldn’t dine at the Keiths’ house tonight and the reason she had been brought here.
The reason, it turned out, was quite simple: the woman, Lottus-Callan, was a doctor who had just moved to the city, and her new home happened to be 100 Lily of the Valley Street.
As a newcomer, her first attempt at neighborly introductions had been to Ghervil.
Finding no answer, she had proceeded to her second neighbor, the Keiths, only to learn from Mrs. Keith that number 101 was not, in fact, vacant.
Sensing something amiss, and prompted by Mrs. Keith’s concern and suggestion, they had climbed a ladder to enter through the second-floor balcony.
After a thorough search, the two women discovered a comatose Ghervil in the utterly empty cellar.
A preliminary examination revealed only minor scrapes and bruises, nothing serious.
Nevertheless, as a precaution, they decided to bring Ghervil to number 100 for observation and treatment overnight.
Dinner was an incidental matter, which was why Mrs. Keith had only prepared a single serving for herself that afternoon.
What concerned Ghervil most was Callan’s description of the cellar: utterly empty, dark, damp, save for a few discarded odds and ends.
She had even been found lying right beside the stairs.
There had been no bedroom, nor any sign of the stern woman in a nun’s habit.
It hadn’t been a hallucination; the sensation at the time had been undeniably real.
Could it be another strange occurrence, similar to those she experienced at the Solis Abbey?
Perhaps the answer would only reveal itself on Sunday evening, later this week.
“Are you certain you can handle spicy food?”
As Ghervil pondered, Callan emerged from the kitchen, still clad in her apron, carrying a platter of food.
It resembled stuffed chili peppers, with red chilies generously filled with minced meat and dusted with chili powder.
The presentation was rather meticulous, even adorned with a drizzle of sauce.
“I’m not entirely sure, but I’ve always wanted to try something I haven’t tasted before.”
Spice, an addictive sensation of pain, had long piqued Ghervil’s curiosity, especially since spicy dishes were almost entirely absent from the Keiths’ dinner table.
She felt a surge of eagerness, keen to seize this opportunity to sample unfamiliar flavors, fulfilling a small, long-held desire to explore the world of gastronomy.
“For the largest one, I used sweet paprika and common bell peppers, so it’s only mildly spicy,” Callan said with an amused smile.
“Still, I don’t recommend you try it. There’s still time to change your mind; I can whip up something entirely non-spicy for you.”
“Are you underestimating me?” Ghervil shot the woman a sidelong glance, a hint of annoyance in her tone.
The largest, most conspicuous orange-red pepper on the platter was swiftly struck from her mental list of potential targets for the evening.
“It’s merely a doctor’s advice,” Callan countered smoothly.
“I wouldn’t want my patient to develop new ailments before their existing ones have even healed.”
Callan politely refrained from staring at the outline that the girl’s pain-induced fidgeting had created on the stool’s soft cushion.
“Unless you’ve poisoned it,” Ghervil declared, “I refuse to believe that ordinary food prepared by a normal person could possibly cause any trouble.”
Ghervil was ravenous now, her eyes fixed eagerly on the platter.
The enticing aroma of the stuffed peppers stimulated her taste buds, magnifying her hunger in this dire situation.
Had this woman not unilaterally decided to have Mrs. Keith prepare only a single serving of dinner, Ghervil might well be full by now, comfortably writing in her diary at home.
However, recognizing that the other woman’s intentions were good and that she was providing dinner free of charge, Ghervil’s resentment partially dissipated.
She waved her hand at Callan, urging her on, her tone tinged with impatience.
“Rather than fretting over my backside,” Ghervil retorted, “you’d do better to focus your energy on cooking the remaining dishes, so we can swiftly resolve our dinner predicament.”
Callan tried to piece together an image in her mind: a humble, generous, learned, polite, and devout nun whose inner charm matched her outward loveliness.
Then she was met with a fierce glare.
Never mind, Callan mused.
It seems I truly have starved the nun. In some ways, she’s still rather endearing.
Half an hour later, the dinner table was finally laden with all the dishes.
The meal offered a rich variety of meat and vegetable dishes, though some of the earlier served plates had already grown cold.
It was clear that this doctor lacked the knack for efficient planning or time management in the kitchen.
She could cook, but evidently not often.
Her skills, at best, were on par with an average homemaker.
Ghervil silently offered this assessment.
The presentation was decent enough; if the taste proved normal, it would be deemed acceptable.
Having completed the pre-meal prayer, a ritual Mrs. Keith had taught her, Ghervil picked up her knife and fork, eyeing the ‘prey’ on the table.
The first target for her palate, of course, was the plate of stuffed chili peppers that had tantalized her sight and smell for so long!
“Did you truly hold out for so long? I thought you’d come to terms with yourself.”
Callan, who had skipped the prayer, had alredy speared a piece of stewed beef, thickly coated it in chili sauce, and was chewing it with relish.
“Never underestimate the strictness with which any culinary apprentice adheres to dining etiquette,” Ghervil replied, too disinclined to truly engage with her.
“A true culinary apprentice wouldn’t be choked by roasted chili peppers to the point of fearing the kitchen,” Callan remarked.
Even as she spoke, the young girl had already confidently speared an entire stuffed pepper, bringing it to her lips, her small mouth opening to take a bite.
Something is amiss with that pepper…
Casually glancing at the plate nearest the girl, Callan froze mid-chew, her eyes widening.
It was too late; a small bite had already been taken from the pepper.
“Ah!”
“Clang.”
A yelp and the clatter of a dropped knife and fork hitting the plate sounded simultaneously.
The young girl hadn’t bitten into the mildly spicy stuffed pepper Callan had specifically prepared for her.
Instead, she had chosen one of the extra-spicy ones Callan had set aside for herself.
The mildly spicy one’s original purpose had merely been to give the girl a taste and hopefully dissuade her.
Now, however…
“I forgot to mention…” Callan said, a hint of apology in her voice, “that the rest of the meat fillings contain charcoal-roasted cayenne pepper.”
“Water… hah…”
“Give me…”
“A glass of water…”
The girl’s cheeks flushed crimson, her mouth agape, tongue extended as she gasped for air.
Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill as the spice overwhelmed her.
Given the potency of cayenne peppers, for an ordinary person, water alone would be insufficient to alleviate the burning sensation.
Callan set down her knife and fork, rising to assist the girl toward the washroom, intending to resolve the issue with repeated rinsing.
Twenty minutes later, after several rounds of rinsing her mouth, splashing cool water on her face, and consuming three glasses of milk, Ghervil finally slumped back into her seat at the dinner table.
This meal had proven exceptionally arduous; her tongue remained numb even now.
“Still want more?” Callan asked, reaching to pull the ‘culprit’ platter closer to herself.
She then speared one of the peppers, carefully chewing and swallowing it.
“I was referring to the milk.”
“No, thank you…” Ghervil watched her, her tongue throbbing faintly in sympathy.
To think someone could consume such a perverse dish without so much as a flicker of emotion.
This woman truly possessed the audacity to look down on others.
Utterly convinced, she swore silently that she would never again eat anything prepared by this woman that contained chili peppers.
Fortunately, she hadn’t swallowed it; otherwise, she might have needed her stomach pumped.
Yet, there was one silver lining.
A wry smile touched Ghervil’s lips.
Whether it was a psychological effect or not, the burning pain in her mouth seemed to alleviate and overshadow the ache in her backside, making it less painful to shift slightly.
As the sky gradually darkened, the distinctive chirping of summer insects filled the air outside the house, signaling a muggy night.
Callan swiftly devoured all the chili-infused dishes—including an entire bowl of chili sauce—leaving Ghervil alone at the dining table, wondering what she was busy with.
With her small mouth, limited capacity for food, and her conscious effort to maintain table manners, Ghervil’s eating speed naturally couldn’t compare.
At least, the remaining dishes contained no chili.
Their taste, while certainly not comparable to Mrs. Keith’s culinary prowess, was at least acceptable.
Having eaten her fill and rested for a moment, Ghervil wandered through the house, seeking out the woman to express her gratitude.
She was a person who clearly distinguished between kindness and grievance.
While this woman certainly had her flaws, Ghervil had received a significant favor: a sumptuous dinner, and her thigh now felt entirely free of pain.
After a thorough circuit of the first floor, she concluded that the house’s layout closely resembled number 101’s, suggesting they might have been built uniformly during the same period.
Pulling back the curtains, she could see the roses on the opposite second-floor balcony—those very important pots of flowers…
Yes, those very pots of flowers were now crucial ingredients for her potion-making studies.
They needed to be relocated; having discerning individuals like Ramsey show up demanding them would be entirely counterproductive.
The entire first floor was empty.
Should she venture upstairs to the second floor?
She turned her head, looking indecisively at the staircase.
Wandering about a house without the owner’s explicit permission was already incredibly impolite.
Perhaps it would be better to simply return home; her thanks could wait until their next encounter.
“Won’t you stay to take a bath?”
Just as she twisted the doorknob, a voice drifted from behind her.
“I’ve heated enough water for two,” Callan continued.
“The medicine is in there; you can change the dressing yourself. If you find it inconvenient, don’t hesitate to ask for help, especially since a professional is present.”
Translation of the Chinese lines:
身上裹着浴巾的卡兰从楼梯走下来，头发湿漉漉的，发梢留有水滴。
浴巾太小外加裹得随意，大腿，胸部以上，露出一片雪白。
格尔薇尔瞪大眼没说话，第一次碰到这种场景大脑空白，甚至都没理解清楚女人话里的意思，红着脸飞速逃离了100号.
Translated:
Callan walked down the stairs wrapped in a bath towel, her hair dripping wet, water still clinging to the ends.
The towel was too small and carelessly wrapped, leaving her thighs and everything above her chest exposed in a stretch of pale white.
Ghervil’s eyes widened; she said nothing. It was her first time encountering such a sight — her mind went completely blank, she didn’t even fully grasp what the woman had meant.
Face flushed red, she fled from number 100 at top speed.