Having listened to the full account, Ghervil finally grasped why those who recovered from the plague would never take their own lives.
Surviving the plague demanded an extraordinary will to live, and achieving a full recovery through treatment necessitated an exceptional strength of mind, unwavering perseverance, and profound conviction, far exceeding that of an average person. Without hope, and consumed by the fear of death, healing was virtually impossible.
It was precisely for these reasons that Helm, the victim’s younger brother, utterly refused to believe his sibling had taken his own life.
She then elaborated on the intricate process through which she had uncovered Luke’s true identity as ‘Angeli’, though even she found some of the finer points difficult to articulate.
When the question arose, “Did you suspect him the very first time he fired upon you?”
She could only offer a soft, bewildered smile and shake her head.
“I truly don’t know.”
A faint intuition told her that had Franz not intervened, the bullet would most likely have missed its mark. The reason, she mused, was perhaps that the police officer known as ‘Luke’ had not yet fully succumbed to the influence of ‘Angeli’ at that precise moment.
The agents possessed scant knowledge regarding the enigmatic origins of these creatures; their limited understanding stemmed primarily from the last plague outbreak, revealing that these beings could rapidly proliferate and mature in a short span by devouring human flesh and blood.
Once they had eaten their fill, Helm meticulously transcribed every question posed to Ghervil and each of her replies into a small notebook. He then summoned the waiter, and without a flicker of hesitation, produced two banknotes to cover the bill, leaving the generous remainder as a tip. The waiter’s surprised reaction alone suggested the gratuity was indeed considerable.
Ghervil, observing this display, felt a distinct pang of envy.
He reassured her that a reward from the police department was forthcoming, though it would only be disbursed once the case had been definitively concluded.
Helm, harboring a degree of bewilderment, could not resist voicing his question the moment they exited the establishment:
“The abbey director’s inheritance ought to be quite substantial. Are you truly still in need of funds?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Ghervil retorted without a moment’s hesitation. “For someone living alone, without stable employment, that sum alone is far from enough to provide me with a genuine sense of security.”
“Then, if I might be so impertinent as to inquire,” Helm pressed on, leaning forward with a newfound spark of interest, “what exactly is the ‘quota’ for your sense of security?”
“Naturally, enough to live without a single worry about food or clothing, and to indulge in an occasional luxury that lasts until my old age!”
“I can suggest a rather swift path to achieving that.”
“Do elaborate.”
“Simply return to secular life. With your undeniable beauty, you could effortlessly marry into a noble family possessing generational wealth, ensuring a life of lavish indulgence until your twilight years.”
The man stroked his chin, appearing to ponder the suggestion with utmost seriousness, speaking as if his words were the culmination of profound deliberation.
“Get lost!” Ghervil snapped, fixing him with a searing glare. “If you’re so keen on marriage, you go marry! I, for one, shall never take a husband in this lifetime!”
“Haha, merely a jest,” Helm chuckled, shrugging on the jacket that had been draped over his shoulder. “My wound still requires more specialized treatment. I’ll be sure to notify you immediately should there be any new developments in the case.” With a final smile, he strode ahead.
“Oh, and by the way, if fortune truly smiles upon you on your journey back, you might even encounter that fellow Ramsey.”
“That sounds more like a stroke of terrible luck!”
Her indignant shout echoed too loudly, drawing both whispers and curious stares from their surroundings. Amidst the general amusement, she overheard passersby remarking on how exquisitely beautiful she looked even in her anger, some openly expressing a desire to know her name and forge a friendship.
Before those few individuals, resplendent in attire befitting wealthy young masters, could even take a step closer, she fixed them with such a chilling death glare that the smiles instantly evaporated from their faces. Turning on her heel, she departed from the entrance of ‘Hunter’s Hearth’, an establishment clearly frequented only by the affluent.
She retraced her steps, opting to walk rather than take a carriage, following the very same ‘forest path’ that remained choked with wild weeds.
Encountering Ramsey on such a desolate path would not merely signify bad luck; it would be nothing short of encountering a ghost.
Her desire to avoid being seen outside was one reason, but with her stockings already torn beyond repair, she reasoned that no situation could possibly worsen, thus embracing a philosophy of ‘what’s done is done’.
Throughout her journey, she remained lost in contemplation, puzzling over what she had witnessed after being pursued by giant rats, striking her head until it bled, and losing consciousness. It felt akin to a dream, yet it was distinctly not; it possessed a vivid reality that allowed her to perceive herself observing events from the coachman’s subjective viewpoint. Still, for all its tangibility, it felt far too fantastical to be mere reality.
She was more inclined to believe it represented a segment of the past that had genuinely transpired in the real world. What, she wondered, would have unfolded if ‘she’ within that past had chosen differently, deviating from the original trajectory of events?
“Hiss…”
A sudden, prickly itch at her ankle abruptly severed her train of thought.
Glancing down, she saw several spiky, spherical plant burrs clinging once more to her already severely damaged stockings.
****
In the ground-floor hall of 100 Lily of the Valley Street, a man with a perpetually smiling countenance occupied the sofa opposite.
The table, utterly devoid of even a single teacup, gleamed with an almost sterile cleanliness, hinting at an austere existence.
It was abundantly clear that the proprietor of this dwelling held no welcome for the sudden, uninvited visitor.
“I am most gratified that the Order has yet to abandon Solis Abbey, dispatching such a distinguished figure as yourself to oversee that child’s safety—you, Miss ‘Red Lotus’ (TL Note: A title signifying a highly skilled and respected doctor, often associated with exceptional surgical or healing abilities.), one of the few truly renowned chief doctors within the Hospital Department.”
Ramsey was the first to break the silence. Since his arrival, after he had subtly conveyed the purpose of his visit, the doctor had simply bade him wait, continuing to immerse herself in her ongoing work.
She meticulously blended various tinctures, carefully arranging them on a test tube rack. On an adjacent iron tray lay a white-furred rat, its limbs secured, its skull precisely dissected to reveal the intricate folds of its brain.
Had his patience been even slightly greater, this silent, watchful wait might well have extended into the evening hours.
“If your sole purpose here is to offer platitudes, then you may depart at once,” Callan stated, her back still turned to him, “for I have long grown weary of such empty words.”
“It is merely a heartfelt exclamation,” Ramsey countered. “After all, in our profession, to attain such eminent achievements at your tender age is exceedingly rare across the entire Order. Such feats are typically only accomplished by those Plague Knights who have forsaken all personal attachments.”
“…”
The air instantly crackled with an undeniable tension.
“A notorious scoundrel who abandoned his own family has no standing to lecture me,” Callan finally declared, setting down the test tube. She then meticulously sterilized scalpels and other instruments with alcohol, performing the final, precise touches to her work.
“If I were compelled to offer an assessment, I’d say you are every bit as disagreeable as that old man, Bishop Sartre.”
The faint smile playing on Ramsey’s lips imperceptibly diminished. He then produced a pipe from his pocket and settled it between his teeth.
“Even if the nun’s new neighbor, the one who took residence in this very house, had been any other doctor or member of the Order, I assure you I would not be present here today. After all, you are, by many accounts, as ‘notorious’ as I am.”
“So, pursuing accountability is merely a pretense, and your true objective is to champion the nun’s cause?” Callan retorted, turning to face him with an expression of profound disdain.
“I never uttered such words, but that does not preclude you from interpreting them as such.”
“How interesting,” Callan murmured. With a visible reluctance, she poured him a cup of hot water. Then, clutching a bulging, sealed bag, she took a seat on the sofa, directly across from the man.
“On what grounds do you presume that I, or indeed we, would harbor ill intent towards her?”
“The most straightforward reason, undoubtedly, is that your actions compelled Solis Abbey to relocate to this insignificant, remote city. Therefore, my assertion is hardly unwarranted.”
Ramsey found himself perplexed by the sudden softening of her demeanor. Correspondingly, a measure of the sarcasm that had laced his own tone subtly receded.
“I cannot refute your words; those old men did indeed commit such an act. However, you should not hold me accountable for taking it upon myself to deal with the ‘patient.’ On the contrary, you ought to express your gratitude to me.” With a casual flick of her wrist, Callan tossed the sealed bag onto the table, its opening oriented directly towards Ramsey.
“Within the ‘patient’ were two white rats in total. The remaining one, though gravely wounded by my hand, managed to escape by some stroke of luck.”
Upon receiving this startling revelation, Ramsey’s heart gave a sudden jolt. He had never anticipated the presence of two Ratmire White Rats. His morning investigation at the crime scene, where he discovered the distinctive red lotus pattern formed by blood, had led him here, initially believing someone else had already seized the initiative. Now, he recognized that he truly owed her a debt of gratitude.
Callan, however, afforded him no such opportunity. Cutting him off before Ramsey could even utter a word, she abruptly shifted the topic, her blue eyes now blazing with an undeniable, oppressive intensity.
“While the freedom the Order currently bestows upon Solis Abbey is unprecedented in its history, if your companions prove incapable of even apprehending a severely wounded white rat, it will only serve as undeniable proof of your collective incompetence. Should that be the case, I shall immediately escort her from this city, regardless of her personal wishes. If you intend to obstruct me, you are welcome to attempt it.”
“You are fully aware of the grave consequences should you take her away,” Ramsey countered, his tone hardening with sudden seriousness. “It was Director Anthea who, in her time, decisively quelled this disaster that ought to have concluded long ago.”
Indeed, there was no denying it: the plague outbreak eleven years prior had been resolved by Director Anthea in a single night. No one had been present, and the exact events remained shrouded in mystery, leading many to regard it as nothing short of a miracle.
Consequently, the precise methods for combating the plague remained unknown, and the nun’s fragmented memories undoubtedly held crucial significance for the present predicament.
“A director is one thing, a nun quite another; no one can equate their respective abilities. Furthermore, to rely solely on others would only serve to highlight your own greater incompetence.”
“Is the Order truly prepared to disregard this unfolding disaster…?”
“You should direct that question to Bishop Sartre of Mistfall City.”
“But…”
“Should you not, perhaps, be more concerned with the current plight of your own companions?”
****
Standing by the gate, Ramsey, still clutching the sealed bag, composed himself, allowing his signature smile to return. He then removed his hat in a gesture of thanks.
“On behalf of the Epidemic Prevention Bureau, I extend my gratitude for your invaluable contribution to the kingdom, and for providing such a precious sample. I trust our next collaboration will be equally fruitful…”
A rumbling crescendo…
The car rumbled into the distance, but Callan’s gaze remained fixed on the second-floor bedroom window of number 101 across the street. This, she realized, was precisely why she had been so eager to see her guest off.
Since last night, the curtains had remained drawn, and not a single sound had emanated from within.
‘Could she truly have slept until now?’
‘Unlikely. Even assuming she fell asleep at midnight, that would still amount to twelve hours.’
‘Who could possibly sleep for so long?’
‘Or is she still angry?’
If that were indeed the case, Callan resolved, she wouldn’t hesitate to pay a visit and offer a thorough ‘apology’.