After carefully stowing away the potions and materials deep beneath her bedroom floor, Ghervil settled at her desk, turning to the only book she could currently comprehend: the complete edition of ‘Somnolence and Sickness’, which she had just acquired.
Had she encountered this book immediately upon arriving in this world, she would have dismissed it as nothing more than a sensational horror novel.
Some of the horrifying incidents detailed within claimed over a hundred thousand lives, a toll equivalent to that of a small city.
For over two decades, research into various aspects of the plague had shown little to no significant progress.
Several cases had emerged in recent years, occurring on average annually.
Natural disasters and human factors contributed almost equally, with most incidents either fading into obscurity or concluding with extreme eradication methods, leaving behind a stark scarcity of cured cases.
It was little wonder the Dean had advised her to make her decisions with utmost caution, given that some ailments possessed the terrifying ability to manipulate one’s mind and alter their very personality.
She continued reading until eleven o’clock, then performed a simple wash-up before closing the book.
Pulling back a sliver of the curtain, she glimpsed the dark, unlit building at Number 100.
Without another thought, she switched off the light and lay down, beginning to organize her thoughts.
The potion making, the blood drawing with needles, the discussions about Blood Rose (TL Note: A mysterious organization or phenomenon mentioned in the story.) knowledge—
All these had transpired within a room hidden in a cellar…
No, that couldn’t be right.
The Dean’s room lacked the faint earthy smell of a cellar, and the night sky outside its window was clear, the moon unobscured by any mist.
She had clearly been transported to an entirely different location.
Gradually, she was growing accustomed to this peculiar world.
Should a talking animal appear one day, she wouldn’t even be surprised.
Cunning white rats could burrow into human minds, controlling people’s speech; if they grew even stronger, there was no telling if they might speak themselves.
Dr. Callan had arrived just in time that day; otherwise, would she too have ended up like Luke?
A chill crept further down her spine with each thought, and she forced her eyes shut, banishing the unsettling notions before eventually drifting off to sleep.
****
It was Monday, July 9th, 1956, the dawn of a new week.
Nine o’clock found her rising a little later than intended.
Her original plan had been to wake at six, yet she had only roused herself from a hazy sleep at nine.
She wasn’t certain if her somnolence was to blame.
In any case, as long as it didn’t delay her important tasks, it was fine.
After washing up, she spent half an hour perusing a portion of the books she had brought over from the Keith residence.
At precisely ten o’clock, having consumed her potion, she ventured next door and knocked on the door from which cooking smoke now curled.
Lunch at the Keiths’ was typically served between eleven and noon, and the fact that Mrs. Keith hadn’t greeted her or called for her already spoke volumes.
The assessment had not been postponed.
Arriving at this hour would allow her to observe the entire cooking process.
They had only forbidden her from helping, not from learning.
“The door isn’t locked,” Mrs. Keith’s slightly raised voice echoed from within.
Pushing open the door, Ghervil headed directly for the kitchen.
Just as she neared the entrance, the voice spoke again:
“For today’s lunch, I’ve reduced the amount of sugar and salt; they tend to hinder the recovery of your arm.”
The mistress of the house clearly knew who her guest was.
“Do you need any help?”
Finding an unobtrusive spot in the kitchen, Ghervil stood, giving her bandaged left arm a slight lift and shake to indicate her injury was not severe.
She could manage small tasks—like handing over a spoon or fork, or checking the heat of a pan.
The reason for her hand injury last night had almost slipped out, but Dr. Callan had thankfully interrupted and smoothed things over.
“You’ve arrived at just the right moment.
Try this and tell me how it tastes, but be careful, it’s hot.”
Was Mrs. Keith simply very busy, or brimming with confidence?
With her right hand, she scooped a spoonful of broth from the stew pot and offered it to the young woman’s lips, who stood slightly behind her.
Simultaneously, her left hand deftly stirred ingredients in a frying pan, her gaze scanning a pile of prepared vegetables.
The soup was a pristine white, a fish broth whose fresh aroma wafted invitingly.
Blowing gently, Ghervil took a few sips, then hesitated, on the verge of speaking.
Its color, freshness, and presentation were impeccable, yet it lacked significant flavor.
Simply put, there wasn’t enough salt.
“It’s perfect,” Mrs. Keith declared, turning her head slightly to offer her own assessment, preempting Ghervil’s comment.
During their previous meals, she had observed that Ghervil preferred richly flavored dishes.
Whether the fish soup was salty or bland, it was evident from the young woman’s expression.
It was a common belief that reducing high-sugar and high-salt foods aided in wound recovery.
Ghervil doubted its efficacy for a fractured bone, or at least believed its impact would be minimal, but the daily selection and seasoning of the meals were not hers to dictate.
She simply hoped for a swift recovery.
The prerequisite for enjoying cooking, after all, was an appreciation for perfectly flavored cuisine.
After bustling about in the kitchen, largely unhelpful but thoroughly observing and learning the entire cooking process, it was finally time for lunch.
The table was laden with dishes, none of which possessed any significant spice, effectively eliminating Dr. Callan’s chance of dropping by for a free meal that morning.
During dinner the previous night, Mrs. Keith had incidentally learned of Dr. Callan’s distinct culinary preferences.
As she left, Ghervil had specifically glanced at the house across the way; there was no cooking smoke, and the doors and windows remained tightly shut.
The most probable explanations were either sleeping in or being away from home; considering Dr. Callan’s ‘duties’ and her exhibited personality, the latter seemed almost certain.
This suited Ghervil perfectly, as she had no desire to be disturbed during her upcoming assessment by her neighbor and employer, who was at times frivolous and at other times serious.
Half an hour later, lunch concluded.
After the dishes were cleared, Mrs. Keith retrieved a thick, leather-bound book from the bookshelf and placed it on the table before Ghervil.
“The assessment is quite simple,” Mrs. Keith announced.
“You pass if you can read aloud over a thousand words from this book, forming continuous sentences, within ten minutes.”
‘What?’
Ghervil’s mind reeled; to be tested on a new book, one she had never seen before, instantly plummeted her confidence to zero.
‘How could she be assessed if she couldn’t understand a single word?’
‘This was an absurd expectation.
For a beginner in a new language, it would be impossible to learn a thousand words in just a few days, let alone read sentences.’
She looked up to find Mrs. Keith’s calm, serene gaze, as if to convey that it was, in fact, quite simple.
A twinge of guilt, or perhaps self-doubt, gnawed at her.
Her gaze dropped to the book itself.
Its dark gray leather cover, creased with age and weathered by time, still appeared remarkably well-preserved, without a single crack or blemish.
‘Perhaps I should find an excuse later to confess to Mrs. Keith and request an alternative assessment?’
‘Surely, Mrs. Keith wouldn’t refuse…’
Having mentally prepared her fallback, Ghervil reached out and opened the cover.
[“Initially… what sparked your interest in the ‘Plague,’ Mr. Sicily?”]
‘Hm?’
She softly, hesitantly, uttered the first sentence on the yellowed page, the first words that seemed to float before her eyes.
They were not unfamiliar; these were the very words written in her dreams, words she had seen recently, with a copy currently in her own home.
‘Was this the source of Mrs. Keith’s confidence?’
‘And the content itself… I might have to overturn my previous assumptions.
Mrs. Keith might not be a simple noblewoman.’
She parted her lips, raised her eyebrows in a show of appropriate surprise, and silently questioned with her expression.
“This is a private interview with a professional from 1947,” Mrs. Keith explained.
“It should be of considerable help to you.”
Retrieving a pocket watch from her pocket and placing it on the table, Mrs. Keith offered a small smile.
“You have less than nine minutes remaining until the assessment concludes.”
‘This also counts as time?’
Ghervil swiftly refocused her attention on the book, meticulously reading word by word:
[“It’s not so much interest; what I do is quite similar to what you do now.”]
[“Then it *is* interest!”]
[“You are as humorous as ever, Ms. Eldoria, and I hope you maintain this attitude throughout your professional life.”]
[“Thank you.
May we return to the main topic now?”]
[“Who was it that steered us off topic!”]
[“Ahem… First, as a core member of the team and a primary contributor to the research findings, what is your stance on the plague?”]
[“I can say with great certainty that the ‘Plague’ is one of the top five most dangerous epidemics we have encountered since the appearance of the Mist (TL Note: A recurring supernatural phenomenon in the story.), and in certain circumstances, it could even rank among the top three.”]
[“Oh… we should be grateful that an exceptionally talented team has made progress in their research on the plague.”]
[“That’s an exaggeration… I don’t consider it fortunate at all to be answering questions about the ‘Plague’ in this dream only now.
On the contrary, it’s terrible.
Two years have passed since the plague broke out, and only now have certain individuals strenuously lobbied for this dialogue opportunity.
It’s not due to some damned confidentiality agreement or fear of panic.
The truth is, our incompetence is the primary reason it took two years to achieve even preliminary results.”]
Reading this, Ghervil felt a surge of surprise.
Eleven years had passed since the first plague outbreak, and judging by the passive stance of the agents and police, who could only monitor from outside the cathedral, it was plausible that research had stalled or ceased for some unknown reason after that initial study.
‘How exactly had the Dean triumphed over the plague all those years ago?’
‘Yet, during their conversation last night, the Dean had seemed reluctant to bring up the subject again…’
“Continue, don’t stop,” Mrs. Keith instructed.
“After you finish, I will not answer any questions about the plague.
Everything I know is written here, and you are not to mention this book to anyone else.”
“Yes, alright,” Ghervil responded.
Only then, prompted by the reminder, did she realize her momentary pause had been caused by her astonishment.
[“I wasn’t praising you, nor was I implying that you should engage in self-reflection.”]
[“I understand, but I must still state that this is the truth.”]
[“To spend two years without discovering the plague’s mode of transmission—this is the result of our research, a truth no one can conceal!”]