Without seeking her opinion, the request felt almost like a forced imposition. Mrs. Keith, of course, was well aware of the recent incidents plaguing the city.
Even without considering the arsons at the abbey and church, those who frequented the market daily had, by now, heard the officially embellished and obscured accounts of the coachman incident’s fallout.
Her directness in making such a request implied that she possessed either the means or the influence to extract Ghervil from Mistfall City.
Indeed, Mistfall City was hardly a desirable destination for a summer retreat at present.
“Regarding the cases…” she continued, observing the young woman’s silence, “I can leverage certain connections to postpone any proceedings for at least a month.”
‘Could it be, then, that the book from the earlier assessment was Mrs. Keith’s way of showcasing her own, and the Keith family’s, true capabilities?’
After all, books penned within the dreamscape were not easily acquired by ordinary individuals.
“I believe you already know my answer,” Ghervil stated, her gaze sweeping over the somewhat cluttered kitchen as she politely declined the offer.
The specialized, smaller kitchen utensils and the five days’ worth of fruits and vegetables stored within were clearly not mere decorations; while she had initially assumed they were provisions for unforeseen circumstances, it now appeared Mrs. Keith had anticipated her refusal.
Had she agreed to depart, such elaborate arrangements would have been unnecessary; she could have simply traveled to the royal capital and made preparations once her left hand had fully healed.
“More or less,” Mrs. Keith conceded, “but I still wished to secure your consent, even though your departure at such a juncture would undoubtedly harm the abbey’s reputation.”
Mrs. Keith cast a profound glance at Ghervil’s left hand, still suspended in a sling across her chest.
“At times,” she murmured, “continuation proves far more vital than mere glory.”
“You might find it hard to believe,” Ghervil confessed, “but I am staying solely to reclaim my lost memories. Perhaps my former self was a selfish individual, one who would instinctively flee at the first sign of danger.”
“Haha…”
Mrs. Keith offered a soft chuckle, discerning, of course, the young woman’s well-intentioned fabrication.
She harbored immense goodwill towards this girl she had known for only a few days; indeed, setting aside her station and tragic circumstances, anyone would count themselves fortunate to have such an innocent and kind young woman as a neighbor.
“If you refuse,” Mrs. Keith explained, her voice tinged with regret, “I fear extracting you from Mistfall City will prove exceedingly difficult, perhaps even impossible. In that case, I suggest you cultivate a good relationship with our new neighbor, Dr. Callan. From my observations, she is no ordinary individual, and aligning yourself with certain factions during this crisis could be a wise decision, as they possess extraordinary methods for combating the plague.”
Having spoken so candidly, Mrs. Keith could offer nothing more than the guidance and assistance within her power.
“I will try.”
‘Dr. Callan, huh… I wonder if becoming a doctor’s lackey truly counts as seeking refuge. More than one person had, after all, cautioned her, as a patient, to be wary of doctors.’
Ghervil found herself regretting this decision, having aligned with potentially unfriendly forces for a mere pittance.
‘Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so simple. The other party had saved her life; perhaps this was merely a convoluted way of repaying that debt?’
“With only three days remaining,” Mrs. Keith remarked, “and given your innate talent, you should be able to absorb a considerable amount.”
A scrubbed potato and a small chef’s knife appeared on the table, after which Mrs. Keith returned to the kitchen to prepare other items.
‘Peeling potatoes again? But there’s a dedicated peeler right there!’
“Alright, then.”
She resigned herself to her fate; mastering the fundamentals, it seemed, was an inescapable prerequisite for acquiring any new skill.
With her left hand still largely incapacitated, the task presented a formidable challenge.
An hour elapsed, culminating in a sight she herself could barely stomach: three pitifully peeled potatoes, her sole, if inglorious, achievement.
Following Mrs. Keith’s instructions, she then commenced the subsequent steps of the process.
Throughout the entire afternoon, she familiarized herself with the proper use of most kitchen utensils, seasonings, and ingredients.
She was permitted to undertake some simpler tasks herself, such as adding salt, pouring water, tasting, and regulating the heat. Finally, just before dusk, she completed dinner—the very first meal she had ever participated in preparing.
Though her contribution likely amounted to less than ten percent of the overall effort, she felt immensely satisfied.
Feeling rather stuffed, she returned home that evening, neatly folded her new dress, and then collapsed onto the bed, allowing her body to bounce and settle into its soft embrace.
Her energy was all but depleted.
Despite spending most of the day merely observing, she couldn’t openly take notes, forcing herself to commit everything to memory. Moreover, she had to field Mrs. Keith’s unexpected questions, which often inquired about the culinary outcomes of combining various ingredients and seasonings.
While she could generally answer these queries, she found herself stumped when confronted with particularly unusual or arcane knowledge.
For instance, she was once informed that if she wished to lose weight, she could simply consume freshwater fish that had been salted for fewer than seven days.
Baffled, she inquired why.
The explanation she received, however, left her utterly dumbfounded.
Mrs. Keith had responded with utmost seriousness: “Because it would inevitably lead to severe diarrhea, dehydration, and other symptoms caused by parasitic infection.”
It was as if no one had ever actually warned her against such a practice.
‘Having lived in the 21st century in her previous life, she possessed at least a modicum of such basic common sense.’
Through further conversation, she soon realized the matter was not quite so straightforward.
Approximately two decades prior, during mandated fasting days, the consumption of fish was obligatory. To preserve the freshness of the ingredients and out of reverence for the Church, some individuals had opted to consume raw fish, merely salting it lightly before eating.
Over an extended period, a significant portion of the populace consequently contracted parasitic diseases.
Considering the abysmal hygiene and medical standards of that era, Ghervil could readily envision the arduous struggle the Church must have faced in abolishing this particular tradition.
After boiling water and managing to bathe with her left hand still elevated, she settled at her desk in her nightclothes. Before her lay a diary, its pages filled with characters silently transcribed in Chinese.
Though she intended to write, the fountain pen in her grasp remained poised, hesitant to descend upon the page.
Her mind felt utterly blank.
‘“Never mind,” she thought, sighing, “Let it be. Tomorrow will be no less demanding than today.”’
Closing the diary and capping her pen, she moved towards the bed. Just before lying down, a sudden thought struck her.
She half-crouched, her right hand bracing against the bed’s edge, as she leaned her body to peer beneath.
Deep within the shadows, she could vaguely discern a small wooden box.
As she attempted to reach for it, a tugging sensation from the sling around her neck reminded her of her injured arm.
“…”
‘“It’s truly inconvenient with only one usable hand,” she muttered to herself. “I really shouldn’t have pushed it so far back with my foot.”’
Resigning herself, she wriggled half her body beneath the bed, expending considerable effort before finally managing to drag the box out.
The contents required ten hours of undisturbed darkness, yet more than twice that duration had now elapsed.
Upon opening the box, the distinct scent of mixed medicinal herbs and potent concoctions wafted forth.
At its very heart lay a test tube, shimmering with a pale red liquid.
This particular vial of medicine was a creation of the dean herself, and Ghervil refused to entertain the possibility of its failure.
Holding her breath to minimize the inhalation of the stimulating fumes, she carefully transferred the small box into a larger storage container, one previously used for old clothes. After securing it with two locks, she meticulously pushed the larger container back beneath the bed, only then allowing herself to relax.
Her own blood alone was valued at one Trin Gold Coin, and considering the single dose of finished product within, along with materials sufficient for three to five more uses, the small wooden box’s total worth was conservatively estimated at over three Trin Gold Coins—a sum nearly equivalent to all her current disposable funds.
Lying on her bed, she mentally replayed the culinary knowledge she had absorbed that day. The thought of soon being able to prepare delicious meals herself stirred a faint excitement within her.
After several restless turns, her gaze settled on the window, where she could perceive the hazy moonlight beyond, accompanied by nothing more than a faint wisp of mist.
Number 100 had remained eerily silent throughout the entire day.
A flicker of worry ignited within her, not for the ‘black-hearted boss,’ of course, but for her own future. Culinary delights, scholarly pursuits, learning new skills, earning money—all these aspirations hinged upon a foundation of stable and tranquil living.
She pondered whether the second rat attack had been directed at Agent Lalviye-Komel or at herself.
If it was the former, those organizations and factions should be capable of handling it themselves; however, if she was the target, they would undoubtedly be forced to divert their attention and resources to this vicinity.
In such a precarious situation, her active involvement in the case investigation amounted to exposing herself as a potential target, thereby risking unnecessary complications…
“Ah,” she sighed.
With a final sigh, she pulled a large pillow, specially unearthed for the purpose, into her arms and buried her face in it, resolving to banish all troublesome thoughts from her mind.
She would only reconsider these matters once the agent and the doctor actively sought her out.
For now, she decided, special problems warranted special treatment, and diligently mastering the remaining two days of cooking lessons was her most pressing concern.