How was one to describe this oversized rodent? Ghervil’s mind immediately conjured a specific creature: a chinchilla, though more famously known as a Totoro.
Its distinguishing features, however, were notably rounder ears and a more voluminous tail.
While its actual physique was likely only marginally larger than a common rat or squirrel, its luxuriant, fluffy fur gave it a deceptively plump appearance.
She surmised this creature must be a variant within the chinchilla family.
No, merely being a variant didn’t account for its ability to speak human language; ‘mutation’ seemed a far more apt description.
****
Fifteen minutes later, a thick hemp rope, tied to its fluffy tail, hung from the doorframe, directly above an iron basin containing two freshly lit pieces of charcoal.
The other end of the rope was clutched in Ghervil’s hand as she sat leisurely on a stool, munching on a fresh carrot.
“You’ve completely devoured all the meat in the house,” Ghervil declared, a sly glint in her eyes. “And wouldn’t you know it, I was just feeling rather peckish for some, and then you made your grand appearance. What a delightful coincidence.”
“Shall I roast you until you’re perfectly well-done, or perhaps singe off your fur, wash you thoroughly, brush on a glistening layer of oil, and then roast you? Tell me, what particular flavor do you fancy?”
“Dearest little sister, I truly understand my mistake now… I’ll tell you anything you wish to know… Please, just put me down, alright?”
The chinchilla spun in mid-air, its large ears trembling incessantly.
Its voice quivered with terror.
Since being suspended over the fire, it had been subjected to pure torture, with no questions asked.
“I’m curious what roasted rodent tastes like.”
Biting cleanly through her carrot, Ghervil loosened the rope in her hand ever so slightly.
As the temperature beneath its head noticeably rose, tears welled in the chinchilla’s round eyes, pleadingly fixed on the girl who found amusement in tormenting others.
“If you want to eat, I can go catch something for you; those creatures have more meat than I do, I only *look* plump… Agh! Please don’t loosen the rope anymore! Waaah… I don’t want to die at my own sister’s hands!”
“Why do you assume I’m your sister?”
Having played enough, Ghervil asked, her brow furrowed in surprise.
“It’s not an assumption… How do I explain it to you…”
“Coincidentally, I’m in need of a chinchilla fur hat to keep me warm in autumn.”
“I’ll tell you!”
Suspended precariously less than fifty centimeters above the brazier, the chinchilla spoke with a rapid, desperate cadence:
“My name is Govet.”
“Govet-Ghervil!”
The hemp rope continued its slow descent.
“If you insist on such a claim, then my name is the First Emperor of Qin. Tell me, should I truly believe that ‘Ghervil’ is your family name, or that I am the legendary Qin Shi Huang himself?”
“Who is that?”
“Give me fifty Trin, and I’ll tell you.”
“Fifty Trin? Why don’t you just rob someone!”
“That’s an excellent suggestion, indeed. But first, would you perhaps mind if I satisfied my own hunger?”
A faint, unsettling scent of scorching meat began to waft through the air.
“No! That really is my name! If you don’t believe me, you can ask the Dean!”
“From now on, you’ll be the elder sister, and I’ll be the younger sister; I’ll never call you ‘little sister’ again… Waaah…”
“You just mentioned the Dean?”
The hemp rope halted just in time, and Ghervil leaned forward, questioning.
The chinchilla rubbed its eyes furiously with its forepaws, weeping loudly and offering no reply.
This time, its tears were genuine.
****
Tying the hemp rope to a table leg, Ghervil removed the brazier, untied the chinchilla, and placed it on her desk.
She vaguely recalled fragmented memories, a hallucination she’d experienced when searching for the Dean in the cellar.
It was the back of a white-haired woman in a currant-colored gown, speaking with the Dean.
Upon closer reflection, she realized the chinchilla’s voice bore a striking, almost uncanny, resemblance to that woman’s.
‘No way…’
From their conversation at the time, it could be inferred that the woman was a member of the abbey.
A bolder guess would place her among the eight nuns.
Yet, Ghervil had attended their funeral just days prior. While the Dean’s presence in a dream, rather than reality, was comprehensible, this particular apparition…?
‘Perhaps I’ve offended an elder of the abbey.’
Given that the Dean possessed the ability to communicate across eras, Ghervil found it utterly implausible that the other members would possess no special abilities whatsoever.
An icy shiver raced down her spine.
“Are you also a nun from the abbey?”
She asked tentatively.
Still, there was no reply; it merely continued to lie on the desk, rubbing its eyes and crying relentlessly.
“Sister Govet?”
Ghervil gently poked its plump belly with half a carrot.
“Waaah… My fur got singed by you… Calling me ‘elder sister’ won’t help anything now…”
“I want to go back… Waaah… I’m going to tell the Dean on you…”
‘This is trouble…’
Ghervil found herself flustered, unsure how to comfort a sobbing person—no, a sobbing rodent. She had no experience with such a situation.
In the hallucination, this person was roughly the same height as the Dean, yet their temperament was like a child’s?
‘If it really goes and complains to the Dean…’
‘No, I can’t let that happen.’
Rising, she checked the window, then locked the door with a key, ensuring not even a mosquito could escape the room before she resumed her seat at the desk.
Since this was an elder from the abbey, crude methods were out of the question. Intimidation wouldn’t work; only enticement remained.
Over the next ten minutes, she attempted no fewer than ten different methods.
She laid out all the food from a box, letting it pick and choose.
She promised to make delicious food for it, only for it to cry even louder.
She called it “elder sister” repeatedly.
She even cradled it in her arms, rocking it gently as one would a child, among countless other attempts, all of which met with unequivocal failure.
Finally, at her wit’s end, she promised to let it live there permanently as the second master of the house, acknowledging its status as her elder sister.
In truth, such an arrangement was quite reasonable; surely, the Dean’s legacy ought to include a rightful share for this creature.
Then, at long last, the incessant sobbing finally ceased.
“Really… You’re not lying to me… You won’t kick me out?”
It asked, its voice laced with residual tears.
“Of course, provided you haven’t lied to me.”
“I swear to the Goddess, everything I’ve said is true.”
Govet’s plump body scrambled upright, her eyes gleaming with renewed hope as she gazed at Ghervil.
“That settles it then. You’ve been crying for so long, you must be hungry. I’ll go make you something to eat.”
“No, no need!”
Upon hearing this, Govet’s bravado completely deflated. Rubbing her stomach, she slumped back down.
“I’m not very hungry tonight. Something else will do…”
“Alright, fair enough. Cooking in the middle of the night isn’t ideal.”
****
Three minutes later, the girl and the rodent sat on the bed.
Ghervil was examining the gun, while Govet continued gnawing on the unfinished corn she held.
“You still haven’t explained why you called me ‘little sister’. Is referring to each other as sisters an abbey tradition?”
“There’s no such tradition,” Govet replied, shaking her head intelligently and scooting a little further away, wary of the gun accidentally firing.
“Then why did you call me that?”
“Because it’s the truth, of course.”
Noticing the gun’s muzzle inadvertently follow the girl’s gaze towards her, Govet hastily offered an explanation:
“We share the same bloodline, and I am older than you, so I am the elder sister…”
‘Same bloodline…’
Ghervil recalled a question she had asked the Dean, and the answer she received, when learning to create the Nightmare Revelation.
Verifying if this creature was indeed her elder sister could be done immediately; the method was quite simple.
“I don’t believe it, unless you help me with a favor.”
She leaned in, grinning.
“What favor…” A bad premonition arose, and suddenly the corn she was holding lost its appeal.
“Help me make a potion. Not much, just a single dose will suffice.”
“A Nightmare Revelation?”
‘You even know about that, so it must be true!’
What she had initially perceived as merely another mouth to feed had, in a sudden revelation, transformed into a convenient, portable blood bank.
Amidst a pained, indignant shriek, Ghervil effortlessly drew several drops of blood with a fine silver needle.
Half an hour later, after a precise mixing and proportioning with other arcane ingredients, the potion within the test tube slowly shifted to a delicate, pale red, emitting a familiar and subtly intoxicating rose scent.