Before the abbey’s destruction, letters of commission were typically delivered directly.
For nearby cities, a visit to Mistfall City to see the abbess, even if she wasn’t present, wouldn’t cause significant delays.
However, for those traveling from afar, time was a luxury they couldn’t afford; encountering the highly probable scenario of the abbess being absent from the abbey meant that the round trip, coupled with the waiting period, could allow events to unfold into an entirely different situation upon their return.
Now, with the abbey’s case having simmered for roughly a month, it might not be common knowledge nationwide, but certainly, the upper echelons of various organizations were well aware.
Thus, letters of commission reaching such a ‘formal’ level were unlikely to appear again.
Govet-Ghervil’s rambling discourse ultimately conveyed this precise point.
Without a commission, how could anything be accomplished?
The conditions for unfreezing the account were, from the outset, impossible to meet within a month and a half.
Unless she could demonstrate an ability on par with that of the former abbess to those individuals.
With reputation established, commissions would naturally follow.
This, too, was an impossibility.
Still, she refused to give up hope.
Having already captured the attention of the Royal Family, abandoning her efforts might only provoke them to devise other schemes elsewhere.
The tranquil days, free from disturbance, were most likely a courtesy extended by the Royal Family.
They were granting her a period of respite, allowing her to adapt and prepare to truly assume the abbey’s leadership.
‘Perhaps it’s an opportunity…’
As a peanut found its way to her mouth, Ghervil leaned back, her gaze drifting towards the ceiling.
“What opportunity?”
Govet-Ghervil inquired, stacking the plates neatly one by one.
“An opportunity to extricate the abbey from its current predicament.”
She extended her right hand to the table, gesturing as if to shell another peanut.
“If we fail to seize it, the abbey might face the direst of outcomes.”
Though she couldn’t quite grasp the ‘direst outcome’ the young woman spoke of, Govet-Ghervil still cracked open a peanut shell with her teeth, pouring the kernels into her palm.
“Impossible,” Govet-Ghervil asserted. “The abbey’s history and significance far transcend your imagination. Its fate cannot be decided by a mere handful of voices, nor can even the Royal Family shake its foundations.”
“That was predicated on the assumption that you were all still alive, and the abbess was still here,”
Ghervil leaned forward once more, her fingers gently pinching Govet-Ghervil’s fuzzy cheek as she drew closer.
“Consider why the abbey was almost entirely annihilated, receiving no external aid whatsoever.”
The Order dispatched a single doctor, while the Epidemic Prevention Bureau sent two agents of middling rank.
The lives of nearly a million people rested in their hands.
In the face of a plague like the Ratmire White Rat, spread through such a peculiar vector, this meager staff was utterly insufficient.
In a sense, the plague was a scourge left behind by the abbess and Bishop Sartre’s misjudgments from years past; if mishandled, both parties would face severe repercussions.
‘Would they sacrifice a million lives to ensure the abbey’s complete disappearance…’
Ghervil felt a shiver of dread crawl up her spine at her own conjecture.
“Are you suggesting a powerful force is orchestrating this from the shadows?”
Govet-Ghervil, whose reactions were far from sluggish, slowly wagged her tail, pondering any factions within the nation that might have had conflicts with the abbey.
The conclusion she reached was none.
“The abbess was always a person of profound discretion. When the abbey was still in the Royal Capital, she never offended any truly formidable figures… indeed, no prominent individual would dare to cross her.”
“Formerly in the Royal Capital… tell me the reason the abbey relocated to Mistfall City.”
“The abbess initiated the move herself. The reason she gave us was to come here and await her death.”
Govet-Ghervil’s tone remained utterly devoid of emotion.
“Publicly, it was announced that she wished to be stationed in Mistfall City, a primary locus of the mists. This caused quite a stir at the time, with countless speculations arising from all sectors of society. Among the more widely accepted theories was that the abbess and Her Majesty the Queen had a disagreement over a certain matter.”
“What are your thoughts on that?”
Ghervil released her hold on the fuzzy cheek.
“The abbess would never lie to us.”
Shaking her head, Govet-Ghervil fixed her with a serious gaze.
‘So, the abbess truly foresaw her own demise.’
‘No one offended, no hostile forces…’
‘It might not even be a political reason. There are too few clues at present to discern the truth.’
“It’s not entirely ill news, however.”
Rising to her feet, Ghervil cleared away the leftover food, then helped carry the stacked dishes towards the kitchen.
“There is good news, though. This force is currently restrained or held in check, which is precisely why the Royal Family has granted us this opportunity.”
“How many times must I say it? It’s a commission.”
“And so, we return to the initial dilemma.”
Govet-Ghervil hopped off the table and followed her to the kitchen doorway, convinced the young woman wouldn’t be so benevolent as to wash the dishes herself.
Predictably.
The young woman emerged from behind the stove, picking up Govet-Ghervil and placing her beside the pile of soaking dishes.
“If my conjecture holds true, perhaps we won’t have to wait long at all. The commission will seek us out.”
“And if it doesn’t arrive, I wonder what you’ll do then,”
Govet-Ghervil muttered a soft complaint, before beginning to wash the plates one by one with her forepaws.
****
Two more tranquil days passed, and on Wednesday, a letter was deposited into the mailbox of Room 101.
It was, in a sense, a letter from a friend.
“Reverend Sister Ghervil,”
Govet-Ghervil instinctively retrieved the letter, but no sooner had she uttered a single line than it was gently plucked from her paws.
Having gradually grown accustomed to wearing sunglasses when venturing out for groceries, Ghervil had refrained from taking her medication when no pressing matters demanded it at home. This served two purposes: to facilitate her reading and conserve her dwindling supply of potions, and to be prepared for precisely such moments as this.
Seated on the sofa, Govet-Ghervil squeezed through a gap in the young woman’s arm, nestling into her lap to read alongside her.
[“You should remember me; I am Penelope-Rose, the florist you saved, who supplies Blood Roses to the Mistfall Cathedral. Our first encounter was by the roadside on Canary Street, and I later guided you within the Cathedral.”]
[“As a token of my gratitude, I, on behalf of Rose Manor, wish to invite you to an art flower exhibition held on August 27th. Furthermore, I hope to consult with you regarding the cultivation and planting of Blood Roses. Naturally, all your travel expenses will be reimbursed by the Manor.”]
[“Should you be interested, you may find me in Florence City before the 27th.”]
“Rose Manor… by its name, it sounds like a private estate, doesn’t it?”
“Ah, that’s your limited knowledge showing! In crucial moments, you still need your older sister to guide you. It seems you truly require my care when venturing elsewhere.”
Govet-Ghervil proudly raised her head, her whiskers twitching with satisfaction.
“Rose Manor is a renowned establishment, not just in Florence City but throughout the entire Southern Diocese. The Manor’s floriculture industry serves as one of the local church’s vital economic mainstays. Beyond selling flowers, it hosts large-scale flower exhibitions annually, with tourism and exhibition revenues proving equally substantial.”
“I never would have thought you’d actually guess it; Rose Manor can indeed be considered an official entity.”
Ghervil remained silent, lost in contemplation.
She likely understood the underlying reason.
The abbess had been an expert in Blood Roses.
As a member of the abbey, it was only natural for outsiders to assume she had inherited much of the abbess’s knowledge.
While she had indeed inquired about Blood Roses with the abbess in the cellar, her knowledge was far from comparable to that of a seasoned florist.
“Do you understand Blood Roses?”
Setting the letter aside, she scooped up the furball nestled in her arms.
“Hehe, I’d like to hear you call me ‘older sister’.”
‘So, she does understand.’
Today was the 22nd. Excluding travel time, she had about three days to make a decision—no, to prepare.
A faint smile touched Ghervil’s lips as she gently set the presumptuous creature aside, then ascended the stairs to retrieve paper and pen, ready to compose her reply.