[...Earlier when you asked me for the church records of weddings, baptisms, and funerals, I must tell you with certainty—I cannot comply. Regarding the secrets of those unusual girls in the village, I have already told you all I know. Do you not believe that I speak the truth? Just think—anyone who sees these records would doubt their ages. How could they be so easily accessed? Rashly copying them for you would put me in danger.]
These pages seemed to be part of a lengthy letter, and from their contents, it appeared that her earlier suspicions were correct. The girl who had illicit relations in the barn earlier, as well as Martha, the eldest daughter of the household where she was staying, were not ordinary. Yvette's brow furrowed slightly, but what surprised her even more was that someone else was also interested in the affairs of this village. The Secret Police? Or another Transcendent or occult researcher? She couldn't be sure who the woman in yellow was corresponding with, but she suspected it was the latter. If the woman really had connections with members of the organization, why would they have allowed the public to witness an anomalous event when the female apothecary was taken in London?
Yvette continued reading, skimming past a passage filled with envy. The writer described her younger sister’s upbringing, claiming that she excelled over her sister in every way. The “God” of the village had always favored the eldest daughter by default, yet despite being the eldest, she was inexplicably rejected, and the choice ultimately fell upon her younger sister.
[...She was always a little peculiar as a child, so when she expressed a desire to leave the village as an adult, though I was surprised, in hindsight, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.]
Upon reading this, Yvette surmised that her younger sister was likely the missing apothecary. But why would someone be interested in her?
[As a child, I thought she was a dreamer—driven by unseen, uncertain, unconscious forces, as unpredictable as steam. She would often spend whole nights lost in dreams and wake up behaving oddly, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. She claimed to dream about things that had happened to others, and later I learned that some of the dreams she described matched the experiences of deceased elders in the village. When she spoke of this, her gaze would fix on something unseen, as though lost in contemplation.
She said the village was like a pristine white beehive, striving virginal purity, sealing away its chambers and its honey. Those born within it would don their assigned roles, becoming part of the hive. Most of our lives are confined within this womb and tomb—a world without time or death, where survival serves only to perpetuate our race.
She spoke of “a shattered old self… repaired, renewed, reborn,” of hearing “herself speaking in a new voice.” I didn’t understand what she meant by these revelations, but they unsettled me. The diaries and poems where she wrote these things were confiscated by our intolerable guardian and brought before the elders. After consulting an oracle, they destroyed her writings and forbade her from speaking of them to us—yet they did not punish her.
Or, if it could be called punishment… She was once taken to the Sacred Ground. When she returned, she no longer had those strange dreams. The melancholic child became bright and cheerful, full of longing for the outside world. She said she wanted to be like a bee, seeking happiness like nectar, until it overflowed from her being.]
The letter, though incomplete, bore fresh marks—written with traditional iron-gall ink still a vivid blue, not yet darkened by oxidation.
It seemed Miss Silsha Hedges was a sensitive soul, the kind more attuned to the hidden world. Such individuals were more likely to attract the attention of unknown entities, perhaps explaining why she was indulged—why the village’s “God” had chosen her.
But what was this “God”? Neither science nor the Holy Trinity had ever completely dominated this kingdom—or the civilized world beyond. In secluded villages, or insular urban communities, ancient and bizarre beliefs still thrived in secrecy. Most of these so-called “gods” either never answered prayers or were merely otherworldly beings posing as deities. Common sense dictated that mortal minds could scarcely gaze upon a true god without descending into madness.
Given that the village’s “elders” could directly commune with their “God,” Yvette doubted it was an actual elder god.
One thing stood out: at the beginning of the letter, Mrs. Reyberg, the woman in yellow, mentioned that her correspondent had asked for a copy of the church registry. Mrs. Reyberg had firmly refused, accusing the other of distrust—but upon reflection, perhaps that wasn’t the case. If the intent was fraud, a forged copy could have been provided.
Who was this correspondent? What did they know—and what were they trying to uncover…?
Yvette also found a collection of high-value postage stamps tucked in the drawer, likely intended to send this letter to the mysterious recipient. They must have been corresponding for some time, yet Yvette found no traces of earlier letters—doubtless destroyed. Still, the request for the church registry must have stemmed from a prior clue. Was the registry the key to some revelation?
She recalled her experience days earlier outside the church, when she had hallucinated. At the time, she had been too preoccupied with herself to notice—but now she remembered. The scripture the priest had the children recite was also peculiar. It claimed all people shared a single origin, all children of Eve, thus framing intercourse as incestuous profanity. This was clearly a distortion of holy text.
Perhaps a visit to the church was in order. But the priest clearly disliked her. She’d have to find a way…
——
The next day, Yvette walked by the lake again. Though the place had appeared in her dreams, she found nothing unusual upon circling its shores.
Only the sand along the bank was riddled with minuscule white grains—smaller than sesame seeds, resembling quartz but not quite. Though varying slightly in size, they were uniformly shaped: sharp little pyramids.
For some reason, they reminded her of shark teeth—only far, far smaller.
With time to spare, she strolled back—only to run into an unexpected figure.
The “girl” she had caught in the barn with a eunuch yesterday was carrying a basket, returning to the village. When she spotted Yvette, her eyes brightened.
But it wasn’t just her—Yvette, too, was inwardly delighted.
This girl seemed infatuated with her. Perhaps she could use that.
“Hello, fair young lady. I believe we met outside the church. What a coincidence to run into you here,” she greeted with polite warmth.
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The girl returned a radiant smile and immediately struck up conversation, asking what “Se?or Ximénez” was doing there and if he needed any help.
“I’ve always adored the countryside—a pleasant distraction from work and study. I’ve been sketching much of your village these days. Just now, as I was drawing the lake, I felt something was missing. But seeing you, I understand.”
Yvette produced her sketchbook, flipping to today’s drawing. With a few deft strokes, she added the silhouette of a young woman—clothing and figure unmistakably resembling the girl before her. She did not look up, only offering a faint smile as her gaze drifted away, as though an inexperienced, bashful young man.
The girl knew full well that Martha, her superior, also had designs on this outsider. She wouldn’t dare encroach on Martha’s territory—but this was an opportunity served on a platter. Dangle a fish before a cat, and of course it would pounce.
Her past experience told her one thing: men could never resist temptation. She’d just take a little taste, as long as Martha didn’t find out...
In seconds, her mind was made. She sidled closer under the pretext of inspecting the sketch, brushing her soft chest lightly against Yvette’s arm.
“I’ve lived here all my life, yet I’ve never seen the lake look so beautiful! How wonderful! You really ought to become a painter, se?or.”
“A humble pastime, nothing more.” Yvette played the introvert, clutching the sketchbook to her chest. “I’ve drawn so much—every bit of this place is a precious memory. Though…”
“Though what?”
“Nothing… It’s just, the first time I saw you, I may have stared a little too long. I think the priest misunderstood—he has been quite unkind to me. I had hoped to depict the church in my work, but now…” she trailed off wistfully.
“Se?or Ximénez, were you really looking at me?” The girl pressed, all wide-eyed innocence.
“I-I was merely… glancing in that general direction… Ah, it’s getting late. I should return.” Drawing on her powers, Yvette flushed her ears red-hot, feigning flustered embarrassment.
The girl seized the opening. “Since it was my fault, I should make it up to you. Why don’t I take you to the church? If we go at dusk, that stuffy priest won’t be around—we can look all we like!”
“Wouldn’t that be like a… Ah, I-I didn’t mean… If you’re free, then… thank you.”
Too easy.
The same thought crossed both their minds.
Yvette had considered many things, but there was one point she ultimately miscalculated. Indeed, the extraordinary being who had corresponded with Mrs. Reberg had once lingered near London for a long time. Those high-denomination stamps had been prepared by Mrs. Reberg for long-term communication with him. However, after certain events, the man left London and came here in person. Mrs. Reberg had paused mid-letter, her reply unfinished, because she had already relayed the matter face-to-face. The incomplete letter remained in the hidden compartment, untouched.
Who could have known things would turn out so coincidentally? Even if she now doubted her judgment, this point likely ranked low in her priorities.
At that moment, she was exploring the small village church with the strange girl from the village, candleholder in hand.
"...Ah, I see. The customs here truly differ from ours," Yvette feigned great interest in folklore, subtly probing for information while occasionally bringing up amusing tales from other places, eliciting laughter from the girl accompanying her. "Once, I visited a place where they celebrated a Fool’s Festival around January 6th. On that day, the most respected figure in the village had to act as a clown to amuse the villagers. An apprentice priest became the high celebrant and even replaced sacred rites with dice on the altar. The villagers would play pranks and make merry. Though chaotic, you had to experience it firsthand to understand its charm."
"Mr. Jiménez has been to so many places. How envious! The farthest I’ve gone is the neighboring town. I’ve never heard of such a festival," the girl, initially drawn to the young visitor’s demeanor, found herself increasingly entranced by the vast world he described. In an era of limited information, Yvette—drawing from tales shared by well-traveled acquaintances, travelogues, and later-era reality shows—spoke with eloquence that left the girl spellbound.
"Every place has something unique. You mentioned wedding and baptism customs earlier—I find the tradition of newlyweds sharing mead particularly sweet. But I’m more intrigued by funerals. In many religions, funerals symbolize hope—not just an end, but a beginning. Death ushers the soul into what some believe is a superior existence."
Her slow, quiet voice echoed in the moonlit church like the murmurings of a ghost. Each syllable was caught by her sole listener, though she couldn’t fully grasp its intent. Even Yvette herself didn’t understand why she’d ventured into that topic. The unplanned words felt like tendrils emerging from her subconscious, carrying esoteric knowledge. As she spoke, she gazed at the dim, cracked ceiling, closing her eyes and envisioning a colossal form taking shape in the void—so vast its entirety was indiscernible, its presence only vaguely perceptible as one was inexorably drawn toward it.
The candle flickered as though alive, casting her ever-shifting shadow onto the wall like a towering tree sprouted from a tiny seed.
The girl felt her gaze irreversibly pulled in—not by desire, love, or any familiar emotion, but as if caught in a vortex born from an emptiness within. The young man before her seemed to harbor something vast and hollow, consuming her focus, leaving her lightheaded.
Strangely, despite a faint undercurrent of fear, she felt no urge to resist. Instead, she slipped deeper, and as she did, her trembling soul began to yearn in reverence for the approach of something dreadful.
"Funerals... ours also have... special rites... ah!" she blurted, as if hypnotized—only to snap back at a sudden sting.
She looked down at her candle-bearing hand, shaking so violently the flame wavered in terror. Melted wax dripped onto her skin like tearful eyes, scorching it red.
What’s happening to me? That sensation... as if my soul was snatched by a monster.
Her carefree demeanor shattered. Like a gazeledaunted by a predator, she scrutinized the source of her dread, finding—beneath his restraint—a ravenous hunger in his eyes, reminiscent of a viper she’d encountered as a child, poised to strike, its obsidian gaze mirroring his now.
Even in summer’s heat, that inhuman starvation had chilled her to the bone, dissolving all beauty before it.
Regret and frustration dissipated like specters. Yvette, snapping from her odd trance, first noticed the girl’s wariness—nay, fear.
"I..." she began, only for the girl to step back.
"...Sorry, I didn’t realize ghost stories frightened you." Rubbing his head sheepishly, Yvette feigned awkwardness.
"What do you mean?"
"Ever heard of the suspension bridge effect? When crossing a swaying bridge, fear accelerates hearts, often mistaken for affection." He turned slightly, voice soft. "Laugh if you will, but I exploited that to win your favor. A despicable ploy, I admit."
Her heart raced again, but this time with warmth. His small, regretful voice drew an involuntary smile.
How bizarre. This enchanting boy—why did he seem terrifying moments ago?
"You scared me! Don’t do that again..." she chided playfully, composure regained.
Seemingly abashed by his confession, he avoided her gaze—but she seized the moment, pressing close, his arm against her chest.
This time, he didn’t pull away.
"It’s late. Let’s head back before night deepens," Yvette said gently, letting her lead him out.
As they turned, the candlelight’s gold slid from his face, replaced by the moon’s icy glare—his tender expression hardening into scales.
So close... What "rites" was she about to reveal?
No matter. Today’s goal was achieved. Earlier, she’d spotted a chained notebook beneath the pulpit, its pages detailing rituals. She’d return alone.
Yet within, the ravenous shadow’s remnants of hunger faded like dying breaths.
Suddenly, the arm draped around her loosened. Looking up, she saw Martha, eyes blazing, blocking their path.
The girl bolted like a startled hare.
"How close you’ve grown! A nighttime date? Or already finished? Her place next?" mocked Martha, venom beneath her smile.
"I—I must go—"
What’s with this “scorned lover” energy? Yvette stepped forward, feigning righteousness. "I asked her to show me the church. Even if I went out with anyone, what concern is it of yours?"
Martha’s glare alone sent the girl fleeing.
Pathetic. She wouldn’t dare challenge me for this fool.
"Since she’s gone... care for another stroll? Or retiring?" Martha cooed.
"No. I’m tired."
Just as well. Things had escalated too quickly today.
And that strange state earlier...
Yvette lowered her eyes, concealing unease as the serene moonlight bathed the fields. The peaceful night brought no calm, only certainty—she was an anomaly. Within her, an unspeakable shadow grew.
