Through the hazy mist, the carriage arrived at Yvette's destination. She leaned out of the window, gazing at the familiar road flanked by dense, gloomy woods.

  Though the thin fog veiled everything, she was certain she had seen this very scene in her dream.

  As the mail coach gradually entered the village, the sense of déjà vu grew stronger. However, unlike the eerie silence of her dream—with its hollow moonlight, desolate owl cries, and empty clothes scattered on the ground—the village now exuded warmth. Wisps of chimney smoke mingled with the aroma of burning firewood, the scent of livestock manure, and the earthy fragrance of grass and soil, creating a distinct rural atmosphere. The clucking of chickens, the dull thuds of laundry women stirring their wash buckets with wooden sticks—all of it breathed life into the scene. Even if the setting was the same, it was hard to connect this lively place with the sinister dream.

  Even the most discerning poet would be inspired by the carefree, reassuring pastoral life before their eyes.

  The village had little mail to receive. After delivering the few letters, a guard said to the last recipient, a village woman, "This damned weather’s freezing us to the bone, Valérie. Do you still have any wine left? We’d like to buy a couple of glasses to warm ourselves up."

  "There’s some apple wine from last autumn, though it’s not very strong."

  "That’ll do. Can’t expect much when your village doesn’t even have a tavern." The guard smacked his lips, fishing out a few coins from his pocket, and said to the postman, "This round’s on me."

  "About time. I forgive you for badmouthing me earlier."

  The farmwoman named Valérie took the money but lingered. She glanced at Yvette, who had just stepped off the carriage and was "awkwardly" carrying her luggage, and asked the two postal workers, "And who’s that young gentleman there...?"

  "That’s Mr. Fritz Jiménez. He’s studying geology in London. His professor sent him on a field trip—he’s traveling across the country to complete his research, surveying for hidden mineral deposits. He’ll be staying in your village for a few days."

  Valérie’s eyes gleamed. "And where will Mr. Jiménez be lodging during his stay?"

  "He’s got a worn-out tent, but this isn’t the wilderness—there ought to be better options, no? Just depends if some kind soul is willing to take in a young university student and help him with his studies. Mr. Jiménez comes from London; I imagine he’d be far more generous with room and board than a laborer like me."

  "That’s wonderful! I happen to have a clean and tidy room to spare, if he’d like it."

  Yvette weighed her options. Refusing Valérie and rashly seeking out the suspected "Woman in Yellow," Frau Rehberg, would definitely raise suspicions. Besides, even with her disguise, she wasn’t sure if the Woman in Yellow had seen enough of her face to recognize her. Better to err on the side of caution and avoid staying under the same roof as her. For now, she’d let things unfold naturally.

  "I’d be delighted. I’m honored by your offer, madam."

  "Hope you find something worthwhile here, young sir. If you uncover coal or anything else, maybe a railroad will finally free us from this godforsaken route," the postman said gruffly after finishing his apple wine. Then he hopped back onto his red mail coach, cracked his whip, and rode off.

  "Mr. Jiménez, this will be your room. If you're hungry, I can make you a sandwich. We only eat twice a day here, but I know city folk take three meals." Valérie led her to the attic.

  Unfortunately, the window didn’t face the lake from her dream.

  "No need. The carriage ride left me queasy—I couldn’t eat a thing now..."

  "We hardly ever leave the village for such long trips. It must’ve been exhausting. What brings you here, Mr. Jiménez?"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "I’ve heard there’s a lake nearby. It’s quite important for my research."

  "A lake? Why?"

  "Well, it ties back to my professor’s groundbreaking theory. Aristotle claimed the world was made of four elements—earth, water, fire, and air. But Thales of Miletus, a philosopher of ancient Greece, believed water was the essence of all things. He argued that earth and air were merely condensed or rarefied forms of water, while fire wasn't a substance at all, but a state of energy. Similarly, Hippocrates and Galen taught that human health depends on four humors: blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile. That's why bloodletting is used to restore balance when we’re ill—it proves water is the crucial element. Why else would medicine focus on blood rather than skin, flesh, or bones?

  So, my professor believes water plays a vital role in geology as well. It erodes the land, deposits silt to form soil, and over millennia, tectonic shifts shape mountains. Nature’s forces at work! To uncover hidden treasures underground, one must first observe the movement of water veins..."

  Yvette rambled on, successfully baffling Valérie.

  "That sounds... profound. Your professor must have made many great discoveries! So, what minerals do you think lie near our lake?" Valérie asked with interest.

  "I’m certain it’s gold!" Yvette sighed dramatically. "Though I’m still learning, my professor’s theory is irrefutable. Even if there’s often a slight deviation between expectations and reality... well, the mistake can’t possibly lie with his teachings—it must be the world itself! No matter how many times, I’ll prove the brilliance of his wisdom and shut up those petty critics at the academy who mock us and slash our funding..."

  Valérie’s expression became inscrutable as she changed the subject. "Will you be studying our lake these next few days?"

  "Not necessarily. Water veins are equally important—I may hike along the stream to explore further downstream."

  "I can pack provisions for you if needed. Ah, I should start supper, or my children—out shepherding and chopping wood—and my husband, working in the fields, will come home hungry."

  "Perfect timing. I’ll take a stroll and plan out my research schedule."

  "Listen for the church bells. When the evening chime rings, everyone returns home for dinner. Hot meals taste best when they’re fresh." With that, Valérie bustled off to the kitchen downstairs.

  Yvette settled her luggage and stepped outside. The evening bell would ring in an hour or two, and the scent of baking bread and simmering meat wafted from hearths across the village. Even in this remote, impoverished corner of Albion, the fare was richer than what urban laborers—or even some lower-middle-class families—could afford. For reclusive mystics, life here was comfortable... provided one wasn’t striving for further ascension.

  This was partly why their organization largely ignored rural areas, focusing instead on cities—where people flowed freely and information was easier to gather. Studying the esoteric was difficult without interaction. Ancient beliefs lingered in the countryside: tales of Pan, wood nymphs, and the like. Yet the organization turned a blind eye, so long as these hidden folk didn’t stir trouble under their noses.

  Did this village house a lineage of witches? Why had her dream led her here? From what she’d seen, it bore no signs of supernatural disturbances. Even if a witch were seducing villagers to bear children, a covert operative like her had no cause to interfere. That was why "The Bitter Road," upon deducing the "vanishing woman" might have left London, had abandoned pursuit. The matter wasn’t severe enough to antagonize all independent mystics.

  Since supper approached, she shouldn’t wander too far.

  Yvette meandered through the village. In this isolated place, her presence drew hushed whispers and curious stares from youths. She pretended not to notice, though she occasionally nodded politely when their attention grew too blatant—prompting flustered giggles and hasty retreats.

  At the village center stood a small chapel, its spire crowned with a rusted iron cross. The room inside was modest, with just four rows of pews—smaller than a classroom. As she neared, Yvette heard a priest tutoring children in scripture.

  "Adam and Eve, as created, were beautiful, but you’ll find their descendants less noble. Shaped by God’s own hands, they brought forth adultery, then murder. All are children of adultery, for all carry Adam and Eve’s blood. Every act between different persons is adultery. All are descendants of fratricide—just as Cain slew his brother, so too is original sin in all."

  That’s wrong, she thought.

  Even Genesis states: "God created mankind in His own image, male and female. He blessed them and said, ‘Be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth, and subdue it. Rule over the fish, the birds, and every living creature.’"

  Yet Psalms says: "I was brought forth in iniquity; in sin did my mother conceive me."

  If one sought explanation, the fault lay not in procreation itself but the first apple’s legacy—birth merely inherited that cause.

  Lost in thought, she hardly noticed the voices shifting—genders blurred, emotion drained, no longer belonging to any living soul but something chanting from the deepest silence:

  "You come bearing knowledge, thus you may reproach their forgetfulness. You come bearing memory, thus you may reproach their ignorance. You walk through filth, yet your robes remain unsoiled. You are not buried in their corruption, nor are you ensnared."