“Anyway, it is not true that he committed arson and murdered the neighboring family.”
“Look here, Ayesha. People are not curious about such boring and shabby truths. What people want to know is whether that arsonist really set the fire and killed five neighbors, and when they can see him hanging from the gallows.”
“But……”
“But nothing. A reporter must grab attention with a single line. Cut out all the tedious details and write as sensationally as possible. That is what makes money. We do not dig the ground to pay your wages either. If you want to earn money, earn your keep.”
The editor-in-chief’s principle was clear. Money, and only money. It was the same when Ayesha voiced her concerns before leaving for Worsley.
“What if House Eseldor does not stay quiet after I publish this as an article?”
“The current lord is probably so busy succeeding to the family that he barely has time to breathe—would he have time to read every little fringe magazine like ours?”
“The lord may not have time, but someone around him could read it by chance and report it.”
“Just don’t write ‘Eseldor’ openly. Don’t reveal who it refers to—just drop subtle hints. If they corner us, we can just deny it. We never said it. In fact, they are more likely to pretend not to know. It is the family’s shame. If they poke at us, they would be publicly admitting it is about them, so they will never be able to do that.”
Even so, how many families in this country have hereditary mental illness passed down through generations? Moreover, the series of episodes Ayesha had heard were so specific that anyone in the know could easily identify which family they referred to.
Still, was it really all right to write this as an article?
……As long as it is not revealed who wrote it, it should be fine.
Ayesha tried to suppress the unease quietly rising in her heart.
“……Miss, just let what we said now pass in one ear and out the other. Only a very few people here know, or almost no one does, and for people like us, there is not a single good thing that comes from prying deeply into the affairs of those above us.”
Her conscience pricked her somewhat, but she pressed her lips together firmly. Once a secret leaves the mouth, it is no longer a secret. Whether fast or slow, someday it will become known to the world. Those aunties could not have been unaware of that either. They had known and still fallen to the desire to show off their information.
It was an event from the previous generation, and the servant who had been a witness at the time had long since quit, so it would not be easy for Kirix to find out through whose mouth the rumor had spread. After all, the fastest word of all is surely the word without feet.
Above all, by the time this article came out, she would already have left Langfield Manor.
For a poorly selling magazine, and within it, a reporter who could not even write money-making articles—if she went on a business trip with a subject the editor-in-chief had personally brought her and returned empty-handed, she would be harshly cursed for not earning her keep. She might even be fired.
Then she had to write it. She had to write it somehow.
Ayesha tilted the quill pen heavily loaded with ink.
It was the moment the tip, cut at a slant with a knife, pressed firmly into the paper. The stroke of the letter blurred, and black ink flowed out and soaked her finger.
“Ah, it’s doing this again.”
The tip had already grown soft. A short-lived quill pen often wore out and became useless after only a few days. That was why people in professions that required a lot of writing, like Ayesha, always had to carry spare quill pens.
The editor-in-chief had urged her to buy a fountain pen, asking how long she intended to use an outdated quill, but she had insisted on the quill to the end. For no particular reason, she had simply never warmed to fountain pens, strangely enough. Especially when she saw the sharp nib, her breathing would quicken or cold sweat would run.
Ayesha, who had risen to wash her blackened hand, rang the bell cord to call a servant. The servant quickly brought lukewarm water. Everyone working in this manor was well prepared. They were quick-witted, silently provided only the necessary service, and then slipped away as if they had never appeared. Like elusive shadows.
“Please bring it to the bathroom. I am tired and want to wash my face too.”
She thought of washing only her hands lightly, then changed her mind. Sitting still in one place and agonizing over the draft had tired her eyes.
The servant filled the washbasin in the bathroom. After she left, Ayesha entered the bathroom and placed her hands under the warm water.
The ink began to melt and spread. The water surface slowly turned a reddish blood color.
Ayesha stared blankly down at the washbasin, then blinked. The world closed for a moment beneath her eyelids and then brightened again.
What did I just see?
Reason snapped back.
Looking again, the water was not bright red blood but a cloudy ink color. Of course.
Ayesha shook her head. Perhaps because she had encountered the family’s tragedy before entering Langfield Manor, and had even heard Kirix himself pour out bizarre words about an evil spirit, she had briefly lost her senses and suffered an optical illusion.
After rubbing soap carefully between her fingers, Ayesha raised her head and met her own eyes in the mirror. Beyond the deep blue-violet irises, she saw the reflection of her eyes.
“What, were you scared?”
She playfully scolded herself.
Even though she firmly believed it was delusion, the very existence of an evil spirit trying to steal a human body was a chilling and creepy subject. Wasn’t it like a horror novel?
“Get a hold of yourself.”
She must have been very tired from the burden of having to play the spirit medium, a role utterly unsuited to her.
Even so, an optical illusion was too foolish.
Taking the opportunity, Ayesha splashed the remaining water on her face and washed it. As she patted her face dry with the towel the servant had prepared, she inadvertently looked into the mirror and stopped again.
The silhouette of the reflection in her eyes looked somehow unfamiliar. It was too small to be certain, but she saw a shape that seemed to have long, flowing hair.
Long, flowing hair…….
A water droplet she had not fully wiped away fell from the tip of her chin.
Since getting hired as a reporter, she had always tied her long hair neatly into one bundle. It was because the job required good mobility, and long hair hanging down got in the way. So today, too, she had definitely gathered and tied her hair first thing after waking up. It was a habit she had kept without missing a single day.
……That makes no sense. Look again. Look closely.
Ayesha leaned her upper body deeper toward the mirror. Her nose almost touched the glass surface.
Her reflection clearly had dark blonde hair neatly tied below her ears, exposing her neck, yet the image in the eyes of that reflection showed flowing, loose hair rippling instead of the outline of a face.
Ayesha raised her hand and groped near the back of her neck. The bundle of hair rolled and tied was grasped in her hand. When she untied the knot of the hair tie, the rolled hair came flowing down in waves.
It was the silhouette of the reflection.
“……What is this.”
Another illusion?
Ayesha stared straight into the mirror and slowly pronounced her name.
“Ayesha.”
The her in the mirror moved her lips identically.
Ayesha.
“That’s right, me.”
That’s right, me.
This time as well, her lips drew the exact same shape without a margin of error.
Her words caught in her throat. Ayesha glared at the form of herself trapped beyond the mirror.
If I am looking at you through the mirror, you should be looking at me too.
Then who on earth is that woman reflected in your eyes?
Through me, who are you looking at?
The more she questioned, the more the faint sense of incongruity grew clearer. A chill ran down her back, and her heart began to pound roughly. She felt dizzy and nauseous.
It must have been a mistake. Doesn’t everyone experience something like this a few times? Like briefly glancing at discarded trash on the street and mistaking it for an animal, or flinching at one’s own shadow. Especially a reflection smaller than a pinky nail, so of course…….
Even as she thought this was not something worth obsessing over, once the imagination had opened its channel, it would not easily settle.
