Volume 2 - CH 1.6

Kazuya stepped out of the dormitory, straightened his back, and walked down the path to the main school building. Along the way, he spotted his homeroom teacher, Ms. Cecile, standing on the lawn, her head slightly tilted to the side.

A brunette with a petite frame and shoulder-length hair, she wore large round glasses, and had a somewhat childish air about her. For some reason, she looked downcast so early in the morning.

“Good morning, Teach.”

“Oh, Kujou.” She smiled.

“What’s wrong?”

“Uhm… well…”

Ms. Cecile pointed to some trees beyond the lawn, toward the tall hedge that separated the campus grounds from the outside.

“There were beautiful violets blooming in that area, but it looks like someone stepped on them yesterday. It’s a shame. Why would anyone go through there? There’s no path or anything. There’s just a hedge beyond that.”

“Yeah… Huh?”

Kazuya held his tongue. Oh, crap.

He was in the area yesterday when he and Avril sneaked in through a hole in the hedge after being late for curfew. Maybe they were the ones who stepped on the flowers.

Not noticing his ashen face, Ms. Cecile walked away, crestfallen.

Noon.

After quickly finishing his lunch in the school’s vast cafeteria, where sunlight poured in through the mosaic glass ceiling, he got up. Avril, slicing her bread, spotted him. She followed him with her gaze, wondering where he was going.

Kazuya headed for the library on the outskirts of the campus. The wind was stronger than yesterday. It made for a chilly weather, despite summer fast approaching.

Not a single student was hurrying away from the school building at this hour. Kazuya hunched his shoulders as he stumped down the empty, narrow gravel path.

“Victorique?” he called as he climbed the narrow, wooden stairs, fully knowing that she wouldn’t answer.

Up… Still going up.

When he finally made it to the top, Victorique was there as always, with several large leather-bound books spread in a circle around her. She was sitting… no, today she was lying on her stomach, elbows propped on the floor, her puffy cheek sitting on her small palm. She held a ceramic pipe on her other hand as usual, bringing it to her mouth and smoking it.

“You’ll get your clothes dirty lying around like that.”

“Was there an article in the paper that caught your attention?”

Kazuya opened his mouth, then closed it without speaking. Wondering how she knew everything, he plopped down beside Victorique.

“Ow!”

His butt crushed something round and hard. He jumped up. It was candy that Victorique had left scattered all over the floor. A macaroon sprinkled with cocoa powder.

“Another mess,” Kazuya said wearily. “Why don’t you get a jar or something? I sat on one of your candies.”

Victorique looked up. Her emerald eyes grew wide in shock. “Aaaaaahhh! My macaroon!”

“Crushed into smithereens. I’m throwing it out.”

“No. Be responsible and eat it.”

“Come on. It’s practically powder.”

“Kujou…” She stared at him for several seconds. “Eat it.”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

Kazuya reluctantly brought the crushed macaroon into his mouth. Chewing, he sat back down beside Victorique and showed her the morning paper he got from the dorm mother. She kept her face in her book, not sparing him a glance.

“Inspector Blois had not solved the Dresden Plate theft,” he said.

“…Ahuh.”

“Aren’t you surprised?”

“It looked like there was more to the case. But I didn’t want to get too involved with the men of the Blois family.”

“Huh…”

“They all have weird hairdos.”

“…All of them?!”

Victorique raised her head and yawned loudly. “It’s probably genetic.”

“That’s not how genetics work. Besides, your hair is normal.”

“I have my mother’s genes.”

“Hmm…” Kazuya nodded.

With a distant look, he thought about the family that he had left behind in a faraway island country across the ocean. His father was a soldier and a strict man who always did the right thing, a man among men. His two older brothers were like their father, men of high caliber, perhaps too high for his taste as to be a little rough around the edges. His mother, on the other hand, was a gentle and kind woman, and his sister, who was two years older than him, was as lovely as his mother. Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t take after his father, despite being a boy, but he never said it out loud because it seemed like he was forsaking his beloved mother and sister.

“…I guess I take after my mother too,” he mumbled.

There was no reply. Kazuya glanced at Victorique. She removed the pipe from her mouth and stretched in the manner of cats. He did not expect her small body to extend as much as it did.

“Did you come here to tell me about Grevil?” she asked.

“Well, there’s that too.”

“You seem to have taken a liking to my pumpkin-headed brother. You’re monitoring his every move.”

“It’s the exact opposite! I dislike him.”

“I know. I was joking. I like it when you get mad. It’s entertaining. When it comes to Grevil, you have a very low boiling point. I find it very strange, and a little amusing at the same time.”

“So, sue me.” He stretched his knees, then opened the paper to the page with the classified ad and showed it to Victorique.

She gave the ad a tired, cursory glance, then bolted upright. She snatched the paper from Kazuya’s hand and brought her face so close that her eyelashes almost touched it. From left to right her head moved, over and over.

“Descendants of the Gray Wolves… Midsummer Feast is near…”

“Weird, huh? The dorm mother says the classified ads range from message to runaways, job hunts, to mysterious ones that reek of crime. This one is particularly cryptic. You said you were bored, so I got you a mystery to… What’s wrong?”

Abruptly Victorique rose to her feet. She moved like a puppet that had its spring wound. Her face was pale, not as pale as Inspector Blois’ yesterday, but enough to see that she was agitated.

“…Is something wrong?”

Victorique was about to break into a run, when she tripped over Kazuya’s leg and fell flat on the floor with a loud thud. Kazuya could see the soles of her small, buttoned leather boots. Her white, frilled petticoat and embroidered bloomers bounced up for a moment before slowly settling back down on her body.

“Victorique?”

“…”

The silence stretched for a while.

Victorique sprang upright. She didn’t say anything.

Kazuya peered into her face. “Are you okay?”

She held her face with her small hands. “It hurts.”

“I can imagine. That was quite the sound.”

“It hurts.”

“Ahuh.”

“I said it hurts!”

“Don’t take it out on me. You tripped on your own.” For once, Kazuya had the high ground, so while he was concerned, his voice was tinged with joy. “Seriously… Are you all right? Come on, get up. Where were you going anyway?”

“I was trying to get the book that’s on the shelf on the right side, seventh rack from the top, thirty-first volume to the right. Kujou, go fetch it.”

“Me?”

“It’s a thick, riveted book with a brown leather cover.”

“…Fine.”

Victorique was still cupping her face, so Kazuya reluctantly went a little down the stairs and reached for the book that she asked for. The wooden staircase swayed precariously with his every movement.

Victorique came down, and with her boot, kicked Kazuya from behind. For such a ferocious move, there wasn’t much power in it, as though a mere child had pushed him, but being in a perilous position, Kazuya lost his balance and almost fell.

He tumbled down the stairs. “Wh-What the hell was that for?!”

Victorique scoffed. “I suggest you be careful as well.”

“You kicked me on purpose!”

Wrapped in a tempestuous atmosphere, the two returned to the conservatory. Victorique set the book down before her. Flipping through the pages in a familiar manner, she tossed a macaroon into her mouth and threw the wrapper aside. Kazuya quickly picked it up and shoved it in his pocket.

“Since Sauville’s olden days, there’s been one particular supernatural tale that’s prevalent the deeper you go into the mountains. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s the story of the Gray Wolves.”

Kazuya nodded.

“Most of the tales are entirely made-up, but there is one credible source. The diary of an English traveler, written in the sixteenth century. I’ve been thinking about this account for a long time.”

Victorique showed Kazuya the book. He peeked at it gingerly, fearing it was written in Latin or Greek, but fortunately it was in English. Confused by the old turn of phrases, Kazuya struggled to read the account.