Volume 2 - CH 5.7

The torches in the square were ablaze, their flames crackling into the night sky. Villagers bustled about—donning their costumes, shouting at each other—so they could resume the Midsummer Festival.

“What was the final event again?” Mildred asked as she approached with loud footsteps, her red hair bouncing.

Kazuya and Victorique exchanged glances.

“Uh… If I recall correctly,” Kazuya said, “they will show their abundant harvest to the spirits of their ancestors…”

Hearing their conversation, Harminia came closer, and in a low, rumbling voice added, “Our ancestors speak in the language of the afterlife. A language incomprehensible to us. We cannot hide anything from the spirits of the dead.”

“R-Right. Ambrose was excited to play the role of the ancestor. He made that black mask, and all.”

Together with the papier-mâché of the Winter Man.

Kazuya recalled the time when Ambrose asked him about the custom in his country, where the spirits of their ancestors returned for one day during summer.

When he left his home, he quietly closed the door to his heart, and he’d been standing still in front of it ever since. He had always been careful not to open it, lest he felt sad. But as he participated in the Midsummer Festival celebration in this mysterious medieval village, the lock to the door loosened little by little, and now, suddenly, it opened. Kazuya swallowed and closed his eyes.

Wistful memories came flooding back.

Cicadas buzzed.

Blending in with their chitters were the soft chirping of the higurashi—evening cicadas.

The summer sun shone bright on the hand fan that a family member left on the porch. He could hear the soothing sound of water drifting in from somewhere. His mother raised her kimono a little, and with a smile, sprinkled water on the dry garden.

As he lay on the dark tatami room, staring blankly at the dazzling garden, his mother’s silhouette moved closer to the porch with soft footsteps and an equally soft laughter. The glaring sun prevented him from seeing his beloved mother’s face clearly.

“Kazuya. Hurry up and change or your father will scold you.”

The young Kazuya quickly got up. The sliding door flung open, and his father, dressed in a haori and hakama, stepped in. His two brothers followed behind, also dressed in formal attires. They looked like triplets. They were large, with broad shoulders and robust chests, and always filled with confidence.

His father looked down at Kazuya, who was sitting dazed on the tatami mats. “What are you dawdling around for, Kazuya?” he asked with surprise. “Get changed, quick!” He turned to his mother. “You’re not supervising him enough.”

His mother, standing on the concrete floor of the porch, replied with soft smile, “My apologies.”

Kazuya shrank, knowing that his mother was scolded because of him.

He hurried out of the room to get dressed, and passed by his sister in the dark hallway. She was holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums. She looked lovely in her kimono.

“Pretty, right?” she said. Captivated by the fine silk kimono, Kazuya muttered some words of praise.

“You’re a good boy,” she said with a smile.

Hearing his father’s booming voice from inside, Kazuya quickly went to get changed.

It was the day of their ancestors’ return. Later, Kazuya’s whole family went to the cemetery for a visit.

It was hot outside.

Cicadas buzzed, while the higurashi chirped softly.

With his father leading them, they walked along the path to the temple. His older brothers walked behind his father, and the young Kazuya, with his mother on his right and his older sister on his left, tried his best to keep up with the grownups.

The men’s back were huge.

The grass along the roadside and the leaves on the trees glowed bright green under the sun. Summer in his country was beautiful. It was Kazuya’s favorite season.

A hot wind blew past, and his mother’s white parasol spun.

The gust tousled his sister’s glossy black hair, blocking his vision. Startled, Kazuya fell on the stone steps and yelped. His mother and sister helped him up, giggling. They smelled sweet—a woman’s scent, full of tender affection that wrapped you in its embrace, a scent that his father and brothers somehow lacked.

When they arrived at the temple, his father spoke in front of the grave about how his male ancestors had been great generals and statesmen. As he rumbled on, his mother’s fair and slender arms took the bouquet of chrysanthemums from his sister and placed it before the grave. She then took a ladle of water and poured it over the gravestone. It was always his mother’s slender arms that sprinkled the water. Just watching the water flow overwhelmed him with emotions.

His father continued on, while his brothers listened proudly. Their ancestors were fine men, and so was their father. His brothers would follow their example too, in the near future. Kazuya tried to listen to his father’s words, but they were too difficult for the young Kazuya to understand.

In that moment, a summer butterfly approached Kazuya. It was a radiant, golden color, with translucent wings. When he reached for it, it flew away, but then stopped a short distance from him, as if inviting him to join it. Gold was Kazuya’s favorite color. Eventually, the little butterfly fluttered away. Kazuya never told anyone about the golden butterfly, and how it never left his mind.

Cicadas cried in the distance.

Summer in his country was beautiful.

Kazuya opened his eyes.

He was standing vacantly in the square of the nameless village, his eyes wide open. No one around him noticed his momentary trip down memory lane.

Only a few years passed since then, but it seemed like a distant memory. He wondered if it was because of the sheer distance, being across the ocean.

He glanced to his side and saw Victorique—his little golden butterfly, now—watching the hustle and bustle of the square with wide-open eyes. Mildred, standing next to her, was also quiet, her eyes distant, as if remembering something. No one spoke. It was a moment of quietude.

Watching the hubbub, they were all silent, lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly, Victorique reached for Mildred’s crimson, cotton-candy hair, and gave it a tug.

“Ouch! Wh-What are you doing?!”

“So, Mildred.”

“Wh-What is it?”

“How do you know Grevil?”

Mildred’s fair, freckled cheeks instantly turned pale. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do you work for him? Or are you a friend?”

Mildred sighed in resignation. Kazuya’s gaze darted back and forth between them, wondering what Victorique was talking about.

“How long have you known?” Mildred asked.

“Since the moment you boarded the train.”

“You knew right from the start?!”

“What are you two talking about?” Kazuya cut in.

Victorique grumbled for a bit, but eventually gave in. “Kujou, did you really not notice?”

“Notice what?”

“Mildred works for Grevil.”

“What?!”

“You’re unbelievable… Listen, Mildred here stole the Dresden plate—”

Mildred gave a grunt. “You know about that too?”

“Of course. But Grevil turned a blind eye. Why? Because they were working together in some capacity. When I snuck out of the academy, she somehow found out and followed me everywhere. Even when she was hungover, she joined us in the rocking carriage. And she was calling someone. There was someone she had to report to.”

“In short…?”

“Grevil asked her to keep an eye on me. That’s why he didn’t arrest her for stealing the plate.”

“I screwed up while playing poker,” Mildred said wearily. “I approached him at a bar in the village. He’s a nobleman, wears expensive clothes. And he looked dumb. I thought he was an easy target, but a card I use for cheating fell out of my sleeve in the middle of a game. He had lost a lot at that point, so he was adamant about arresting me. I then agreed to do the job you just mentioned. Since then, he’s been working me like a slave. It’s a real pain in the neck, I tell ya.”

“It’s your fault for cheating,” Kazuya remarked.

“I wanted money, okay?!” She stamped the ground, and her large breasts jiggled. She was oozing sexual charm that seemed to drip to the ground like sweet honey. “I love money!”

Kazuya was taken aback. Why does she only look sexy when talking about money? he wondered, puzzled.

“I came from a poor family,” she said in a pitiful voice. “We had a hard time. I cried tears of bitterness as I bit down on potato roots.” She took out a cotton handkerchief and made a gesture of wiping nonexistent tears. “My dad was a drunk Irish immigrant, and my mom was a… uhh… can’t think of anything… but anyway…”

“You can stop making stories now. And your fake tears are not fooling anyone.”

“Hush! Anyway, I can’t help but drool when I see money. I love money so much, it keeps me up at night! I had no idea this village was a treasure trove, though.”

“Don’t you dare steal anything. Or Elder Sergius will judge you.”

“I’m poor,” she said biting her lip. “Who cares if I steal?!”

“I do!”

They glared at each other for a while. When Kazuya showed no sign of backing down, Mildred eventually gave up.

“Talk about a stick-in-the-mud.”

Kazuya looked dejected at having one of his flaws pointed out.

Then, Mildred’s mood somehow brightened. “Fine. I’ll return the plate to the church. I stole it because it was expensive, but I couldn’t figure out where to sell it. I wrapped it in a cloth and hid it under my bed. Can you get off my back now?”

“…If you return it, sure.”

“You want hush money, right?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, stop being such a tight-ass. You’re such a bore.”

“Wh-What did you say?!”

Suddenly, Kazuya remembered the colorful items she was selling at the bazaar. A shiny ring, laced collar, postcards. He and his classmate Avril checked them all out before choosing the turban.

“Uhm, in that case, I’d like one of the items you were selling.”

“Hmm? Which one? No expensive stuff, by the way. You don’t like money, so you don’t deserve expensive things.”

“What kind of a twisted logic is that?!”

Kazuya sighed. He then brought his mouth to Mildred’s ear and whispered something. A bizarre expression appeared on her freckled face.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked, staring at Kazuya.

“Yes!”

“You’re a tight-ass, but you’re also weird.”

Kazuya blushed.

“You’re okay in my book. I like you way better than that pretentious fop.”

Mildred gave a hearty laugh, her crimson hair bouncing.

Ambrose, carrying a torch, came running as soon as he spotted them. After hesitating for a bit, he handed the torch to Harminia, who was standing beside him.

The flame crackled, creating orange sparks.

“The ritual to welcome the spirits of our ancestors is about to begin,” Ambrose said.

“Right!” Kazuya nodded.

Victorique stirred. Kazuya and Ambrose exchanged glances. The young man’s face was a little stiff from nervousness.

A night breeze blew.

Crackle. Crackle.

The torch in Harminia’s dry, pale hands flared higher, the flame swaying from side to side.

The festival was reaching its climax.