Lying down on the floor, I draw circles on yellowed paper, throw it away, and repeat the same process. I feel like I’m really getting a method down to muscle memory here. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could draw a more beautiful circle than your average artist—on my first try—if I was suddenly ordered to draw one.
“I’m thirsty...”
Still, at this rate this room might end up completely buried in trash.
I take a sidelong glance at the disaster on the floor. I do feel like I need to do something about this, but I always end up procrastinating when there’s a big project right in front of me demanding my attention, so it remains nothing more than a thought in my head. If my mother saw me like this, she would no doubt give me a good spanking.
I hear the pot with beans stewing in it start to boil. I set it as soon as I woke up this morning. It needs to stew for a while, so I’ll let it be for now. As it bubbles away while I focus on writing and drawing on paper, I hear a light tapping on the window. It’s a cute little sound. I get up, yawning due to all the noise this morning, approach the window, then unlock it and open it wide.
A cold breeze brushes past my cheek and nips at my nose. Casting my eyes down, I find a little white bird on the windowsill, vacantly looking up at me. As its cute round eyes stare blankly at me, I stare back. This little bird has been getting my attention on my days off—perhaps intentionally, getting me to open the window and staring at me like it wants something.
That’s right—this isn’t the first time. It’s come here before, not long ago. I’m pretty sure it knows what it’s doing. It must think I’ll give it something to eat if it stares at me like that.
“Chirp... Crunch... Munch...”
Before I know it, it’s eating beans from my palm. They vanish in an instant. Once it’s done eating, it flies away as if its business here is concluded, leaving a white feather on the windowsill in its wake. What a callous bird.
I get away from the window, another yawn escaping my lips. It’s been quite a while since I woke up, but I don’t really feel awake yet. I splash some of the dorm’s well water on my face in the washbasin. Natural water really does a better job at waking you up than the conjured stuff. Maris has been expressing concern about skin care in her letters—I should suggest using natural water next time.
“How goes your work on magic circles?” As I stand absentminded after washing my face, Lala takes the scattered papers in her mouth and puts them in one place for me.
“I think I’ve almost got it... Meat, that is.”
Shaking the moisture off my hands and rolling up my sleeves, I hold the brush once more. It’s been four years since I took it upon myself to create meat, and I still haven’t given up.
“Ah, Miss Nanalie! Your beans, they’re boiling over!”
“Ahhh! My beans!”
I completely forgot. Hurrying to turn off the heat, I pick up the light-brown beans that ended up falling on the floor. My beans...
In the course of my experimentation, I started to wonder whether I could make meat with something as a base if I couldn’t just use a magic circle for it, and I came up with the idea of using beans. I’ve experimented on countless things before: dried meat, coilmarp, eggs, fruit, gourds... Nothing has ever come as close to meat as these tiny beans.
I’ve been spending my days off trying to turn their proteins into meat, devoting myself to drawing magic circles. I write the incantation of the fire-kindling spell, “Cluizel,” within the circle, then surround it with small magic circles that will break up the beans’ structure. Next, I surround it all with another circle. In it, I write the hieroglyphs of a common wind spell, one not exclusive to wind-types. I add equations of addition and subtraction in between. This is essential—it determines the percentage to which the components of the beans will separate or attach, regulating the degree of magic applied in the spell. But it’s pretty difficult.
Stumped by my calculations, I press my face against Lala’s belly.
“You’re so fluffy...”
“M-Miss Nanalie...”
“How soft...”
I take deep breaths into the sea of comfy white hair.
“I’m thirsty... Guess I’ll go drink some water.”
Another day, another failure.
✦ ✦ ✦
“Ohh...” I groan as I sit on my bed after opening the book I’ve borrowed from Harré’s archives.
God, I groan like an old woman. I give my hips a disciplinary smack. I better shape up and work on myself a little.
“‘Nothing can oppose the flow of time,’ it says. I know that much...”
Flipping through a book concerning temporal mechanics, I forget about working on myself and lay my head on my pillow. Recently, I’ve been really digging into the study of time itself whenever I have a spare moment.
It’s a pretty opaque subject when you think about it. Who decides what constitutes time? What is the flow of time? How closely intertwined is time’s passage with the way living things age? Can you undo past events? I’ve taken the whole subject for granted in my daily life, never asking questions like those before.
On a bedside table lies another book—The Seven Wonders of Demons. It’s one of Dr. Aristo Pyguri’s manuscripts.
“I wonder how he’s doing...” I utter, gazing at the ceiling.
Going by what Rockmann told me during my interrogations, the royal court hasn’t formally charged him with a crime yet, and it will likely stay that way for years. Apparently the royal court is considering capital punishment, but the royalty and the clergy want to postpone the decision. Passing the final judgment requires the approval of all three of the above, so this standoff won’t end any time soon, most likely. Rockmann said he’d be glad if Dr. Aristo’s life was spared in the end, even if he isn’t allowed to walk free.
I recall my encounter with him at the masked ball, as well as that time I saw him under Städal’s control. The world has gained temporary peace, but I have my reservations about the current state of things. Peace is surprisingly complicated.
Lamenting reality not going the way I want, I pull myself together and open the book once more.