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Magic Ring – Part 01

In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly down into the Looking-glass room.

—Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

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Prologue: Through the Looking Glass

Nighttime.

Stars twinkled in the dark canvas high above.

A palace built of glass and jet-black iron, a huge train station, and blackened brick buildings stood like structures in a detailed miniature city, gleaming under the moonlight.

In a corner of the city, a girl stood alone.

Her long sand-colored hair hung down her back, and her eyes, like jewels, shone a deep purple. An intense beam of light that seemed to cut through the night was pouring in front of her.

A slender mannequin, illuminated by the blinding light, was looking down at the girl from behind a thin glass partition.

The girl was wearing a worn-out, out-of-fashion dress and leather shoes with holes in them. Once fine pieces of clothing, they had long exceeded their useful life.

The mannequin was wearing a sparkling dress, a hat, and a bag embroidered with beads.

The girl let out a soft breath. My… how lovely!

The mannequin opened its mouth. “Lovely?”

Surprised, the girl looked at the mannequin’s mouth. It was smiling. “Come,” it said. “I’ll let you wear them.”

“But…”

“Just enter the fitting room and try them on inside. You don’t have to pay anything.”

“…Really?”

The mannequin smiled. “Really.”

The girl entered the building. Surrounded by gorgeous products, she was handed a dress. She tottered onward. The door to the fitting room slowly opened. Clutching the dress, the girl ambled on, as though sleepwalking.

She entered the fitting room.

The door slowly closed behind her.

The girl continued walking.

Her sand-colored hair swayed.

A mirror inside the fitting room reflected the girl’s shabby dress. The girl continued walking. The mirror rippled like water, engulfing the girl.

A salestaff in a purple uniform opened the door to the fitting room.

The inside was empty. There was only a dress.

The staff picked up the dress and smiled thinly.

Nighttime.

Outside the building, stars twinkled in the dark canvas high above.

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Chapter 1: Magic Ring

Summer was fast approaching.

It was late in the afternoon, but the sun was still bright and intense. Horse-drawn wagons rolled along the village street, kicking up dust, and leaving behind the sweet smell of straw that heralded the coming of summer.

Kazuya Kujou, walking at a brisk pace along the village road back to St. Marguerite Academy, suddenly stopped when he noticed the smell. He turned around, squinting.

The big old wagon shook wildly from side to side as it moved farther and farther away on the bumpy road. With each rocking motion, little bundles of straw fell. On either side of the village road were rolling vineyards, their bright green vines swaying in the wind.

Kazuya Kujou resumed walking, this time with leisurely steps. He didn’t have to walk so fast. There was still plenty of time before curfew, when the main gate of the academy would be closed.

He was a small, rather slim boy. His short black hair had grown a little longer and hung halfway over his jet-black eyes. Wearing a schoolcap on his head, he was dressed in the uniform of St. Marguerite Academy, a prestigious school with a vast campus at the foot of the mountains.

On his hand was a brown unsealed parcel.

Kazuya ambled along, running his eyes on a letter. His face gradually turned grim.

Dear Kazuya,

How are you? It’s your sister! Get this. Father is so mean. And your brothers as well. How are they mean, you ask?

Kazuya leafed through the pages.

His sister’s explanation covered about ten pages. He had reached the end of the village road and could see the main gate of the academy in the distance now.

Rattle. Rattle.

Kazuya jumped. Distracted by the letter, his cheek was almost grazed by a wagon that passed by.

The letter was from his two-year-older sister. She might seem like a fragile woman, akin to a delicate flower dancing in the wind, but deep inside she was bold and determined. She was quiet, but she could say what she wanted to say clearly, which sometimes led to fights with their stubborn father and older brothers. Kazuya often wondered if his father’s rigid nature went to her instead of him.

His older sister was graduating from an all-girls’ school this year and had decided to become a teacher at her current school instead of marrying a square-jawed, imperial soldier who was ten years older than her as their father had suggested. She had been arguing with her father and brothers about the matter day in and day out.

I wish you were here to take my side, Kazuya.

When he read those words on the eleventh page, he felt, from the bottom of his heart, that he was glad to be in Sauville right now. As the youngest, Kazuya was too soft to argue with his father and brothers, and his mother had always been quick to take the favorable side with a smile. She was a kind and graceful woman, his mother, but surprisingly, not at all reliable.

Kazuya was nearing the gate of St. Marguerite Academy. Its high iron fence, worked with an intricate, abaresque-like design, bore golden ornaments here and there.

Reading the letter, he passed through the gate and onto the campus grounds. Suddenly, he saw a list of unfamiliar words on the letter.

I want three blouses made of white cotton. With cute collars. And plaid ones. Leather shoes, dark brown, with accessories on the tips. Socks with embroidery and a glass pen. And ink, of course. And, uh…

His sister was asking him to buy some things she would need as a teacher from Sauville and send them to her. The shopping list went on and on.

Kazuya stopped, flabbergasted. He had no idea where or how to buy the items on her list, or what they even were. He heaved a sigh and looked up at the sky.

“Ah, there he is! He’s the culprit!”

The word culprit made him turn around.

Whenever he came across an unusual incident or a crime wrapped in mystery, he would immediately pick it up—unconsciously, at this point—summarize it succintly, run up a labyrinthine set of stairs, and bring it to his odd, but beautiful friend, who constantly complained about being bored and pestered him for mysteries.

The person shouting about a culprit turned out to be someone he knew—his homeroom teacher, Ms. Cecile. She wore big, round glasses and had shoulder-length brunette hair that fluffed up in the wind. She reminded him of a cute puppy.

For some reason, Ms. Cecile was pointing at him.

“The culprit? Where?” Kazuya looked behind him.

A breeze whistled past. There was no one there.

He turned back to Ms. Cecile. She was definitely pointing at his direction. Curiously, he studied the teacher and her finger.

The hedge beside her shook, as if a large beast was lurking in there. Kazuya took a step back.

A muscular old man with a bearded face emerged from the hedge. He was holding a pair of gardening shears in one hand.

“Mr. Gardener!” Cecile said. “That boy right there. He’s the culprit. He stepped on the violets and made a hole in the hedge.”

Kazuya’s breath seized. A few weeks ago, he needed to get out of the academy way past curfew, and he had done so through a hole in the hedge. When Ms. Cecile found out, she reprimanded him severely.

The gardener, his face tanned like leather, frowned at Kazuya. He must have been called to fix the hole in the hedge.

“So you’re the one who did this!” the gardener barked. “Do you have any idea how much effort I put into growing these things?! Come over here for a sec. I’ll cut off that mischievous arms of yours with this!” He swung his huge gardening shears around.

The man was threatening Kazuya so he wouldn’t escape. But Kazuya only turned pale as a ghost.

“I’m sorry!” Kazuya bowed his head.

Taken aback, the gardener regarded the back of Kazuya’s head with a puzzled expression. He chuckled. “Ah, it’s fine. You probably got an earful from Ms. Cecile anyway. Just don’t do it again.” He returned inside the hedge.

Ms. Cecile was chuckling.

Kazuya was about to walk away, when he remembered something and came back. “‘Scuse me, Teach. I have a question.”

“What is it?”

Kazuya pointed to the letter in his hand. “What’s a Blue Rose?”