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Purity – Part 01

Shahrazad perceived the dawn of day and ceased to say her permitted say. When it was the Thousand and First Night—the final chapter of this book—she resumed once more.

One Thousand and One Nights

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Prologue

The deep-blue night hung heavy over the garden. A late-summer breeze, cool and damp, blew against the little dollhouse that stood in the corner of the garden, surrounded by a maze of flowerbeds.

“We…”

“We will never part…”

A mysterious whisper, husky as an old woman’s, helpless as a small child’s, came from the bedroom of the dollhouse, blending with the wind that rustled the flowers in the flowerbeds.

“Kujou…!”

Everything here was a size smaller, from the brass cathead doorknob to the green door and the French windows. The furniture inside the house was tiny and lovely as toys—the emerald couch, the art nouveau cabriole-legged table, the flower-shaped lamp. Piles of old books filled the floor and table. A pink, half-eaten macaroon lay on the floor. Chocolate bonbons wrapped in red cellophane glowed in the darkness like eerie will-o-the-wisps.

“Get away from me, or I’ll end your life,” came a husky, lonely voice from the bedroom.

“I’m in an awful mood, yes.”

“…I can.”

“Nothing is impossible for a Gray Wolf.”

There was a faint rustling of clothes, like a kitten turning over in bed, and the sound of sleep-talking.

In the bedroom was a small and luxurious canopied bed. A girl was sleeping on the silk sheets, her magnificent golden hair spread out like a glittering fan. She had a small face, with perfect and beautiful features, as though crafted by a master. If it weren’t for her breathing and the occasional opening and closing of her tiny hands, it would have looked like an exquisite porcelain doll had been placed there. Her cherry lips slightly parted, and the girl—Victorique—kept mumbling.

“Forget… about Grevil.”

Her white muslin nightgown had layers of ruffles, each one embroidered with a different floral pattern. Roses, violets, tulips. But each turn lifted the ruffles up, until eventually her smooth belly, fair as porcelain, and navel were exposed.

“Achoo!” Victorique sneezed.

“It’s cold.”

“Close the window.”

“Hey, Kujou.”

The bedroom was filled with silence. Victorique’s small, shapely nose twitched in anguish as though she was having a nightmare. She mumbled something, then fell into a deep sleep again, her belly still exposed to the cold.

The gardens were quiet. The deep-blue night sky turned darker. Morning was still hours away.

“Achoo!”

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A Tale of White Roses —France, 1789—

Summer was ending, slowly giving way to autumn.

One morning in St. Marguerite Academy.

The late-summer sun, milder than it had been just a few days ago, was shining brightly on the campus modeled after a French-style garden. Morning dew still hung on the foliage, glistening as they trickled down. Birds chirped in the distance. A few squirrels scurried in random directions across the lawn and disappeared into the shadowy forest.

On such a quiet morning, there was someone walking briskly through the campus. It was an impeccably-dressed Asian boy, wearing his uniform’s necktie properly. His jet-black hair bounced as he walked, hiding and revealing his eyes, black as his hair, and a little moist.

The boy—Kazuya Kujou—walked along the smooth gravel path and stopped at a corner.

A huge and complex flowerbed maze in the shape of a square lay in front of him. Built by a professional gardener, it was a strange place—once you stepped inside, you’d get lost and have a hard time getting out.

Kazuya sighed. “It’s not like Victorique to catch a cold. She’s tiny inside the layers of ruffles and laces, but she’s pretty tough, mean, arrogant, and demonic.” His voice lowered. “I’m a little worried.” He hung his head.

Then he lifted his head up, and without hesitation entered the flowerbed maze with the same brisk gait.

Flowers of various shapes and colors—red, pink, orange, cream—were in full bloom, glistening wet with morning dew. He walked down the flowery path, keeping his eyes straight. He turned right, left, right, then right again. His lips were pursed tight.

“This flower’s pretty,” he mumbled as he looked at a tiny golden flower.

His cheeks flushed in embarrassment at his own words. Then his face turned serious, and he resumed walking.

After making it through the seemingly-endless maze, Kazuya arrived at a small, two-story residence that looked like a candy house. He was about to knock on the green, toy-like front door, but then changed his mind, and approached the front-facing window on the ground floor.

“Victorique?” he called hesitantly.

“…”

“Good morning, Victorique.”

A faint groan came from inside, a voice as husky as an old lady’s, but somewhat anxious. Kazuya frowned. He put his hand on the window and opened it.

“Victorique,” he began in a firm voice. “You haven’t been answering me properly lately. Why is it that when I talk to you, you don’t even say a single word? Since spring, I’ve been wandering all around the place for a selfish princess. And I’ve been talking every single day until my voice grow hoarse.”

“Hmm?”

“The effort is unbecoming of the third son of an imperial soldier. Are you listening? How’s your fever?”

“Hmm!”

Opening the window gave him a good view of the room. A tiny cabriole-legged table with matching chairs. A magnificent dresser adorned with numerous jade-green ornaments, and a massive cabinet. On the table lay an untouched breakfast—a salad of fresh fruits, bite-sized raisin bread, and a silver pot of tea.

Kazuya couldn’t see Victorique, the tiny, frightening owner of the room, so he leaned forward and looked around. Suddenly a tiny golden head emerged from under the window and stopped just below Kazuya’s chin.

Kazuya looked down.

He saw a hair whorl. He poked it with his forefinger, giggling. There was a displeased growl. A tiny figure, puffed up in a white ruffled nightgown, wriggled sluggishly on the luxurious, emerald couch. It was like looking at a flower with golden petals and white leaves. A lovely scent came from the layers of ruffles, as though infused with fragrant flower oil.

“Stop poking a sick person’s head,” said a grumpy voice. “You’ll end up in hell.”

“A little poke does not warrant that. Anyway, how’s your fever?”

The golden head looked up at Kazuya. Her long, magnificent hair, like strands of golden silk, reached all the way to the floor, stirring like some creature’s tail. Her tiny pale face was somewhat swollen from the fever.

Mysterious, deep-emerald eyes that seemed to suck in everything, were staring at Kazuya, eyes that could have belonged to an elderly woman or a young girl.

Her glossy cherry lips parted. “I have a fever!”

“I see,” Kazuya said, disappointed. “So you’re not feeling well. That’s unusual. I guess it’s because a lot happened on the train on our way back from the monastery.”

Kazuya had just returned to St. Marguerite Academy with Victorique a few days ago. On the morning of the last day of summer break, Victorique had somehow ended up locked up in Beelzebub’s Skull, a monastery by the sea. When her brother, Inspector Blois, told him that she was debilitated, Kazuya headed to the monastery with frills, laces, candies, and books to rescue her.

After rescuing Victorique, they returned to the academy aboard the Old Masquerade, a luxury, transcontinental train. After dealing with various incidents thrown at them, they managed to return home safely, but because of the fatigue, Victorique had been listless for the past few days, and she wasn’t going to the library like she always did.

When Ms. Cecile told him that she had a fever, Kazuya immediately came for a visit.

“I’m about to head to class, but I thought I’d at least check up on you,” he said.

Victorique snorted. “Pointlessly diligent as ever, I see.”

“Yeah. I’m pointlessly diligent… Now, wait a minute. That’s no way to talk to someone who came to check up on you.”

“You’re virtuous and simple-minded. I’m sure you have some stupid candy in that bulging pocket of yours anyway.”

“I do. How did you know?”

“Chaos. Reconstruction. Trivial stuff.”

Victorique yawned wearily. She laid down on the green couch, her golden hair enclosing her. It seemed as if her tiny body was shining from within. Kazuya felt a renewed sense of reverence for his friend’s beauty, something he should be familiar with already.

Too bad she’s so mean when she opens her mouth.

Victorique regarded Kazuya with a yawn. Jewel-like tears formed in the corners of her eyes, glistening like the dewy golden petals he saw earlier.

“Hurry up and take it out already,” Victorique grumbled.

“Hmm? Take out what?”

“What’s in your pockets.”

“Oh, right.” Kazuya shoved his hands in the pockets of his uniform. “Actually, I thought you might be bored, so I was thinking of bringing you an interesting story, or flowers that are blooming in the conservatory since you haven’t been there in a while. But I figured snacks were enough for now.”

“Oaf.”

“I’m glad you like it. Wait, did you say oaf? You mean me?”

“I don’t see anyone else around.”

Victorique turned away as she munched on a flower-shaped cookie that Kazuya had given her. She was ignoring him. Her ruffled nightgown had shifted to the side, revealing a milky white, tiny shoulder.

“I am not an oaf,” Kazuya protested.

“Then bring me an interesting story too.”

“F-Fine.”

“And flowers.” Victorique said, glancing back at him as she devoured the cookie.

The wind blew, rustling Kazuya’s hair and the flowers in the flowerbed.

Bells rang in the distance, signaling the start of morning classes. Kazuya watched Victorique for a moment. Victorique too was staring back at him.

The bells continued tolling.

Kazuya turned on his heels and headed back to the flowerbed maze. Victorique looked a little sad. After about ten steps, Kazuya looked back. He thought he saw Victorique’s face lit up a bit.

The wind blew.

“Little brat,” Kazuya mumbled softly with a straight face.

“What was that?” Victorique’s golden hair bristled. “Wait, Kujou! Say that again!”

“I’ll see you after school!”

Kazuya bolted into the maze at full speed.