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The Fifteenth Mystery – Part 01

The morning of January 1st, 1925 arrived with a hushed tranquility.

After Kazuya Kujou, the international student from a distant land in the Far East, departed last night, St. Marguerite Academy seemed, at first glance, no different from any other day.

Snow had settled upon all corners of the French-style garden, draping a pristine white blanket upon everything—the fountain, the gazebos, the iron benches. Every so often, clumps of snow fell from the branches, breaking the stillness with a delicate thud. The sprawling, U-shaped school building stood silent and empty.

Tucked away in a corner of the expansive campus was a flowerbed maze. Once filled with colorful flowers, it now lay beneath a cover of white snow. Hidden beyond this garden was a quaint, candy house.

Inside the bedroom, a girl lay on a canopied bed, swathed in a pale blue comforter. Eerily quiet, it seemed as if she would sleep for eternity, lost in the undulating waves of morning’s embrace.

She was lying face down, snoring softly. Her milky hands were clenched tightly into fists, and her glossy, cherry lips were slightly parted, revealing the tip of her pink tongue.

Her eyelids, trimmed with thick golden lashes, hid eyes that had shed tears, dry traces glistening on her cheeks. Clad in a ruffled nightgown, she resembled a charming, white swan resting by the water’s edge.

Victorique de Blois, lost in endless slumber, slowly turned over. She shuddered, despite there being no one to rouse her awake, and gently opened her eyes.

Time was frozen. Nature had lost its color.

Kazuya’s absence stretched across the icy world, gnawing at Victorique. Her breath seized in her throat, and she shut her eyes, a silent protest against the world.

The hands of the wall clock ticked, advancing time by a minute. Victorique’s shoulders quivered at the sound. The gold coin pendant around her neck tinkled, mirroring her turmoil.

---

Meanwhile, a figure was ambling across the campus.

She was wearing a beanie with a pompom, a fluffy brown coat, and a matching scarf. Large round glasses framed her shoulder-length, brown hair. Fatigue and tension had tinged her droopy, puppy-like eyes with a reddish hue.

Ms. Cecile, despite being bundled in layers, shivered as she drew closer to the flowerbed maze. She entered the labyrinth with practiced steps, navigated the twists and turns, and arrived at the house of candy.

She knocked hesitantly, then entered without awaiting a reply.

The room with the fireplace lay empty and cold. The cabriole-legged table and chair, the armchair by the window, the charming dresser—all of them were untouched, seemingly frozen in the embrace of the winter morning.

She peered into the bedroom. “Victorique…”

The girl in question sat upright on the canopied bed, her small form half-enveloped in the soft blankets. Her hair, an unfurled silk turban, spilled across the sheets in a shimmering cascade of gold. Unusually pale cheeks, a departure from their usual rosy hue, added to her resplendence.

This morning Victorique, despite not wearing her opulent gowns, exuded an unusual beauty that even Cecile, her caretaker for the past two years, had never witnessed. A bluish flame seemed to flicker from deep within her soul, swaying like a pillar of fire, a manifestation of the powerful emotions she was suppressing.

“You’re…” Cecile swallowed. “You’re awake.”

“I’ve just woken up, Cecile.”

In contrast to her peculiar appearance, her voice held an atypical gentleness and sincerity, a tone you’d expect from an ordinary fifteen-year-old girl.

Sensing something off, Ms. Cecile tried to conceal her unease. “Something happened last night.”

“Kujou’s gone,” came a soft reply.

Ms. Cecile’s breath caught. “You knew?”

Victorique gave a serene smile. “Nothing is beyond the reach of the Wellspring of Wisdom, Cecile.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him?!” Ms. Cecile shook her head, baffled. “He left without even saying goodbye to you.”

“…”

For a brief moment, Victorique’s gaze was fixed on an empty space, like a kitten staring at an apparition. Then, like a marionette, she mechanically shifted her attention towards Ms. Cecile. Complex emotions swirled within her emerald eyes—the resignation of a centenarian and the loneliness of a young child yearning for love and understanding.

Ms. Cecile stood frozen, locking gazes with her enigmatic and extraordinary student. She shuddered.

Victorique’s lips parted mechanically. “I bid him farewell last night, shared my heart. It’s sufficient. Kujou has his own homeland, his own life to lead. He needn’t tether his fate to the sinking Old World on my account.”

“The sinking Old World?” Ms. Cecile voiced, confused.

“Europe, as we know it, is shifting. The entire continent is on the verge of going under, like a chess piece having fulfilled its role. And my father, Albert de Blois, a prominent figure in the Ministry of the Occult, believes that I hold the key to the ultimate confrontation.”

Victorique slowly slipped from the bed. Even when standing next to Ms. Cecile, an adult with a petite stature, she still only reached her chest.

The wall clock ticked, and Ms. Cecile snapped back to her senses. She retrieved a letter from her coat pocket.

“Um, I have a letter from Kujou.”

“What?!”

A momentary rosy glow touched Victorique’s pallid cheeks, but she quickly suppressed any expectations or hopes, biting down her glossy, cherry lips with her pearly teeth.

She glanced at the butterfly illustration and the letter written in Far Eastern script. “Kujou most likely penned this letter last night, unable to leave personal messages. He then asked for it to be delivered to his teacher. Presumably, there was someone present who could read this language. Am I right?”

“Yes.” Ms. Cecile nodded. “It’s like you were there to see it. The drawing of the butterfly made me realize it was meant for you. Since he came here, he’s often fascinated by those small golden flowers and butterflies in the garden. I remembered him telling me that gold was his favorite color.”

“Cecile, time is of the essence. Fetch me a sewing needle and some ink.” Her tone was urgent.

Perplexed, Ms. Cecile bolted out of the candy house and rushed towards the staff dormitory, where she grabbed a sewing kit and an inkwell. Upon returning to the garden, a chilly breeze swept in, and she hunched her shoulders with a yelp.

A much deeper quiet enveloped the campus this morning.

The first day of the year had dawned with a hush and a pile of thick snow. Hardly any students or staff were present.

Yet, there was something more to the atmosphere—a tense silence of some sorts, as though the place was packed with people holding their breath. This feeling of unease had been gnawing at Ms. Cecile for some time now.

A distant sound from behind caught her attention. Turning, she saw a robust, pitch-black carriage emerging through the main gate. The rear compartment had been replaced with a sinister iron cage, partially concealed by a canvas. Ms. Cecile remembered seeing this carriage before, about two years ago, on the day that peculiar female student was transferred here.

Ms. Cecile’s pace quickened, until eventually, she broke into a run.

Passing the front of the school building, she caught sight of the principal and the chairman, who were supposed to be gone for the winter break, through the latter’s office window. The scarves around their neck suggested they had just arrived. They were talking grimly about something.

Ms. Cecile’s eyes fell to the ground. There were two sets of fresh carriage tracks, evidence that the principal and chairman had indeed just arrived.

Abruptly, the principal looked her way and, upon seeing Ms. Cecile, urgently motioned for her. He was acting unusual, his face tight.

Ms. Cecile promptly pretended not to see him and continued her brisk walk past the school building. A window opened. When she heard a voice calling for her to stop, she raised her hands and sprinted away like a child being chased by a ghost.

---

Ms. Cecile burst into the bedroom. “Victorique!”

“What took you so long?” Victorique grumbled.

The girl’s familiar tone, an icy detachment, as though she was devoid of interest in the living world, brought Ms. Cecile remarkable relief. The teacher handed over the sewing kit and inkwell and waited.

Victorique shot her an irritated glance. “You can leave.”

“What? No, I’m staying.” Ms. Cecile maintained a calm façade as she smiled.

Having become accustomed to feigning obtusity while in Victorique’s company, Ms. Cecile’s smile came naturally this morning.

Victorique gave her an icy look. “Hmph. Go make some tea, then,” she said in a raspy voice. “Your standing there is not serving any purpose.”

“All right. I’ll do just that.”

Ms. Cecile left the bedroom, closing the door behind her, and headed to the kitchen—or at least she pretended to. She stepped in place, softening her footfalls little by little to make it sound like she was moving away. Then, she pressed her ear to the bedroom door, crouched down, and listened intently.

Silence. There was nothing. No… A faint rustling of clothes.

I-Is she changing?

She continued to listen for a while. The bedroom fell into silence, as though devoid of any presence.

An irrational fear gripped Ms. Cecile. Did some mysterious spell snatch Victorique away into some other dimension? Without thinking, she reached for the knob and opened the door.

What she saw inside made her scream. She stood there petrified, hands on her cheeks and mouth on the floor. Wordlessly, she went to take off her round glasses, but then stopped herself, adjusting them slowly and placing them back on.

Victorique stood there, an apparition by the bedside.

Her ruffled nightgown lay on the sheets. She was naked above her waist, her fair, porcelain skin laid bare, concealed only by her flowing golden hair and a gold coin pendant. Below she wore lace and rose-embroidered bloomers. Without her puffed up, extravagant dress, Victorique appeared like a twig in the middle of winter, pale and thin.

She was shaking all over, holding a sharp needle in one hand. Kazuya’s letter lay on the miniature bedside table.