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The Reaper Finds a Golden Flower – Part 03

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Translator: Kell

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In the evening, Cecile would return to the modest faculty dormitory standing in an inconspicuous spot, past the academy’s chapel. Unlike the school building and dormitories for the children of aristocracy, which were luxurious structures made of rich, high-quality oak, the faculty dormitories were very simple, without any excess decor, just a square building.

There were two dormitories, one for men and one for women, and on the second floor of the men’s dormitory was a large family room. Between the two square buildings was a small pond where small migratory birds would come in the spring to rest their cold, weary wings.

Cecile and her coworkers looked forward to feeding the birds, dropping bread crumbs into the pond. A pleasant, relieving ritual that signified the coming of spring.

One night, Cecile returned to her dormitory after a hard day’s work, throwing crumbs into the pond as usual, rubbing her aching back, flipping through a women’s magazine she was subscribed to, and massaging herself. Then she started chatting with a friend from her student days who lived in the next room.

“Oh, by the way. I hear Mr. Jenkins, the music teacher, is very sick,” her friend gossiped.

“I see,” Cecile muttered.

Mr. Jenkins was an old music teacher who had been in the academy since Cecile’s student days. He had been hospitalized in Saubreme, Sauville’s capital, due to health problems.

“If he dies, no one will play that harp anymore,” her friend said sadly.

“Ahuh…” Cecile nodded.

Mr. Jenkins was a skilled harp player and often invited the faculty upstairs to his room on weekend evenings for a lovely tea party.

Mr. Jenkins’ delicious milk tea and freshly-baked scones…

Cecile let out a sad sigh.

Sandwich with salmon and soft cheese. Cherry cake…

She blushed when she realized what was on her mind.

Not that. Him playing the harp. Yes, I need to think about that. Scones with lots of black currant jam and clotted cream. No, wait!

Cecile struggled to get the thought of food out of her head.

“Either way, Mr. Jenkins will no longer be teaching,” her friend added.

“What?”

“I hear we’re going to meet the new music teacher next week. I hope they’re nice.”

This time, Cecile felt truly sad about Mr. Jenkin’s retirement from duty. He was a friendly teacher who patiently taught Cecile, a poor-performing, happy-go-lucky student, the wonders of music and playing piano.

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Cecile did not sleep well that night. She got up the next morning as she always did, sadness and worry clouding her face, ate her breakfast, and then headed to St. Marguerite’s Grand Library.

She didn’t know what to choose, so she picked out five thick books at random and carried them with both hands.

Birds were chirping outside. It was a nice season.

Cecile trudged toward the candy house. Just as she was about to open the door, small and reminiscent of shortbread, it burst open from inside.

Cecile yelped in surprise, and so did the students who came from within, children of nobility with blue eyes and blond hair.

The students made no attempt to pick up the books that Cecile had dropped.

“Oh, Teach.”

“What is this place? Why was a dollhouse built here?”

“That’s, uhh…” Cecile stammered as she picked up the books.

“There’s no one inside, just books. A dollhouse without dolls is just plain creepy.”

“There’s no one inside?” Cecile asked.

The students exchanged glances and nodded. Butterflies fluttered in Cecile’s gut.

“All right. Off to class you go,” she said in a deliberately angry tone. “Or you’re going to be late.”

Cecile quickly entered the house and closed the door behind her.

It was quiet.

The shadows swirled. Once again, darkness enveloped Cecile like a black velvet cloth.

A thick, profound darkness that she had supposedly grown accustomed to.

And beyond that darkness, as usual, was the doll-like girl.

Cecile breathed a sigh of relief.

The girl was wearing a luxurious black-and-white dress and a bonnet with layers of floral lace. Her tiny feet were wrapped in leather boots fastened with buttons, and her long hair swirled around her tiny body like molten gold flowing to the floor.

“Oh, you’re here.”

Victorique did not so much as react to Cecile’s voice.

“Students were inside just now. They said no one was around.”

“…”

“I’ll leave the books here. I’ll bring breakfast of tea, half-boiled egg, and cherry salad later. Victorique?”

There was no reply. She simply frowned and stirred a little. Cecile sighed, took one look at her figure, and quietly left the candy house.

A warm spring breeze blew. The sweet aroma of flowers tickled Cecile’s nostrils. As she hurried off, she realized that the little girl had been in the house all this time, oblivious to the warm spring breeze or the sweet fragrance. The little rose thorn in her chest twitched again. Inclining her head, Cecile scuttled along the garden path.

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And then, several mornings later…

The sun was getting warmer and warmer. Spring was giving way to summer.

White butterflies fluttered in the gardens, and flowers bloomed.

When Cecile entered the staff room that morning, rubbing her back, a middle-aged man was just about to be introduced to the faculty. The new music teacher had arrived. A graduate from Sauville’s famous music academy, he carried himself with confidence.

Once introductions were done, Cecile hurried out, when the new music teacher called her. He then followed Cecile and started asking questions about Mr. Jenkins.

After much thought, Cecile talked about the old man’s harp solo and tea parties.

“Oh… a solo, eh? That sounds wonderful,” the new teacher said.

“It was,” Cecile agreed. “We’ve lost a very dear man.”

“I see. He sounds like a respectable man.” The new teacher nodded.

A strong wind blew. A dry, early-summer wind.

Frowning, Cecile fixed her large round glasses with both hands.

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That evening.

Cecile came out of the Grand Library with a lot of books and carried them laboriously to the candy house.

When she opened the door and walked in, she bumped into a student who was just about to leave.

“Ms. Cecile again?”

The student looked curiously at Cecile, who was holding a pile of books. Then she glanced back inside, looking somewhat horrified.

“Oh, I know you,” Cecile said.

She was a female student in Cecile’s homeroom class. Her bright, blonde hair, reminiscent of straw, was tied into pigtails.

The student’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you here again, Teach?”

She seemed to have to come to the house alone today. Cecile was silent, unsure what to say.

“An empty dollhouse with no dolls,” the student said. “A perfect place for a supernatural academy!”

“Uh, actually… Wait, there’s no one around?”

“Nope. It’s completely deserted.” The student yawned loudly, tired of exploring.

She walked out, her little bottom swaying pretentiously from side to side. Cecile set the books down on the cabriole-legged table and scoured the house.

“Victorique!”

She checked the bedroom. Victorique was not in or under the pretty canopied bed. She ran up the spiral staircase and into the dressing room upstairs. She waded through the mounds of white lace, pink ruffles, and black ribbons in search of the little girl.

“Victorique? Where are you?”

As though searching for a small cat, Cecile started looking under the table, in the closet, under the cushion of the rocking chair.

But Victorique was nowhere to be found.

“She’s not here. Where did she go?”

Exhausted, Cecile sat down on a rectangle chest nearby.

The chest creaked.

A soft, annoyed groan came from somewhere.

From under Cecile’s bottom.

Cecile’s large, brown droopy eyes briefly widened in shock. She squinted. “Victorique?”

She quickly lifted her butt off the chest and studied it. Something was peeking out from the edge of the box, which was so small and square that it was hard to imagine a human being fitting inside.

Something white and soft… Disgruntled ruffles peeked out.

Wearing a look of suspicion, Cecile opened the lid of the chest.

Inside was a small, beautiful girl who looked like an expensive porcelain doll, wrapped in frills and lace and cotton ribbons. She was holding a book with a deep scowl. A lollipop stick was protruding out of her glossy, cherry lips.

“V-Victorique!” Cecile exclaimed. “Wh-Wh-What are you doing there? This is a wardrobe box. It’s not your room. Hold on a minute…”

Cecile hesitated to utter the rest. Victorique was curled up and motionless, like a wild animal whose pride had been wounded.

Were you hiding?

Are you afraid of humans?

That day, Victorique, lips pursed, showed no signs of leaving the chest.

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