Deep down, he had understood. With his hands frozen stiff and his legs trembling, Mr. Roselet knew full well that Mr. Swan's message was no joke. He gazed at the utterly silent night streets, where the sound of the town's guard dogs barking was barely audible over the howling winter wind.
"I have to go," he told himself before pressing onward.
The lights were off, accompanied only by a soft melody. Mr. Roselet, alone in a rather noble house adorned with chandeliers and baroque-style decor, sat in complete darkness. Memories rose like ghosts as he clutched a bottle of whiskey, losing himself in thought.
Two children holding hands—a mundane scene, yet one that stirred a strange ache in his chest. A horizon filled with sunflowers, the two children standing beneath a tree with violet leaves, reminiscent of a jacaranda. The young girl looked at the boy and smiled, comforting and warm. Tears fell from the boy's eyes for reasons that seemed incomprehensible.
"At last, there you are—" the boy said, his voice thick with sorrow.
At those words, Mr. Roselet jolted awake, tears in his eyes.
"Just a dream," he thought before standing.
He moved to the window and, to his surprise, spotted the distinct silhouette of a young woman amidst the swirling snow and wind. She appeared to be staring directly at the window with unsettling eyes.
Suspecting who it might be, Mr. Roselet grabbed his coat and rushed outside.
Gomme, feeling the bite of the snow, rubbed her hands together. She didn't fully understand what was happening to her fingers—only that she knew the name for this kind of pain.
"Hypothermia," she muttered, watching Mr. Roselet approach.
Clutching his coat, Mr. Roselet took Gomme's arm and draped the garment over both their heads as they hurried back to the house.
"What were you thinking?!" Mr. Roselet shouted, as if scolding her.
"Aren't you cold, sir?" Gomme asked, eyeing her master—who wore only a t-shirt—with empty curiosity.
"Cold?" he replied, bewildered.
In an instant, his vision blurred. An intense, numbing chill spread through his body. His hands stiffened, his mind grew foggy, and he nearly collapsed—had Gomme not swiftly wrapped the coat around him and pressed close to share her warmth.
The heat radiating from Gomme's body startled Mr. Roselet. "Isn't she supposed to be an empty doll? Lifeless, hollow-eyed, robbed of any real existence?" he thought, unable to speak.
"You don't feel pain, do you?" Gomme said, tightening her embrace.
Mr. Roselet's eyes widened. A flood of memories surged—a woman striking a small arm with a belt, the nauseating stench of blood to a child's nose, then the overpowering reek of alcohol. His recollections were hazy, but the panic was real.
Tears spilled from his eyes. Gomme, her gaze still vacant, studied his pupils.
"No matter what, no matter how my words affect you—don't faint. Stay with me."
In her words, he sensed something unfamiliar: concern. A kindness no one had shown him in years. Mr. Roselet steadied himself, feeling strength return.
"There's a teapot in the kitchen past the sitting room," he murmured. "Firewood for the hearth is near the broom."
Gomme understood instantly. With surprising strength, she lifted him, carried him to the sofa, then disappeared into the next room.
Later, near midnight, the soothing whistle of the teapot and the crackling fireplace filled the room. Gomme placed a plate of cookies on the coffee table she had moved.
"Tell me, sir—just days ago, it was summer. Why is it suddenly snowing?"
Annoyed, Mr. Roselet snapped:
"Why ask such a trivial question?"
"Trivial, yes—but it keeps you conscious,"
Gomme replied, her stare sharp.
"It's the ether mist in the sky. You've seen it, haven't you? It erased autumn and spring, leaving only summer and winter," he answered hesitantly.
"I see. And why did you leave without warning?"
Mr. Roselet averted his eyes, clenched his fist, and muttered:
"None of your business."
Gomme heard the teapot's final whistle. She stepped out to check the other room.
"I can't tell her everything. What if she's a spy? Sent by that damned Guild?" Mr. Roselet thought with a sigh.
By morning, Gomme—asleep in the adjacent sitting room—was roused by the sound of a window creaking open.
"Get ready, Gomme. We're going out," Mr. Roselet said.
Silently, she rose, formed a V with her hands, and nodded.
"Best to be sure today. Who are you really, Gomme? An agent of the family? Or the Guild? I'll find out at tonight's event."