Part 1:
Was it an illusion, or a revelation? Mr. Roselet, as if mesmerized by a green-tinged flower with its white petal, felt memories rise to the surface and take shape as ideas.
As the cold, glacial night made itself known between a slightly numb hand and a steaming cup of coffee, Mr. Roselet—lacking inspiration for his work—asked Gomme for advice.
"What did you think of the book series called 'Norman'?"
"You're speaking of your own work, sir—the series you've been publishing. To be honest, I hesitate to criticize, but the second and third books felt a bit forced. They lacked that spark of light and inspiration compared to the first."
Mr. Roselet gave an awkward smile.
"I thought Stein's dolls weren't supposed to understand beauty and art. The rumors about them really are exaggerated," Mr. Roselet mused, cradling his warm coffee between his hands to stave off the chill.
"Don't forget—it's hot, and it hurts," Gomme said.
Ever since their visit to Dr. Nazirsse, the servant had made a habit of reminding Mr. Roselet, before every meal or action, of the pain that ordinary objects could inflict—following the doctor's written instructions.
Part of the note read:
"My dear Nicolas is stubborn; he will never understand. But each time he acts, moves, eats, or chews, remind him that it hurts. Plant a variety called Karaj, which produces flowers with a strong scent. It belongs to the Kaltrose family, making it quite unique..."
"Sir, I'll step out for a moment after your coffee. I'll leave some notes as well, so make sure to read them carefully."
Mr. Roselet, intrigued, replied:
"What? What's the point of all these notes, Gomme? Did that Dr. Nazrisse give you more foolish advice after prescribing me those bitter-tasting pills yesterday?"
It seems you still haven't realized, sir—that petty woman doctor was only giving you vitamins yesterday to calm you down,Gomme thought.
"With that, I'll take my leave," Gomme said.
The door opened, letting in a slow trickle of bright white light. Gomme stood in the doorway, her hair swept by the wind, evoking a strange nostalgia in Mr. Roselet. He didn't fully grasp what was happening—only that buried memories were struggling to surface, held back by a deep-seated ache his mind recognized as trauma.
Don't worry, Nicholas. Didn't I promise you? I'll always find you, no matter what form I take, whispered a voice from his memories as Gomme stepped out and closed the door behind her.
Tears welling in his eyes, Mr. Roselet recalled the story of his own book series, Norman. In it, Norman—a young peasant whose life had been unkind, plagued by distorted reality and an inability to distinguish illusion from truth—compensated with uncanny intelligence and a mastery of complex calculations. After General Rodolphe noticed his talents, he was drafted into war. During his years in the army, Norman met a female soldier who brought him joy and courage—only for her to vanish under mysterious circumstances. The entire story revolved around this quest.
I wonder… if, like young Norman, I too have a similar quest to fulfill,Mr. Roselet thought.
Some time later, as Mr. Roselet sifted through discarded or burned manuscripts, Gomme returned with a plant wrapped in a thin, delicate pouch. Hearing the noise, he wandered curiously into the adjoining room and watched as she placed it in a vase of water. After arranging a few in the room, she asked permission to place the last two in his study.
"May I brighten your room with these plants?" Gomme asked.
"This variety… its faint green hues remind me of something," Mr. Roselet replied.
Its scent—sometimes like jasmine, sometimes like roses—brought him an unexpected relief. As if all the weight and heaviness he'd carried for years were evaporating with that fragrance. Seeing his serene expression, Gomme asked:
"Are you alright, sir?"
"I'm fine. Better than I've felt in years, Gomme," Mr. Roselet answered with rare enthusiasm.
"I see. Then I'll place this one in your room, if you don't mind," Gomme said, entering his study. She set one plant by the window behind his desk and the other on a shelf crowded with books.
"I'd like some time alone, Gomme. Do not disturb me under any circumstances," Mr. Roselet ordered.
"Don't overexert yourself," Gomme replied, forming a V with her hands, her voice laced with concern for her master.
Part 2 : During the the doll outing
Children ran through the market in their coats, the square bustling with crowds. The corners where good coffee was served easily filled with fieldworkers and women of all kinds, curious and lively. In the village of Scott, winter was a vibrant season, alive with diversions, colors of every shade—marveled at the hybrid flowers—and the scent of hot drinks mingling with fresh bread.
Gomme, still unaccustomed to the village, walked through the market hoping to find a skilled gardener who could guide her to the famed Karaj plant. She listened to each florist one by one, searching for answers, but in vain. It seemed her pale, ghostly demeanor made the vendors reluctant, even fearful. At every stall, the same words echoed in the servant girl's ears:
"If you're looking for that variety, you'd best go to the city. It's quite difficult to grow in a small village like this."
Gomme, disappointed, decided to head back with a quiet sigh.
"A wasted effort," she told herself.
A child sprinted past, a baguette in hand, fleeing what appeared to be an enraged baker. The boy crashed into Gomme's left leg. From behind, the baker barked in a rough voice:
"You little brat! Do your chores instead of running around like some good-for-nothing rascal!"
Gomme grabbed the boy with surprising strength, seizing him by the collar of his coat. The child—no older than eight—writhed in her grip.
"Miss, let me go! If he catches me, I'll be stuck scrubbing the latrines!"
"You'll be scrubbing them regardless, even if you bat those sweet eyes at me tonight," the baker snapped, suddenly looming behind the terrified boy.
Gomme released the child, shoving him toward the baker.
"Thank you, ma'am," the baker said before paling at the sight of Gomme's face. His voice trembled as he asked,
"Are—are you quite alright, madam?"
"Papa, I'm scared… She looks like a corpse," the boy whispered, hiding behind his father.
"Martin! Is that any way to speak to people?" the baker scolded sharply.
"Don't trouble yourself—I hear it often," Gomme replied. "But might I ask where one could find the so-called Karaj plants?"
"Karaj, you say? Well, if I were you, I'd ask the florist at the far end of the market. Cynthia, if I recall. And again, my apologies for the boy."
Gomme nodded her thanks.
"If you ever want bread, my shop's right next to the coffeehouse. Stop by sometime, and I'll give you a loaf on the house—as thanks for today."
"I'd like that," Gomme said as the baker walked off, dragging his son by the ear.
She set off toward the indicated stall, asking every vendor along the way if Cynthia was the one selling there. At one stand, a merchant answered:
"Looking for Cynthia? She's right at the stall ahead. With a name like that, she's quite the local attraction, you know."
Gomme thanked him and approached.
A woman sat on a chair, a newspaper in hand, wearing a monocle despite her evident youth—as if savoring a rare moment of rest. Gomme stepped forward and politely asked if she was Cynthia.
"What do you want? If it's more of those violets everyone's mad for, you're out of luck. Sold out this morning, thanks to the whole village pestering me," the woman said, folding her paper.
Noticing Gomme's pallor, the florist showed neither surprise nor curiosity. Gomme found this odd but held her tongue, wary of causing offense.
"A maid from Stein, eh? What brings you to a backwater like this?" asked the woman—Cynthia.
"A matter that doesn't concern you, madam. Though, by chance, would you have any Karaj plants?"
"Seeking a less popular strain, are we? If it's for an ailing patient, I doubt the few I have will suffice."
"No need to worry. It's more of a precaution," Gomme answered.
Cynthia stood, revealing a plant matching the Karaj's description.
"That'll be 500 florins per specimen."
Gomme's expression darkened. The price was steep, but she knew it was her only option in this remote village. As she opened her mouth to haggle, Cynthia cut her off:
"I doubt you've got the coin. And judging by your tone, you need several. So how about a deal?"
"Go on," said Gomme.
"See for yourself—I'm alone at this temporary stall while my main shop goes untended. Why not work off the debt?"