The Small Room

Sad news indeed. Ah, most unfortunate and disappointing news!

They canceled her new show, just like that? I've been waiting for it all season!

What else could be done? Surely you wouldn't expect her to sing after what happened?

Have some compassion for her, will you? Fate has dealt her a cruel hand in life ...

Vienna has lost its star, at least for this season.

I ... saw it with my own eyes. The entire thing.

She left the Vienna State Opera in the afternoon. She must have planned to take a walk in Weigl's Dreher Park, as she always does on Thursday afternoons.

On that day, her dark, curly hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her face was pale as porcelain.

She was in a lavender dress with a soft wool shawl around her arms. She looked pretty and fragile, like a doll made of glass.

Did you see her—

Yes, I saw her faint.

She seemed perfectly fine when she took leave of the theater manager. But after a few steps, she started shaking ...

She whimpered and scratched at her pretty face. Her usual heavenly voice became the howling cry of a mad cat.

Her servants tried to stop her, but it was too late! She ran off, tripped over her dress, and—and fell down the Albertina stairs! They helped her up, but by then, she'd already fainted.

God in Heaven! Poor thing!

It breaks one's heart to see such a thing. Soon, her physician came. He'd been by her side all day. It was only in the brief moment in which that horrid affair occurred that he was away attending to another matter.

Did he take her to the hospital? How is she now?

Oh, heavens, this is terribly sad. Most unfortunate for a talented lady such as her ...

She's so delicate. Even a strong gust of wind could whisk her off her feet. And now she has to come to terms with the painful fact ...

... that her dear child has been cruelly taken from her ...

Thank goodness, she still has Theophil. Still, it does little to ease a mother's pain ...

None of us—none of us would ever have the courage to face such tragedy ...

Having to witness her own child taken by death at the seance three days ago must have destroyed her ... We were all there, you know, Lili Marlene, Fiona and I. That poor girl. Such a lovely little thing.

Little Trista. She was only three years old ...

Her rosy cheeks turned a grayish-blue within seconds. Her pale lips were stained red with blood, and two golden tears welled in her empty eyes and ran down her cheeks. She died in a moment ... just like that.

But that sweet song didn't fade away. For the whole night, it was trapped in her throat, like a little songbird captive in a cage ...

It wasn't until morning that we mustered enough strength to touch her. She was still soft ... as if she were only sleeping ...

I ... I didn't know that.

Fine, I admit it! I was too harsh on her. No one would be able to sing on stage in the wake of such misfortune!

She should rest. She must be devastated, poor thing, losing her child like that.

No, she didn't cancel the performance to mourn her daughter!

Did you forget? She showed up at the rehearsals after her daughter's death. I saw her just yesterday!

Her doctor came to me that very night with a dissected rabbit in his palms. A quick look made it very clear.

She is with child again—two months into her pregnancy, in fact! The announcement of a new child just three days after her daughter's tragic death!

The change in the rabbit's ovaries told us everything. I wish I could show you, good people, for it is evidence most irrefutable!

Evangeline must rest, no matter how much she loves the stage and her audience. She has no choice!

That was her first appearance in Vienna.

A fanatic admirer bribed her mother's doctor, subsequently discovering her existence through a fluffy—and oddly bloody—pregnancy test.

Perhaps soon these rabbit tests will become a mainstream method of determining pregnancy.

Haha ... Who knows what will happen in this world of turmoil?

Favored by the god of theater, this child is a star—even from before birth.

In the many years that followed, before she made her debut, people talked of her as "the girl who arrived upon the wings of death."

But is she really an opera singer?

Look at her. Isolde, my lovely little sister. She's the new star of Vienna, gaining both fame and fortune in the theater.

As a singer, her name has surpassed that of our mother, who is now only remembered as the perpetrator of that appalling crime.

But my sister has never performed in a play. Not even once.

She's there, but she also isn't. She's many people, including me—my voice in her throat, my smile on her face …

Upon the stage, many spirits wander.

There are men's voices, women's voices, even children's—you can find them all. Different songs, different stories ... But they aren't hers.

Yes, yes ... rather innovative, isn't it? To channel spirits in an operatic performance.

Emotions she has never felt gleam in her eyes and flow from her mouth. She holds the spirits as they gently fall upon her, just as she is held by the stage.

Yes, silly goose. My little sister was never an actress. She's but a stage upon a stage—a pretty glass vessel!

Now, look over there.

A door? Hmm, why's there a door? How strange!

Am I right? Did I guess what you were thinking?

We all know what a stage looks like. There are no walls, but there are doors.

No, not the entrance doors to the theater. I'm talking about the doors behind the wings—the hidden ones that lead backstage.

This is the first door.

A narrow doggie door sitting an inch above the floor, painted in a calming blue. Who uses it, I wonder?

Could it be a Border Terrier? At a well-proportioned 6 kilograms, it would fit through the door perfectly.

It would be rather pleasant to keep around. A little angel in the home, a loyal and energetic friend, whose little paws softly tap across the marble floor.

But no ... The door isn't made for a little Scottish hill dweller.

Their feet get muddy, their fur dirty, and they have the pitiful little faces of a beggar.

No, they don't fit in at all in this spotless home. Those who live here must be presentable and praiseworthy, with manners learned from the most esteemed of teachers.

Ah, very good. A Leonberger. They were the stalwart friends of our honorable Sisi, the Empress of Austria. People were once madly in love with them.

It has a soft black and brown coat, a posture reminiscent of a lion, an intelligent mind, and a kind heart. Most importantly, this is an expensive breed. It's quite an excellent reflection of its owner's wealth and refined taste.

It weighs 115 pounds, a good boy with a sturdy build. It's 28 inches at withers, and a trustworthy protector of your wife and children ...

But it's much too big to fit through this door ... No, this can't be it.

You see, this is my door. I fit through it perfectly.

It wasn't always exclusively mine. There were other people—people who were of the right size and met the other conditions for its use.

But time is cruel. It turned Theophil and Isolde into adults, taking them out of their little five-year-old bodies and replacing them with new ones with bigger hands and feet. Now, I alone can pass through this little door.

Every Dittarsdorf child knows how to use this door. Just lower your head, bend down, and crawl through it.

Since I'm the only one using it these days, I have a new name for it—"The Door of Trista the Forgotten."

Hush, my baby, dry your tears; the cradle's safe and warm ...

Ah, Evangeline is here. The source of the sweet humming. Our mama. We all once lived inside her.

She always rocked this cradle with her left hand. It's the same one that Theophil, I, and our little sister, Isolde, all used.

...

She's singing her a lullaby.

But her performance is rather clumsy. It's a new song, a birth gift to Isolde from the playwright. He wrote one for each of us when we were born.

She's asleep ... Thank goodness. She cries so much, always trembling as if something's frightened her ...

Mother said I was the same way when I was a baby. Perhaps it's a family trait passed down from girl to girl?

No ... Trista didn't like to cry. She giggled a lot—even looking at the empty ceiling or the lamp stand.

She was never frightened—nothing could scare her. She'd cackle at anything, as if they were jesters, and she the queen ...

She still remembered me, even then. She's a good mama.

She was immature in the past. She wouldn't have taken me to the seance and made me the medium had she known any better.

But she learned her lesson. Truly. After my death, she never sang my lullaby again.

As I was lowered into my little grave, that song buried itself in her throat.

But was that enough?

It was only a song.

*whimpers*

Oh, Isolde. You stupid little girl. Always crying.

My, she's shaking again. Her face is so cold ...

However you look at it, my failure laid the groundwork for Isolde's success.

... Perhaps you don't think she's successful.

But at least she didn't turn into a little lump of dead meat at the age of three. For a Dittarsdorf daughter, that's quite an achievement.

I'm very fond of my little sister. I love her. I sang her the buried lullaby—my lullaby. I laid beside her on those crying nights and trembling mornings. I crawled with her, and I walked with her.

Sometimes I think about how I could have grown up as she did. What a pity that I'm six feet under the earth, while she walks upon it.

She soon turned three. But the seance didn't happen.

As I have told you, my mother, my Evangeline, had learned her lesson. She knew better by then.

*chuckles*

She continued to put off my little sister's first seance for many years. She was six by the time she was led into the candlelight.

This is ... is ...

Tell us, child—what do you see?

Mmm ...

Speak, good child. The spirit has come to us—it has come to you!

I need an answer. I've waited so long for this, child. I've heard all about your gifts ...

Urhh ... Hah ... Urmmm ...

Is she alright? She's ... shaking.

Evangeline never shook like this ... She looks just like her sister did ... What has she called forth?!

What's happening? Does my future hold so dreadful a spirit? I just wanted to know where I'd be in a few years ...

Urgh ...!

Good lord, she's bleeding!

The candlelight. It's flickering ... She did it!

I ... see ...

I see you ... in a sea of green ... horses are neighing ... wind is blowing ...

... the wind is ... the wind ...

The wind is blowing and blowing. Yes, it came in from the window.

Hah! That's right! It's wind! I see it now! It's the wind ... It's the curtains, the curtains!

Aaah!

Hell! What's that sound?!

Wind? How?! We locked the window!

Something's wrong. She's getting out of control! Isolde ...!

Isolde, stay calm! Isolde!

Close the window ...

Close the window! Close the window! Close the window!!!

After that, my little sister passed out. Her first seance ended in disarray.

People were scared. They didn't believe her to be a capable medium ... You would've thought the same had you seen her blood-spattered gown.

The successive failures of me and my sister completely shattered the curiosity over these seances. People started to believe that our ability to channel the spirits had become too strong to control, and that the practice was somewhat "evil."

For some time, the people of Vienna lost all interest in the seances, and consequently, Mama was snubbed.

But this didn't last long.

Annette Mayer, who spent the rest of her life afraid of the color green because of the prophecy brought forth through my sister, met her end.

She died on the street. A frightened horse charged towards her. It was wearing a green saddle blanket on its back and a shining green gem on its forehead.

Green, more green! Ms. Mayer was utterly terrified.

She screamed, and, as she dove to the side to dodge the approaching horse, she stumbled over a step and fell into a roadside bush. A sharp branch pierced her chest.

Ha ... Eerie, isn't it?

All of Vienna was wholly convinced. The prophecy was true. Once again, they gathered around Mama and my little sister, like ants reporting to their queen.

Oh, of course, little Isolde lived. She was depleted by that seance—never having had a strong constitution and having lost so much blood during the ceremony. But slowly, her health was restored.

That was a risky night. But accidents are common in arcanum; the slightest of changes can lead to completely different results.

If my little sister were a little younger, or if she were pushed a little harder ...

... She would've seen what I saw. Hundreds of soldiers lying dead on a battlefield, children orphaned before their very eyes, the endless explosions, and those golden rabbits ...

I was this close to having a little sister who's just like me.

Glad to have you here, old friend.

Truth be told, I've considered many people for this job—many! But none suits the position better than you.

You're being modest, my friend. I had thought about getting her a governess ...

... Governesses may well raise ordinary ladies, but my little girl is anything but. I'll settle for nothing but the very best for her.

"She must be virtuous, pure of thought, elegant, and compliant."

"She must be clever but guileless, talented yet modest, and dignified without pretension. Then, she will be a true noble lady."

... Heh heh.

Parents always have grand expectations for their children, don't they?

I'm a decent gentleman with impeccable manners. I never attend an event to which I am not invited.

I have a warm smile, a kind heart, and I never push others away. I have strong morals, respect social etiquette, and always present the best side of myself to others—when it's necessary.

Dittarsdorf regards me as a "true noble gentleman." He believes I possess every quality an honorable man should have.

That's why, despite my eagerness to attend and the fact that I'm a family friend, I've never asked for, nor even hinted at wanting, an invitation to that banquet.

I know that asking is pointless. I must be patient.

When the time comes, the gate will be open to me.

The Dittarsdorf house is guarded by an enormous gate. It's beautiful and stately, made of metal, and artistically decorated with the family's motifs.

It's quite a feat, really—finding the balance between beauty and security.

And my friend Dittarsdorf has found that balance. His only lacking feature, of which he is fully aware, is the patience to educate a child.

He worries, you see—about a future in which his son is incompetent and chaotic and his daughter is crude and reckless. So, he's pinned his hopes on me.

...

Oh my. We've been talking all this time, yet we haven't so much as mentioned Isolde ...

She should've been at the center of this conversation. So sweet and gentle—a truly thoughtful and beautiful girl.

I treated her as my own. I taught her everything I knew, and she became that perfect young lady Dittarsdorf desired.

She was flawless. She met every expectation—from her mother, her father, her brother, the servants, and, of course, me.

Mind your posture, child.

Yes, Mr. Karl.

Very well. Now lift your chin a little. No, not too high. We must avoid any indication of overconfidence.

...

... That's right. Just like that. Very well done, my child.

Alright, now maintain that posture and walk to me.

Yes, Mr. Karl.

Head up, shoulders square. Alright, now smooth strides. Don't sway, and don't bounce up and down.

Don't lean forward. Straighten your back. Knees steady.

*exhales in relief*

Excellent, Isolde. Your walk is almost perfect now.

Have a seat. Let's move on to our next subject.

Time is against us, young lady. We spent an extra fifteen minutes working on your posture.

I've been told that you'll have a vocal lesson later. Don't worry, I shall see you again for our literature class after its completion.

Tonight we'll be reading about a dinner. There will be mention of the dining etiquette we've practiced before, so this is a good chance for you to review it.

... Certainly, Mr. Karl.

May I ask a question, sir?

... If I remember correctly, you told me that we had completed the rules of dining etiquette last week. Did I misunderstand?

You did not, my child.

But last night, during dinner with your parents, I couldn't help but notice that your hands were shaking.

The movements were subtle—almost imperceptible most of the time. You even hid them well while you cut the meat.

When it came to the soup, however, the shaking was as clear as daylight. People will certainly notice your wetted cuffs.

Of course, such a mistake wouldn't be considered rude, but it would reflect badly on your education.

We've put in great effort and come so far. It would be a great shame to fall short on so small a detail.

Yes, Mr. Karl ... I'll work hard on it.

A hundred times.

I asked her to practice it a hundred times.

She's the daughter of Evangeline, the greatest opera singer to ever grace the stages of Vienna. She has her eyes, her nose, her cheeks ... How could she possibly have such a shaky hand while using a spoon?

What a disgrace.

I could tell she was getting tired towards the end of the session. She'd hidden it well thus far, just as she'd been instructed to do.

She's only twelve, after all, and she went straight from a three-hour poise and posture class to repeatedly raising and lowering the spoon for an hour more.

But she carried on. Just as I expected her to.

She had a smile on her face. Her voice remained soft. Her eyes were gentle as a spring breeze. She's a darling little lamb.

All our efforts paid off ...

Her wrists were still tight and shaky the first twenty times we practiced. It wasn't until the 65th attempt that things started to improve.

Perhaps she was too tired to shake; perhaps her joints were numb. Or perhaps she finally mastered the skill and calmed herself.

By the 100th practice, the soup in her spoon was as still as a mirror. I could see the reflection of my face within it.

I still have no idea why she was trembling so much. Maybe there's an issue with the muscles in her hand, or maybe it's an unfortunate side effect of her inherited ability.

But I'm certain that she'll be rid of this unsightly habit within a week.

She will become Evangeline, only better.

This, you see, is the benefit of a proper education. If only I could travel back in time and give poor Evangeline the same opportunities ...

...

You seem surprised. Why?

I adore Evangeline. I'll forever be her loyal audience member and supportive friend. But that doesn't mean that I'm blind to her flaws.

She's mad. Unstable. She spends half the day unconscious and the other half, God bless, in hysteria—even incontinence. She's a pitiful woman, indeed, worthy of little admiration.

Yes, she's the center of the crowd; yes, important figures attend her seances and listen to her piously; and yes, throngs of people cheer and throw flowers at her on stage, some even fainting from the excitement.

But none of this speaks to who she truly is, my dear friend.

You must be familiar with Sachertorte: two pieces of chocolate cake with a layer of apricot jam in the middle. It's the sweet embodiment of perfection.

Evangeline is just like this cake. Most of her is sweet—her voice, her divination—but there's a rot growing that will one day devour her.

It's still a little early to throw the cake away. That would be a shame—at least most of it still looks fine.

We can still enjoy the good part of the cake, as long as we're careful about where the dessert fork lands—Dittarsdorf did marry her, after all.

But it's a somewhat troublesome process.

The people's appetite for Sachertortes will never wane. And as one cake sours, they will look for another. Poor Evangeline simply cannot satisfy their desires any longer. They need something fresh, delicious, sweet ...

Isolde is that new confectionary. Freshly out of the oven and waiting to be served.

... Ha.

The cotton pads didn't help. The heels still rubbed my feet ...

The vocal lesson's over, and my literature class is canceled because Mr. Karl was invited to a banquet ...

... Looks like I can rest early today. Wonderful.

——, ——————, ——?

No, sister, I won't ...

——? —!

——, —————? ——!!

Urrh ...

Please, sister, you're hurting me ...

Urh ... *vomits*

Sis ... Ma ... *coughs* Mama ...

Mama ... asked for me ... I promised her ...

Um ... Ha ...

Mama ...

Mama.

Isolde, my sweet girl, come!

See, I have Apfelstrudel and Blume here. Oh, and the nightingale your father just bought ... I was hoping to take the swan in here too, but it was swimming on the lake, so we couldn't get close to it.

We can meet in the garden, Mama. You don't have to bring them all inside ...

Nonsense. I'm happy to do this for you.

You always get dizzy under the sun. How can you attend your lessons if you're unwell?

The lounge is much better. We can enjoy a bit of sunshine through the windows and listen to music.

Hello, little Apfelstrudel ... How're you feeling?

You're so fluffy and soft! Like the cooked apple in a real strudel ...

She has the softest fur—and such adorable coloring.

Do you remember when your father first brought them home? You were eleven—a bit shorter than you are now. It wasn't long after you started your vocal lessons.

Of course, Mama. Apfelstrudel and Blume are the only rabbits who've joined the family.

We've had plenty of birds and ponies before, as well as white rabbits for use in the seances, but none of them ever had a name.

It wasn't until the doctor recommended a new method of therapy that Father brought these two home, and we named them.

*chuckles* Yes. It was fun.

With these adorable little things around, I don't faint as often as I used to. You were so small back then. I can scarcely believe that that little girl is the same person as the fifteen-year-old young lady sitting before me. And for her to be so beautiful a singer, too!

Mama ...

Do you not wish to go back on stage? Singing used to be so important to you ...

... No.

You're mistaken, my child. I never really loved performing. It was just an ordinary part of my life.

Besides, they were making me emotional, which worsened my condition. I shouldn't be performing anymore. It's no good for me.

But ...

I'll be fine. As the doctor said, caring for animals brings me peace.

Keeping a calm atmosphere is the foremost goal of this treatment ... Isolde, my child, we must carry on.

Yes, Mama. We must carry on.

Things will be different for you, Isolde. You're luckier than I. You've received treatment much earlier in life, and times are better now. There's more than one way to improve your situation ...

You'll be cured. And you have the talent to sing.

You will become the star of Vienna. You must keep on.

Yes, Mama. I'll continue with the treatment. I'll keep on singing.

I'll—Hm?

Apfelstrudel? Are you hungry?

How could she be? The maids have already fed them today.

No, you're confused again, Mama. In March, the doctor suggested that you start feeding them.

He said it would help you bond with them.

Is that so ...? Oh yes, I remember ...

Don't worry, Mama. We all forget things sometimes. Leave it to me.

I'll get them something to eat.

Mama, have the rabbits recovered? I noticed they were a little out of spirits earlier.

If they're still unwell, I'll go get some medicine, too.

Mm? Were they really?

They seem ... fine to me.

Alright Mama. I'll be back shortly.

Sheets, sheets, and more sheets—I ain't gone a single day without washing these bloody things!

When I worked for the Mayers, we only had one or two washing days a week!

But you're paid better here, ain't ya? Quit your complainin' and come help, eh?

My God, there's blood on the sheets again. How on Earth is there so much of it? Even for that time of the month, this is a lot ...

There's no way this is blood from her time of the month.

There's been blood on the sheets once a week for the last three weeks now.

I'd say it comes from those dead rabbits and birds.

Lucas threw away another load of dead animals yesterday. I saw birds, ponies, but mostly rabbits—the yellow and white ones.

I've lost count of the number of Apfelstrudels and Blumes we've had. They got two new ones just today ...

Poor things. What happened to 'em? They didn't die nearly so often last year. Is there somethin' wrong with the fodder?

No, it weren't because of the bloody fodder! It weren't any natural cause of death!

Lucas told me that every one of the animals suffered a miserable death. Some vomited blood; others had their heads cracked open. Most strange of all is that a few of 'em had a hole in their neck with a golden key jammed inside.

... He said Lady Evangeline did it.

Oh, come off it! Lady Evangeline loves those animals. She's always carryin' those rabbits around in her arms.

Well you didn't see her crush that poor nightingale with her bare hands when she was having an episode!

She's ill. So is Lady Isolde. It runs in the family, like a curse.

The doctor said it was hysteria. Somethin' to do with their "wanderin' wombs." Drives 'em mad and makes 'em bleed and all.

Which explains these blood stains.

Do you think Lady Isolde will one day lose her mind like her mother?

Why do you care?

She's been awfully kind to me. She helped me settle in ...

She's still young, but she's already such a perfect little lady. Gentle, polite, beautiful, kind ...

She's got so many lessons to attend, bless her. Etiquette, literature, history, paintin', music, dance ... And on top of all that, she has to go to the seances with her mother twice a month ...

Poor girl ...

She don't faint often, and she ain't havin' any manic episodes like her mother does now. But she does vomit and feel dizzy at times ... Oh I do hope she don't end up like her mother ...

Yes, yes, enough of the worryin'. It's none of our concern. You done with the sheets? Come on then.

...

... Yes, now I remember. I left it in this drawer. Ah, there it is.

Father once told me ...

Be graceful, be self-restrained, and be kind to others.

Be compassionate, especially towards the less privileged.

We ... must be an example for our people, we—

We must be virtuous and dignified, as befits our status.

... Theophil! I didn't know you were home today.

I won't be staying long. Mother told me you were here, so I came.

It's been a while! I brought you this.

The box is from Heinrich. There's a brooch inside—for your fifteenth birthday.

And this watch?

That's from me.

But you already gave me a present on my birthday, Theophil.

No, it's not for your birthday. I just want you to have it. Look, it's not just a watch. It has a timer, and here ...

See? It's white crystal. It works like an amulet to help you stay calm. And here, see the slot? It can hold enough smelling salts for twenty uses.

You need a watch to keep track of the time in all those lessons, and the amulet and smelling salts will help you, too. It's perfect.

I also have news for you: I'm renting a studio. It's amazing how much it's helped me gain inspiration!

It also has space for the young models to stay the night when the weather becomes dreadful. It simply broke my heart to see them walking all the way back home in the rain.

So, all is well with me, but I won't be returning home very frequently. I hope you'll continue your treatment along with Mother. Remember, I'm thinking of you all the time. You are my beloved little sister, after all.

... Did Father agree to this?

Of course! You can ask him if you like. He even helped pick the studio.

I see. Then I'm relieved. I wish only the best for you, Theophil.

I have a blundering artist for a son. A wild spirit. Look at him. Who would think that he's almost seventeen?

You're nothing like him, for which I'm very grateful. You spend your days perfecting yourself, while he wastes time chasing after those models in his—

*sighs* What I'm trying to say is that you're a comfort to me, child.

Thank you, Father. How generous of you to say such nice things about me.

Theophil didn't inherit Mother's musical talents. He doesn't even sing.

Mother passed that talent down to me instead of her firstborn son. I suppose it's unfair to him.

Hello, excuse me ... What is this place?

Me? My name is Hannah. I'm a waitress at Café Central. Have we met?

Oh ... I see. Sorry ...

I was just at the café, working my shift. The manager told me to walk slower so that I wouldn't kick the customers' chair legs again, and then everything went dark, and I found myself in this very room!

This is strange! Stranger than a novel!

I was hoping you could tell me what happened—explain things to me.

... Mm? What's this?

Oh! It's ... a painting? No ... a door?

How strange that it's on the floor. Actually, it looks like the door to Café Central ...

Something's written on it. It's too dark in here. I can't see. Maybe I can feel it with my fingers ... Mm?

... Theophil? Mr. Theophil ...?

Did he play a part in the kidnapping? But why would an artist be involved in such a horrible act ...?

Or perhaps—perhaps he wants me to be his model? I'd gladly agree to it, of course ...

He's so handsome and kind, and my goodness, can he paint! Any girl would agree to be his model. He wouldn't need to abduct me for that ...

Oh, I think I remember!

Before everything went dark, Mr. Theophil had ordered another Franziskaner. I had it on my tray, and then ...

... And then I passed out before I reached his table ...

Until then, it was a perfectly ordinary day ...

Mr. Theophil looked as handsome as ever. He ordered his usual. Even Mr. Heinrich was wearing the same brown blazer ...

No, no, that's not right.

Something was different that day. Yes. That was the day she first met her. That was the beginning of everything.

An insightful idea, miss.

I've never heard of such a perspective on how to treat mental illness ... I'm very impressed.

See? I told you, Theophil!

I knew you two would get along. How could you not adore such a lovable and talkative lady?

The amazing Klara! We met at an auction. She has a superb taste in the arts!

Oh, by the way, Theophil. Where's your sister?

You said she'd be here today. I thought she'd agreed to come down to the café.

Yes. She should've arrived by now. Perhaps she's been delayed on her way over.

After the huge success of her debut, my little sister is the new star of Vienna. She's positively swarmed by her admirers on the streets—it's all very sweet but, as you can imagine, it can be quite troublesome.

Sir, here's your coffee.

One Vienna iced coffee and a Maria Theresa. Enjoy.

Thank you, Hannah. Your smile always brightens up a long afternoon.

Haha ... You flatter me again, sir.

Would you like a cake on the side? It-It's on the house.

I remember you said you liked the particular lemon aroma of it ... My mother grew those lemons. She brought me some more when she last visited. Would you—

Over here!

Oh, Isolde! My dear girl! When was it that we last met? It feels like eons!

It was about ... one and a half months ago?

Ah, how unforgivably long! Do you remember when we were younger? We saw each other every week!

Theo ...

Why, do you think Isolde is still that little girl who followed you around?

I'm afraid you're terribly mistaken, my friend! She's the biggest star of Vienna and the best and most stunning "Salome" of all time! Her admirers fill the streets, and her work has shaken the art world to its very core!

And all at the ripe old age of sixteen, no less! She's not some unknown actress taking minor role after minor role, nor is she one of those poets who end their miserable lives by plunging themselves into a river! No, it won't be long before she becomes the sovereign of theater!

My point is, Mr. Heinrich, that it's very difficult to see her these days. But, if you can make her brother's life a little sweeter ...

Oh, Theophil, you crafty fellow!

...

Thank you, but I don't feel like having a drink.

It was her! Her! How could I forget? How could I forget her!?

Oh, what a terrible, terrible future ...

Did I hit my head? Or was it my neck? Or my legs? My waist? ... No, no, no, no ...

It was here. Yes.

So much pain ... There was ... *sobs*

Why? Why did it have to be me? Why not Teresa? Or Gregor?

Not all who were trampled that day died. Nor those who fell to the floor ... And those who were pushed in front of the guns ... They had a quick and painless death, at least.

Why me ...? Why only me ...?

Why was I the only one who fell down the stairs? Why was I the only one who screamed in agony? Why was I the only one who suffered a broken neck?

It shouldn't have happened—none of this should've happened! The road shouldn't have been covered in sharp gravel!

Those creatures in black, with their dark slime dripping all over ... They started that demonstration!

It was ... those creatures ...

Monsters ...

It was "The Circle." It was the speech.

It was they who were responsible.

The famous opera singer with a touch of sorrow.

The daughter of that mirror peddler.

They killed me.

Hello, I'm Klara Vingler. Perhaps you've heard of "The Vingler's Mirror." That's an invention of my family.

Heinrich told me a lot about you and your brother. I'm most glad that we've finally had the chance to meet.

I'm Isolde.

It's a privilege to make your acquaintance.

Yes, yes. She is Salome.

She's mine ...

My Salome. My muse.

Brava!

Brava! Fantastic—truly fantastic!

Humph. This can't possibly be a real performance!

One cannot deny that she has become the character, but surely this is some sort of fraud!

That voice is not her voice, and that dance is not her dance. Not even her expressions are her own!

She's not performing. She's just using that freakish power of hers! This is witchcraft—insanity, I tell you!

*singing*

!

Oh, be careful, Ms. Klara ...

Don't worry. I'm used to cleaning the stains off my skirts and shoes.

Although it is good to be careful. I don't want to have to wash them every time it rains. It would consume far too much of my study time.

Ah, you ...

You know, I've never thought of simply jumping over the puddles. Isn't it a little too ... eye-catching?

Well, maybe so.

Especially when we're strolling arm in arm like this. A synchronized leap would look rather odd.

But it makes a lot of sense when you're esca—ahem, running.

Of course, if you're running down the street, a jump will make you no more eye-catching than you already are. But if you're in a hurry, you'll be leaving the sight of others before you even notice that they're staring at you.

Ah, like when you ran out of Ms. Hornberg's window?

Yes, just like—What!?

H-how did you know that? I thought no one living on that street knew of me!

Hah hah! You should pay better attention to your surroundings.

Anyway, you're right that you'd quickly leave people behind, but they'd still have their eyes fixed on you until you were out of their sight.

And it wouldn't end there. Their curiosity would only continue to grow. Who is she? Where's she going? Before you know it, the seeds of mystery will have blossomed in every corner of Vienna.

Not to mention that there's no other "witch" who would ever jump out of the window of a noble lady's room but you.

...

That was a lovely day. The sun shone brightly once the rain stopped.

And that was the day she first recognized my existence.

I'm a playwright. Please address me as such.

Please, you must call me by this title. I implore you ...

Oh yes, my clothes are soaked—I'm soaked. It's a long story.

And an unimportant one. Or, rather, the least important. No, we must start with the most essential part of the tale. Here, hold my hands ...

Allow me to introduce you to my father first. No, this isn't the beginning of the story, just an appropriate character to introduce it with.

Schmiler, Topaz Schmiler, was a man with black hair and gray eyes.

His father was a cloth merchant, and his grandfather owned a small farm.

Having grown up in a financially sound environment, he didn't have to worry about feeding and clothing himself. This gave him the chance to come into contact with "art" and "beauty."

Thus, he became a gentleman. He was polite, read poetry, visited exhibitions, appreciated paintings ...

... and watched opera. This was his favorite. He was deeply moved by the art form and attended the theater regularly.

Later, he married my mother, a lesser-known opera singer. She wasn't famous and generally played supporting roles.

A year after that, I was born.

Family? No, no. I wouldn't call us a family. Or, more specifically, I wouldn't count my father as a family member ...

He rarely spent time with us, nor did he have any kind of real job. He was far too busy writing poems and melodies. Despite that, he never managed to complete a piece. Just as he never managed to return home.

It was my grandfather who took care of me and my mother. I suffered no hardships. I lived a similar childhood to my father.

I received an education, was exposed to art, and was loved by my mother and grandfather just as he was.

I lived a life of calm, stability, and happiness. And, as a result, I came to understand him less and less.

Why would he choose to leave such a warm and loving family to live in a riverside cabin all by himself?

What did Grandfather mean by "meaningless obsession" when they were quarreling?

The distance between us fed the confusion and disdain in my heart. At the age of fifteen, I realized that his face had become faint to me.

It was ... blurred, like a wrinkled handwritten letter with tear-smudged ink.

Her gray eyes look cold and hard, like pebbles at the bottom of a river.

I was terrified. I knew we weren't close, but I didn't want to be a bad daughter who couldn't even remember her father's face. So I tried and tried. I tried my best to recall him.

But, as it turned out, my efforts were unnecessary.

Three days after I started trying in earnest, my father ran out of his cabin, screaming and crying, and jumped into the river. It was mid-winter. He was fished out—dead.

Mother fainted when she heard the news. Grandfather fell ill and was bedridden. So, I took a carriage to the river by myself.

That was the first time I saw my father completely clearly. I realized there was no need for me to worry about being a bad daughter.

After confirming the identity of the body, I went to his cabin with the patrol.

They helped me stack his things in the carriage and handed me a notebook. "This proves that your father committed suicide," they said.

...

I read it, of course.

Then, I finally knew where he went when he wasn't home.

He went to the Vienna State Opera, to Weigl's Dreher Park, to Der Graben.

But he wasn't there for shopping or sightseeing. He was there for her. For Evangeline!

She was the only thing on his mind. He praised her. He missed her. He began stalking her.

He followed her from the moment she left her house until the moment she returned home. He even bribed her doctor to give him first-hand information on her health!

The burning passion in these scrawls surpassed all the poems and melodies he'd ever written, you know?

Simply reading those words scalded me. They were hot, stifling, so much so that they almost killed me.

I was trembling in fear.

But I didn't know what I was scared of. So, I kept reading in the freezing wind by the river, one page after another, until I'd read every word.

The last—last page—the last page was moist! Can you imagine!? It was smudged by tears, just as my father's face was in my memory!

Who is this person with "curly black hair, a pale face, and a body as delicate as a champagne flute?"

What kind of person is a woman with a "perfect and indisputable charisma"?

I was desperate to find out. Before I could realize what I was doing, I'd started running. I ran and ran until I arrived at the doors of the opera house.

I had run so fast that there was sweat on my brow, even on that cold winter day. I asked about Evangeline's performance, only to find that she had retired in order to recuperate from her illness ...

...

... Several years later, in mid-June, I heard that Evangeline drowned in the beautiful pond in her garden.

You see, it was time she followed in my father's footsteps.

I never met her—I never had a chance to meet her, let alone hear the singing that had driven my father mad. Oh, don't get me wrong. I don't say this out of regret.

Because Isolde, her daughter, had her debut half a month after her mother's death.

I was there, just as my father had been at every one of Evangeline's performances. I witnessed her rendition of The Dance of the Seven Veils and how she enraptured the whole of Vienna.

In my father's notes, I had glimpsed the first sign of her existence in the swollen ovaries of a rabbit.

I know when she took her first step, how painful her night seizures were, even the amount of calming syrup she took.

I'm my father's daughter, and she Evangeline's.

How beautiful fate is. How it binds us together.

... You mean, this is your original script?

Y-yes, sir, this is an original, created b-by me ...

Hmm ...

Ms. Schmiler, I very much appreciate your hard work and persistence. Your grandfather contacted me and told me how passionate you are about playwriting.

There's no doubt that you've put in great effort. I can see that you're wholly devoted to your craft, which is certainly a necessary quality for a playwright ...

... And you're the granddaughter of my good friend. I even attended your debutante ball. So, a much as it pains me to disappoint you ...

... We cannot accept your script, my child.

Why?

It's much too risky. The story, that is.

I understand that many stories are inspired by true events, but yours is simply far too obvious.

Rosalie, the pretty and gentle heroine from a noble family, becomes popular after playing Salome ...

Her mother murders her father; her brother burns himself to death; yet she herself is sociable and surrounded by many friends ...

Together, they create an organization called the "Square," based in Café Central. Every day they talk about poems, share their thoughts and ideas ...

Later, after Rosalie's father dies, her tutor shows his desire for her ...

He claims to be her godfather. He longs for Rosalie so strongly that he threatens her with his power. Even worse, he plans to murder her best friend Maggie ...

Exactly, sir! This evil man manipulates Rosalie into dancing for him in a veil!

How delicate, how kind, how pitiful she is!

She's never hurt a soul, she's always kind-hearted, and her gentle nature evokes empathy from everyone. She is sure to stir compassion within the audience's hearts ...

And in the most crucial scene, her hero arrives, pulling her out of the darkness!

He enters, a beacon of shining light, bringing salvation and happiness to Rosalie and slaying Cameron the devil!

Isn't it a wonderful play, sir?

Why are you turning it down? Is it because of the buyout fee?

I won't charge you much! As long as Isolde stars in it, everything is negotiable!

No, no, I mean to say ...

The characters are too familiar to us.

Any audience member with a modicum of knowledge would know they're based on Ms. Isolde, her brother Theophil, their parents, and Mr. Karl ...

Although Mr. and Mrs. Dittarsdorf are no longer living, and Mr. Theophil, wherever he might be, isn't the sort to criticize a piece of art, Mr. Karl will not at all be happy about it!

He'd never allow us to put it on! It's absolutely slanderous!

No, it's not!

I saw it all! He was reaching for Isolde's waist—that filthy toad! What are you so afraid of!?

It didn't end well. I returned home with my script in hand.

That donkey has no appreciation for art. He even accused me of being an untalented writer!

How dare he say that I'm "merely repeating the facts" and that it's "just an ersatz copy of Salome" ...

I'm a playwright! You address me as such, do you not? How could I possibly hand over a manuscript as terrible as he said?

Oh, he even said that "Mr. Karl is a kind gentleman." Ha! Preposterous!

I was always by Ms. Isolde's side. No one knew her better than I. I knew her friends, her family, and all about that d**nable old man ...

... and he was just as I described in the script! She, too, was as I described. Young, beautiful, and fragile as a daffodil.

Even aging couldn't befall her! That family curse has ensured that nobody in her family has lived past the age of 40!

We're all familiar with the events that followed. Theophil set himself on fire, and Isolde became fragile and pain-filled. She eventually received shock therapy in full view of the public ...

She was ... trembling. The pain looked excruciating. I'd never seen her like that ...

I wanted to scream. I wanted to stand up and yell at Schwartz to stop the torture. I wanted to. But I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I couldn't do anything ...

But then, I did it! I stood up!

I scolded him. I ordered him to stop using that barbaric treatment.

...

Soon after, I raised a duel against him and won. I killed Schwartz.

You see, that's when I realized it was I who was her hero. My script was always correct. We became close friends after that.

There's no more Maggie. We lived happily ever after.

Ah, I'm sure this might sound a little different from the story you know, but you have to understand ...

You and I are different. There are clairvoyants in my family. My father had prophetic dreams, and so did I. Some say that it's a hereditary mental disorder, but that's not true.

In my father's notebook, on a drenched page, he wrote, "This world is a false one."

Because he had seen the true one, the one where Evangeline is still on stage, performing. He set off to find that world.

I went to that river again, but it was buried.

Where the river once was, a railroad was built, bringing countless travelers to the city.

I lay on the tracks, and then I heard a rumbling sound.

I ... lay ... on them ...

She is my ... Salome ...

...

Ha.

What a sickly little story! How on Earth did you make it to the end?

Honestly, I deserve a peppermint for cutting her off for you. Don't you think you owe me a thank-you?

But those artists—no, those so-called "artists"—are always over-exaggerating to make their stories more dramatic!

A muse should be kind, good-looking, and fragile. And my little sister, of course, is more beautiful than a rose and more valuable than a diamond.

She claimed that no one saw the real Isolde, but did she? Did she see the real her?

What can you see when you peer through the cracks around the edges of a door?

The faster you run, the more curious people become, and the harder they pursue you.

Don't you think this is all too mushy? Heroes and beauties, salvation and light? Is this really the story?

Look. I don't want you to miss this truly dramatic scene.

Mother, I'm home! ... Mother?

That's strange. Has she not come home yet? She should've arrived an hour before me ...

Maggie! ... Is Maggie not home either?

Maggie! ... Is Maggie not home either?

Oh, look at me. I've been far too busy with rehearsals these days. I'm almost as forgetful as my mother.

Maggie took leave to visit her ill mother back in her hometown. Of course she isn't home ...

Theophil must've taken that pretty girl, Mia, out with him. She's his new model, so she spends little time at home these days.

That leaves the dark-haired Anneli and the lively Agnes. Yes, that's right, they're the only ones here.

Maggie's away. The bunnies must be hungry.

Come out, Apfelstrudel ... Yes, here comes your food.

You've accompanied me and Mother for so long, and you've stabilized her condition. Yet still, you go hungry. Poor little things ...

Don't worry. I'll be here for you.

Although, I will be busy with performances, so it may be tricky to find the time ... The last rehearsal went splendidly, you know. The singing, the dancing, the stage settings—everything was perfect.

Heinrich, a friend of mine, has devised many clever tricks for the stage design. Everyone's been telling me that my debut will be fantastic—everyone!

Mother will be so glad to hear it.

But she's not in the living room or the garden. Where could she be? Hm? What's that voice?

*singing*

That's ... Mother's singing voice ...

Sleep, my darling, safe and sound ...

Mother.

My Trista! Is that you?

Oh, my dear Trista. Mama's missed you so much ...

Come, come and see! Your father and I, oh, and Anneli and Agnes, are all ready ...

... Ready to join you! Oh, my dear Trista, how stupid I was! Just like my mother always said. I thought about it over and over again, but I didn't understand—

I didn't understand it until now. You were right—you were right from the beginning!

You ...

You've always been my smartest, most talented child. My cheerful, clever, unique little angel.

The world has always been nothing but a jester revolving around you, and you the giggling queen.

...

So this is what Father was afraid of ...

Yes, and he should've been afraid. The smell of blood is so strong here that, were it to escape through the window, it would make any passerby crinkle their nose. And then people would find out what had happened.

This scandal will draw everyone's attention ... Yes ... Even knowing that he may one day be a victim of Mother's hysteria, he considered the reputation of the family above his own life.

Close the window! Close the window! Close the window!!!

Brava! Brava!

I'm rather good at telling stories, aren't I? Did you notice the connection between the two? They even ended in the same way!

A follow-up? Oh dear, don't tell me you've forgotten already!

Didn't that "playwright" tell you what happened next? Not long after, before my father's burial, my mother drowned herself in that shallow pond in our garden.

Yes, you're right. She went insane and considered death the only means to break free.

She'd had enough of this world. It brought her only anguish. To prevent her from hurting herself, Theophil requested the housemaid guard her door every night.

You know, even in utter hysteria, she was Vienna's greatest performer.

On the night of her death, she awoke at midnight, confused.

She couldn't remember a thing. She asked the maid for a cup of hot milk and honey and wondered why her throat hurt so much, why there were wounds on her hands ...

The maid, Maggie, obliged and rushed to the kitchen to retrieve it for her.

In that short time, Evangeline ran across the hallway, down the stairs, through the lounge, and into the garden.

She didn't stop to look at the clematis, nor did she notice the scent of jasmine in the air.

She simply leapt into the pond, crawled over to the pearl-shell-decorated fountain, and curled up like an infant in the water ...

All the women in our family have met the same end, and Evangeline was no exception.

The golden rabbits have shown me far too many stories of how my ancestors' lives tragically ended. I have no interest in retelling them.

The next morning, when Evangeline's body was discovered in the pond, my little sister fell to the ground, twitching and howling like a drowned cat.

On that day, the hysteria that had once haunted my mother well and truly manifested itself in my sister.

Do you remember what I said? That my little sister isn't a real actress?

Well, that's not true. Or rather, not entirely true.

She is, in a way, the most superb actress and liar I've ever seen. It's just a pity that she did it so well. No one could recognize her talent.

There's another door. You should take a look.

Go find it. It's right by you. Go on, look for it. I assure you, it's there.

... Isolde, I'm so, so sorry.

If you ever need someone—or anything—I'm right here for you. Call me anytime. The company and support of friends are most important, especially during this time.

And if you feel uncomfortable at home, you're more than welcome to stay in my clinic.

Thank you, Ms. Kakania.

I ... I'll be fine. You needn't worry about me.

...

The Dittarsdorf family needs me as a hostess more than ever. My reputation is worthless at the moment.

Given the circumstances of his death, Theophil's body isn't suitable to be displayed at a wake.

So, Mr. Karl suggested we bury him sooner so he may rest in peace rather than painfully linger in this world.

The maids are packing his things. A third of his paintings will be buried with him. As for the financial disputes between himself and his models, they remain to be solved.

And I, I ...

I'm the last living Dittarsdorf, Ms. Kakania. It falls to me to shoulder our burdens.

I can't live like this. I can't let my wandering womb control me anymore. The fainting, the convulsions, those visceral disturbances. I will not allow myself to become some horrifying lunatic.

Isolde ...

I've decided to accept Dr. Schwartz's treatment.

Times are different now. New treatments are emerging day by day. I'm sure he'll find a way to help me.

...

I really don't think Schwartz is the best doctor for you. You're a Dittarsdorf, for goodness's sake, not some commoner. He's only trying to use your status to gain profit and attention!

That's why he insisted the treatment process be open to the public.

But, as your friend, I respect your decision. And I completely understand why you'd choose to accept the treatment.

Just know that you have the right to stop him at any time. Please, Isolde, as soon as you feel any discomfort—any pain—promise me you'll tell him to stop.

Can I do that ...?

Every living person has the right to express their discomfort!

Hm ... But it's possible that, under the circumstances, you'll be unable to stop him ...

Of course! The presentation is open to all, so I can be there too!

I'll sit in the audience and keep a close eye on you. If things get out of control, I'll stop him ...

Thank you, Ms. Kakania. You're a great friend.

By the way, when you were in the house just now, did you notice a door?

A door?

What kind of door?

Just an ordinary door. There's nothing special about it.

Huh?

I don't get it, Isolde. There are many doors throughout your home. Which one are you referring to?

Nothing ... Forget it. It's not important.

It's getting late. You should head home.

Oh my, is that the time? You're right, I should go. I have a patient—I mean, a visitor—who requires the help of my "witchcraft"!

Thanks for reminding me. Then I shall take my leave ...

Ms. Kakania, wait!

Yes? You called me?

If Dr. Schwartz's therapy doesn't work, could you please treat me?

Of course! You're always welcome!

You're my greatest friend in all Vienna! I'd be more than happy to help!

I have a small room. It has a simple door.

The room is cramped. It's a truly tiny little room.

But besides that simple door, there are many, many other doors in this room. Big ones, small ones; hard ones, soft ones; mushy and wet ones; warm and furry ones.

They're in front of me. They're behind me. There are so many of them, and more keep coming. They squeeze me.

...

Do you know how that feels? To be squeezed by many, many doors?

I suppose no one in the world has felt what it's like. No one would ever place so many doors in one room.

Door after door lies on me, compressing me until my skin, my flesh, and bones squeak under the pressure. I'm enveloped by endless pain, as if my flesh is being torn from my skeleton.

When I was a little girl, I read a story about a princess who tried to sleep on a hundred layers of mattresses yet was still kept awake by a single pea beneath them.

My father called her the true embodiment of a princess, a good maiden with noble virtue and the most delicate skin in the world. He said that I should be such a lady, both sensitive and polite.

But am I that princess?

Or that bothersome little pea under a hundred mattresses?

Baby, my child, my darling ...

You must always remember Mama's words. Don't you ever forget!

You have to be careful. Don't allow others to see your vulnerability. Don't cry, don't scream, don't lose control ... Don't make a fool of yourself.

Your true self is filthy. Reveal it, and it will hurt you—even kill you.

It will only make you suffer—keep you from your dreams and plunge you into nightmares ...

It's a most frightful, terrible beast, and it will tear you apart! Just as it tore me, and your grandmother, and your great grandmother.

You must conceal it, Isolde! Not one girl in our cursed family has been able to survive in this world without doing so. You must follow the rules of society.

...

You must learn to play a "role" in life, my little Isolde ...

You must learn to know what people expect from you. Then, do everything you can to meet those expectations.

You'll have to work harder than anyone else to satisfy the people around you so as to make their "tolerance" of you worthwhile ...

Smile despite your suffering and breakdowns, and walk steadily, even if your feet are crippled, even if the road ahead seems fine to others but in ruins to you ...

A hundred times. That's right, scoop up the soup one hundred times.

You've done well, my child. See? Your hands have stopped shaking.

Literature.

Art.

Poetry. Stage design.

Models. Romance.

Oh? What do you think, Heinrich?

Hey, why don't we start an organization together?

I just thought of an excellent name—

That's a superb name! I'd love to join!

Salome ...

My ... muse ...

Sleep, my darling, safe and sound ...

My darling baby ... Trista, Isolde ...

I keep hearing things ... My heart is broken, my joints are screaming ... no, not my joints, my spleen. It feels as though it's ruptured, and there are a million voices shouting in my head ...

What should I do? What should I do!? You need to help me! No, who can help me?

This is "salvation" ... My dear, dear ...

The world is filthy. Just breathing is torturous ...

Oh, my poor Isolde. Why is this happening to you?

First your father, then your mother, and now Theophil ...

Isolde ... Are you alright?

Call me anytime, no matter how late it is. Don't hesitate, alright?

By the way, when you were in the house just now, did you notice a door?

A door? What kind of door?

It's a door. One of the most common types. No one would notice it was placed in such a big, magnificent mansion.

It appeared on the evening of my thirteenth birthday.

I vomited on my bed that night. I couldn't digest all that cake and roast chicken. My stomach hurt.

Those wandering spirits bent over me, making funny faces and silently clapping as I heaved up my dinner.

The guests downstairs were waiting for me. I had to get myself together to go back and thank everyone for celebrating my birthday with me.

But I was too tired. I hadn't had a good night's sleep in months.

And that was when I came up with the idea.

I invited the spirits to fall upon me, whether they were willing or not.

I utilized the spirits' proficiencies to do what I couldn't do alone. They helped me flatter my guests, behave well, sing and dance, read and write literature ... They aided me in everything.

And I was able to rest.

I was finally able to rest.

...

Maggie isn't home, so there's no one to take care of Blume, Apfelstrudel, and the nightingale and swan ...

They're my responsibility now.

Here, Apfelstrudel, Blume, come have some ...

Be graceful, be self-restrained, and be kind to others.

Be compassionate, especially towards the less privileged.

There's nothing to be afraid of. You have the right to leave this ruined world ...

We ... must be an example for our people.

Oh dear, you're twitching ... It's alright. I'll hold you.

We must ...

We must be virtuous and dignified, as befits our status, Theophil.

Ah ... How careless I am. I almost forgot the date today.

My new doctor, my Kakania ... Dr. Kakania.

Oh, it appears I've arrived a little early.

That's alright. I can wait. I have patience.

Ms. Kakania ... Oh, I suppose I should call her Dr. Kakania from now on.

There's no sign indicating that this is the consultation room ... Oh, right, she doesn't have a medical license.

Ah, so she's painted the door this color so that the patients can tell where she is. How very clever.

There are so many doors in this world.

Is Dr. Kakania a door, too? What kind of door would she be, I wonder?

Would it be green or shining like silk? Perhaps ...

Hmm? Isolde?

Sorry, I'm late!

I was delayed. You know what I'm like. I swear I'd planned to return earlier to ensure this didn't happen! This is our first consultation, after all! Oh, I so wanted to have a good start to our doctor-patient relationship!

I'm really, very sorry. Have you been waiting long?

Are you tired? Oh, I shouldn't have kept you waiting under the sun ...

Alright, come on in! I'll fetch you a cup of tea.

I'm looking forward to it.