Chapter One: The Loss of a Mother

“To entrust one’s life to another’s memory is as if life itself is lengthened just a little”—I prayed so fervently for her to remain in my life longer, but as I repeated my prayers, I never imagined that all of this was nothing more than a grand jest played by the heavens.
—Excerpt from Theresa’s Alchemical Journal

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Dimaca Town, like countless other small towns in the Empire whose names and administrative boundaries have remained unchanged for centuries, was exceedingly ordinary. Its only distinguishing features were its fairly fertile soil and agreeable climate. Generations of townsfolk lived by farming, rising with the sun and resting at its fall.

It was the golden season of autumn. Leaving the town limits, one was greeted by vast stretches of fields, the wheat heads swaying in the breeze, carrying the hope of a bountiful harvest. The day neared dusk; after a full day’s labor, the farmers emerged from the fields in twos and threes, relaxed and content. Even the fine drizzle falling from the sky did nothing to dampen their cheerful spirits, finally able to rest after their toil.

Night was falling. Two farmwomen, lagging behind the main group, took a shortcut up a gentle slope, stumbling now and then as they hurried back to town. Halfway up, the rain mixed with a faint floral scent wafted toward them. For a moment, they were distracted, and in that instant, they saw a small figure perched on the other side of the flower field—a child of seven or eight, who had apparently been sitting in the rain for quite some time, alone, head bowed, hugging her knees. Her hair and dress were soaked, her delicate face pale and lost, as if she had not moved for hours, as though rooted to the spot by grief.

“Is something the matter with Miss Theresa? She looks like she’s been out here a long while. Why hasn’t Madame Renee done something?” One farmwoman, perhaps afraid of startling the girl or unsettled by the strange atmosphere, kept her voice low and muffled.

Before she finished speaking, her companion tugged urgently at her sleeve, signaling for silence. They hurriedly skirted the flower field, keeping their distance from the girl, and whispered as they walked, “You haven’t heard, have you? Madame Renee passed away yesterday. After the funeral, Miss Theresa has been sitting there ever since. No one can persuade her to leave; it’s been more than a day now!”

“Really? Madame Renee was such a good soul. What a pity…”

“Sigh, she’d been ill for years. It’s not so surprising. Yesterday, the priest himself led the burial—right over there in that little white house. They say he specially arranged for her to be kept in a large ice chamber, very different from our usual practice of burying people in the ground.”

“How could it be the same? She’s a noble, with wealth and status. If she were treated like us common folk, how could they go on?”

…

The rising mountain breeze, laced with fine rain, gently swept across the girl’s face. The slanting drops struck her eyelids, making her blink instinctively… That simple reaction seemed to flip a switch within her. After sitting motionless for more than a day, she suddenly moved—

Her slender limbs slowly relaxed, but after holding the same posture for so long, her movements were awkward and stiff. She struggled twice, but finally lost her balance and toppled sideways onto the damp grass.

This fall seemed to jolt her soul back into her body. After a day of numbness, her face finally showed emotion—her lips quivered unconsciously, her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her small hands pressed hard over her face. Rain—or was it tears?—seeped through her fingers, mingling as it ran down her cheeks. Her pale lips quivered, murmuring again and again the same call—

“Mother… Mother…”

Her low, hoarse voice echoed through the rain, only to be carried away by the wind after a few moments…

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Theresa sat on the long wooden bench, her head slightly lowered, gazing absently at the dust dancing in the sunlight, half-listening to the polite conversation of the adults beside her. She only stirred when someone softly called her name; she slowly lifted her head, her large eyes dull as she looked toward the speaker—the only priest in Dimaca, who had served the town for more than twenty years and was second only to the mayor in the respect of the townsfolk.

The old priest gently touched Theresa’s hair, his voice warm as he introduced the tall, imposing man at his side: “Theresa, this is Count Amos Aubrion, your mother’s dear friend. According to Lady Brento’s will, he will be your temporary guardian.”

Theresa looked up and saw that the Count was a man of stern countenance, his features cold and intimidating. Yet, when he realized she was observing him, his usually severe expression softened, even attempting a warm smile—a gesture so forced it was clear he was not accustomed to such displays.

Sensing his kindness, Theresa managed a small smile and called, “Uncle Amos.”

Her voice was still hoarse, a lingering effect from her earlier crying. Amos’s eyes flashed with sympathy; he reached out to gently ruffle Theresa’s hair, then took her hand and led her toward the door.

Theresa glanced at the double-harnessed carriage waiting outside, then looked up at Amos’s profile, rare for her to speak first: “Uncle Amos, where are we going?”

“To Cervantes,” Amos replied, pausing as if worried she might not understand. He added, “Your mother wanted you to attend Saint Alberta, her old school.”

Saint Alberta… Theresa lowered her head, biting her lip, swallowing her sorrow. Yes, that was her mother’s wish—her mother spoke of Saint Alberta even on her deathbed, for it was there she had met Theresa’s father…

Theresa shook her head, striving to dispel her sadness, and followed Amos out to the carriage. As it started its steady journey, she couldn’t resist drawing back the curtain, leaning against the window to gaze at the northwestern slope of the town. There, a sea of tricolor bellflowers bloomed in riotous profusion, encircling a low, solitary white stone house—the house that held her mother’s ice coffin, her mother’s grave…

The carriage moved slowly, as if to ease Theresa’s heart, but no matter how slow, departure was inevitable. When the little house finally vanished from view, Theresa could only clench her fists, silently repeating in her heart—

Someday, she would return. She would come back, bearing the message her mother had cherished to the end, along with the one her mother had never ceased to long for.