Was it sadness, or was it grief? Mr. Roselet didn't know how to describe it on his sheet of paper, as white as snow, with a certain melancholy troubling him. In one room—dark and deep—while the other side held a warm, illuminated ambiance, Mr. Roselet emerged from his study, utterly exhausted, with dark circles visible on his face.
Gomme gazed at the fireplace's light as if seeking warmth, her calm face illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. It was as though the servant was reminiscing about a distant memory.
Mr. Roselet watched Gomme with fascination. He realized he knew nothing about the true nature of Stein's servants, other than the rumors that their dolls were reanimated corpses.
That look… It's the look of someone seeking the truth, of a person who seems to have lost everything. But what are you hiding, Gomme? And what were you doing in that little house where Volksfeste took you in? thought Mr. Roselet before realizing he had rushed out of his friend's office the night before without truly hearing the full story.
I should go see him again one of these days, he muttered with an embarrassed look, tapping his head.
Gomme noticed her master's arrival. She formed a V with her hands, then looked at Mr. Roselet with her pale, deathly expression.
"How was your writing session, dear Master?" Gomme asked, staring into Mr. Roselet's eyes.
"It was fine," he replied, averting his gaze.
Gomme walked toward the small corner that seemed to serve as both a bar and a kitchen. She returned with a dark cocktail made of coffee, garnished with a red berry. The steam rising from it suggested it was freshly brewed.
"What have you prepared for me this time, my dear Gomme?" asked Mr. Roselet hesitantly, though he dared not protest, knowing the doll's temperament.
"It's a Caire Coffee, Master—a rather popular drink in the land of Breed, known for its refined gastronomy," Gomme replied while stirring the cup's contents.
"I see. The special cocktail created to mark the end of the war a few years ago," said Mr. Roselet, eyeing the cup curiously.
Holding the coaster, Mr. Roselet downed the cocktail in one gulp, then gave a satisfied look.
"That warms me up," he said, though Gomme seemed uneasy.
"You don't feel any tingling or heat on your tongue?" Gomme asked.
Mr. Roselet, pondering his servant's words, suddenly felt a sharp pain on his tongue. He screamed and howled.
The cup shattered. Gomme rushed to her bag as Mr. Roselet collapsed to the ground, terrified and disoriented, as if he had never experienced such a burning sensation before.
What is this feeling? It hurts… so much! he thought, writhing as if on the verge of death.
Gomme returned with an ice cube. She inspected her master's tongue and noticed its terrible state—a deep red, like blood, had replaced its usual pink hue, as if it had been shredded. Mr. Roselet's tongue showed severe burn marks that seemed to predate his tasting of the Caire Coffee.
"Let this ice melt in your mouth," Gomme ordered, cradling Mr. Roselet in her arms.
He obeyed, and the pain gradually faded, leaving only an unpleasant tingling.
Gomme helped Mr. Roselet onto the sofa and gathered all the ice cubes she had in stock—both from her bag and those she had prepared by the windowsill in the heart of winter.
"As long as you're in pain, I'll keep placing these in your mouth," Gomme said, staying by her master's side.
A few hours later, as the pain subsided, Mr. Roselet noticed a cup on the coffee table before him.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A lukewarm, extremely salty drink for rinsing your mouth," Gomme replied.
Mr. Roselet placed a hand on his forehead.
"I don't want that. If you want to help me, bring me more ice," he said irritably.
"If you can already speak, then lukewarm water is the best option," Gomme countered.
"You must find me pathetic, don't you?" Mr. Roselet said, his voice trembling.
"If you're referring to your inability to feel pain, it's not as trivial as you think, Master."
"You say that without knowing the real reason behind this. We're seeing the doctor tomorrow, and even a defective doll like you will understand then."
Suddenly, an unbearably hot liquid poured onto Mr. Roselet's stomach. He saw Gomme—her expression pale yet terrifying—emptying the cup's contents onto him. Instantly, with his tongue still stinging, Mr. Roselet cried out in shock at the scalding heat.
"Oops, I slipped, Master. I'll make another one and bring you more ice. I'll make sure it's a little warmer this time, since lukewarm doesn't seem to suit you."
Mr. Roselet's face froze in fear, and he didn't dare utter another word.
With a snow-covered road, houses blanketed in white, and snowmen built by children everywhere, Mr. Roselet gazed at the scene with nostalgia. He watched as Gomme kicked the snowman in the middle of the road and said with satisfaction:
"The path is clear, Master. You may now proceed."
I feel bad for the kid who made that thing,he thought.
A somewhat eccentric-looking woman appeared to be asleep in her office, her hair slightly disheveled, glasses on the desk, the strong scent of distilled alcohol in the air—yet it was her somewhat formal demeanor that caught Gomme's attention.
"This equipment is a bit sophisticated for a small, remote village," Gomme remarked with some admiration.
"We're in a special place, Gomme. You won't find any of these devices elsewhere."
The woman at the desk stirred. She yawned, put on her glasses, stood up, and grabbed a coffee before walking toward Gomme.
"A rather rare specimen you've brought me, Nicolas."
"We're not here for that," replied Mr. Roselet.
"It seems my problem with the pain has returned."
The woman looked at Mr. Roselet, slightly surprised.
"How so?" she asked with a concerned expression.
"I think it's my fault," Gomme said sternly.
"Let's sit down, and you two can explain this to me," the woman invited.