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Out of everyone in the bookstore, it was as if Sayo was the only one witnessing her suffering. Sayo had turned to the mystery aisle, unaware of what would transpire. In the crawling shadows of the corner was a young, huddling stranger struggling to retain her tears. She cupped her mouth, hiccuping and gasping. Her eyes narrowed on the bland, deep green carpeting. With her lower lip trembling in the spaces of her fingers, she quaked under the invisible weight of her despair.
Sayo pursed her lips. She hadn’t meant to intrude. It was by pure coincidence she rounded the corner while the stranger wept in the back of the bookshop. Behind her, other customers shuffled, the ringing cash register louder than the stranger’s scratchy sobs. They were unperturbed, carrying on without sparing any effort her way. It was as if the dusty corner was split off from the rest of the world, leaving Sayo and the stranger as its sole inhabitants.
On her day off, she hadn’t expected a dramatic encounter fit for generic romance novels. She wanted time for herself instead of listening to the Madam’s hollering. Immersing herself in fictional troubles and deaths was her means of escaping misery, but reality invariably intruded. It reared its ugly head, forcing Sayo to freeze when their eyes suddenly met.
The stranger stiffened. Black circles clung underneath her equally black eyes. They matched the ebony shade of her hair pulled in low, unbrushed pigtails. Her outfit, a plain, buttoned white blouse and an azure pleated skirt, was wrinkled. Such creases were a sore sight that would’ve made the Madam cross during the morning lineup for chore assignments. But her puffy eyes provided the popping color to her ensemble. Her bloodshot gaze bore through Sayo, evoking a shiver down her spine. Sayo had sobbed countless times, but the stranger’s visage haunted her as if she was the physical manifestation of hopelessness.
Sayo swallowed the lump in her throat. She tossed out her question. “Are…are you okay?”
The stranger paused, then scoffed. A resentful, dry laugh tumbled out. She dragged her sleeve across her eyes, sniffling. When her arm lowered, her chapped, thin lips spread in a tight, sagging frown.
“Isn’t it rude to stare?” she countered. “Did your mother forget to teach you manners?”
Sayo’s jaw clenched. Her tone was surprisingly smooth, like a hot knife through butter, but the undercurrent of weariness seeped into her gravelly jeer. Her words still sliced and dug into Sayo’s skin as if she was hammering nails into her hands.
Her mother never instructed because she was dead. Rosa had stolen her life, just as their father had taken her innocence. Sayo was riddled with their woes, not their lessons. She was the byproduct of a horrible crime, one that had never seen the light of justice. Her poor mother, her biological sister, was overshadowed and overpowered by Kinzo’s selfish desires. And she was forced to exist day-to-day, sludge in her veins, forgiving a man for a crime that never should have been absolved.
Her cheeks burning, Sayo’s response flowed out like a lapping wave. “Well, this is a public place. It isn’t my fault you happened to be crying in the aisle where I wanted to go.”
Surprise chiseled on her features. The stranger clamped her mouth shut. She cleared her throat, attempting to save face. The corner of Sayo’s lip lifted slightly. It was enough for the stranger not to notice her obvious amusement. It was cruel to clash with someone at their lowest, but the stranger’s grimacing charmed Sayo’s inherently malicious nature.
There always existed a bitterness in her heart. It twisted outward, thorns attacking thorns, vines wreathing and knotting. Even in her youth, when the Madam screamed at the older servants for failing to adhere to her strict instructions because of Sayo’s magic, it thrilled her. She was calling the shots, running the show, weaving the tale, and it didn’t matter who opposed her. Those who spat in the face of her compassion deserved cruelty in kind.
Sayo approached. She turned to the side, observing the new and used spines on the paperbacks. She recognized the last names, but she had already read their works. Without new novels, she idled, her eyes scanning the mysteries she had already solved.
Sayo glanced to her left. The stranger was staring at her. Her pupils were wide and bore on her. A surprising blankness masked her. She acted as if she hadn’t silently bawled, scrutinizing Sayo, perhaps seeking retaliation. And instead of playing the expected part, Sayo looked down on her, brushing her nail-bitten fingers through her hair, clipping thin strands behind her ear.
“You’re peculiar,” the stranger remarked, linking her arms behind her back. “First, you’re sympathetic, but the moment an insult is lodged your way, you shoot for petty revenge. That’s abnormal.”
Sayo scowled. She felt as if the stranger had grabbed her shirt and dragged her inward. The stranger tripped her when she tried to stand. Rolling around in the mud with her, Sayo inadvertently splashed and flailed, dirtying herself. Although she was soiled inside and out, her chest squeezed upon acknowledging those callous declarations.
And yet, she refused to be stomped out. She had already been trampled by those she loved. Denying a stranger her dues enticed the malevolence in her heart, and she lashed out as she had wanted toward those who truly harmed her.
“Who’s abnormal? Isn’t it the stranger standing alone crying her eyes out? Isn’t it the stranger isolated from the world pretending to have the moral high ground?” Sayo retorted, her lip curling. When the stranger gasped, she lifted her nose and pinched the hem of her skirt. Giving a quick curtsey, a force of habit taking control of her body, she redeemed herself. “Have a nice day. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
But as she turned to depart, fingers seized her sleeve. Sayo, startled, bit back her yelp. Furrowing her brow, she tried to demand her release. The words, strangled in her throat, came out as a weak, warbling whimper like a baby bird falling from its nest.
The stranger’s bloodless fingernails were plain, like hers. The cuticles were uneven. Crusted blood dotted the corners as if she had bitten the skin raw. When the stranger loosened her grip, she folded her hands in front of her waist, her shoulders shaking. The stranger quickly rubbed her mouth, then dabbed her thumbs across her eyes. She worsened the trickling trails of dark mascara across her splotched cheeks. With such poor disposition, if she worked for the Madam, her fit would have been legendary.
“I’m sorry. I acted in poor taste,” she said, bowing her head. She shuddered, her lower lip quivering again. She wiped her eyes, her nostrils flaring. “I’m…I’m g-going through a lot right now. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
The course reversed, avoiding a car crash. Sayo pursed her lips, blinking. She hadn’t anticipated an apology. Hardly anyone issued her one; people’s shortcomings were somehow her fault. Hearing one was a breath of fresh air. It swept through her, bringing color to her face, as the stranger rubbed her neck, mistakenly smearing hints of mascara on her skin.
Sayo managed a smile. Perhaps the stranger hadn’t realized it, but a kinship forged between them. Mocking others to comfort herself was a pastime Sayo enjoyed in secret. Not a single day rolled on without Sayo mumbling her disgust about those she served or loved, her aggravation in the form of Kanon’s spite and Beatrice’s sneers while, despite being furniture, Shannon remained pure, recognizing the color of the sea.
Rubbing her knuckles together, Sayo said, “Then, I’m sorry, too. You’re, um, in distress. Escalating our argument was not appropriate on my part.” She reached into her pocketbook and retrieved napkins, unopened in their small, plastic wrapping. She cut it, withdrawing one. “Here. For your eyes and neck.”
The stranger gasped and checked her fingers, finally spotting the dark streaks. Shaking her head, she scrubbed her face and neck. Sayo offered another, which she snatched with muttered gratitude. She examined the napkins, the dark gray stains still present on her skin, but the napkins had absorbed the brunt of the mascara. Quietly, the stranger folded them into squares and pocketed them with a final murmur of thanks.
“Why were you crying? If you don’t mind me asking,” Sayo wondered.
Scoffing, the stranger heaved out a sigh. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to admit it. My boyfriend is cheating on me.”
Sayo hummed, taken aback. “Oh, oh, that’s terrible. How do you know?”
“I haven’t caught him in the act, but I’ve gathered more than enough circumstantial and physical evidence to show his infidelity.” She raised a finger for her different proofs. “Scented oil that didn’t fit him. A weird cat-key holder. An increase in theater rehearsals. A point card from somewhere we never go. Mud under his shoes, proof he went out on that Sunday during a horrible thunderstorm that matched a mark on the calendar that he avoided telling me about when I asked him.”
As she spoke, a breathless frenzy shuddered her tone. Under the weight of her evidence, she trembled. She seemed ready to collapse, recounting an infuriating amount of proof to ascertain her claim. She had discovered a long strand of hair on his clothing. She had followed him for countless days, gathering the needed validation. He had told her to ignore the chatter from “people,” even though they were eyewitnesses to what she desired to show as the truth.
And Sayo listened. She stood transfixed as the stranger spun her story. The stranger stood on her tiptoes, almost closing the gap between them. It was as if they sat in a confessional, Sayo the priest, the stranger the sinner wishing to rid everything evil off her chest. But she wasn’t seeking to be absolved. She craved the belief that her theory of unfaithfulness would be raised to a level of certain proof, not a trace of doubt to be twisted in his favor.
“You…make sense. What you’re saying makes sense to me,” Sayo said when she stopped for air.
The stranger paused. Her lips puckered, a small o as if she was going to be kissed for the first time. But then, they lifted. She was elated, her joy almost contagious, even if Sayo looked down on the wretched stranger expressing her soul to the first person who offered kindness. It was as if the stranger was a mirror. Sayo saw herself, her reflection sorrowful, twisted with delight that her actions had been proven as justified, such as how she hoped the world would see her when the crime was finally committed.
“Yes! Yes, that’s right! I’m right!” The stranger clutched Sayo’s shoulders, laughing. She gasped when Sayo flinched, and she stepped off. “Sorry! I hope that doesn’t leave a bruise. I, well, I didn’t think you’d believe me with everything I blurted out.”
“Um, there’s a lot to consider.” Sayo shifted her pocketbook to her other arm, the gesture followed closely by the stranger. “For starters, he could’ve told you about that date. It’s odd that he was purposefully vague.”
“Exactly. He said the mark on that calendar day was important and refused to elaborate.” She crossed her arms, huffing. “I tried asking him at different points, but he was too stubborn or evasive or whined that I was too nosy. He knew better.”
“I’m sure he did.”
The stranger beamed, “Thank you for listening. I’m sure I talked your ear off.”
Sayo chuckled. “Oh, no. It’s okay. It wasn’t a bother or anything.”
Turning to the novels, the stranger shifted topics. “Well, since you came down this way, you must like mystery novels. They’re my favorite genre, so it’s - hee hee! - why you found me sequestered here.”
“They’re my favorite, too!” Sayo’s exclamation came with a flush of color. She cupped her chin, and the stranger continued grinning. “My favorite author has to be Christie. She’s such a master at her craft. She’s a true inspiration to me.”
“Oh, absolutely! Have you read ‘And Then There Were None?’”
“Obviously! I live by it!” Sayo leaned closer. “What’s your favorite Christie novel?”
“I’m fond of ‘Murder on the Orient Express!’ Hercule Poirot is a wonderful detective! But ‘And Then There Were None’ is great to pick apart! The ending is sublime!”
“It’s mesmerizing!”
“I know!”
The world around them truly fell. Customers became faceless shadows. Footsteps and the cash register chiming faded. Only their voices echoed. The aisle became their universe, as they laughed and discussed Christie. She was the only other person Sayo had met who shared her enthusiasm for the macabre and mysterious, for the first boy who charmed her had been lost for years.
She wanted to embrace the stranger, who eagerly listened to Sayo’s theories and criticisms. The stranger’s input was fascinating. Her perspective was one of taking the writer’s style and searching between the words for clues. How she examined sentences over emotions, utilizing technical prowess to pinpoint the culprit, she read to solve what the author presented before the conclusion.
Her heart pounded faster than it had in years. She needed to know more, read more, listen more to the stranger, whose name still hadn’t been learned.
“So, how exactly do you do it? Do you re-read every line a hundred times?” Sayo asked, gently nudging her.
The stranger broke into another cheek-splitting smile. Sayo couldn’t help but return it.
“I do sometimes! But seriously, I look at the facts presented by the author and build my case,” she stated, and she snapped her fingers. “For example, let’s say Character A mentions something that sounds simple. However, the truth is that it’s already important. Those little details alert me to the finer motivations and reasons for why certain events will later unfold.” She smirked. “Things like that are really obvious in mystery works. I get bored to tears with it.” She pointed at her still puffy eyes. “I bet I’d start bawling again if I came across it right now in these stories!”
Sayo hesitated. She thought about her writings stuffed in wine bottles, desperate, bloody stories written in ink and pages stained with tears. “O-oh? That’s too obvious?”
“Yes!” The stranger pumped her fists. She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Such as, say, bringing up an old promise that may or may not have been kept. The trope of breaking a promise and using it as the grounds for murder is painfully old-fashioned.”
In Sayo’s moment of trusting weakness, the thorns turned inward and tore open her heart.
Sayo’s head spun. Battler’s oath rang in her head, clamoring like wedding bells. He had smiled, toothy, bright, a sun god made flesh. His words, strung together with velvet, had wreathed around her heart. One day, he’d return on a white horse and guide her off Rokkenjima, hand-in-hand. How she believed and loved him, sharing in the thrilling mystery of love, eternal and youthful, a naive child waiting for his return.
And when the years changed, his promise squeezed Sayo’s heart, suffocating her breath, enhanced by the mortifying realization of her body and lineage. Battler never returned. He marched into his future far from Rokkenjima, leaving her to decompose like the sickly roses in the garden under a heavy downpour. All the while, despite the frailty of her corpse of flesh, she still forced herself to smile when everyone abandoned her, thoroughly gouged as the epitaph legislated.
The stranger continued.
“The author thinks they’re clever. Having A bring it up as a joke or off-handed or even letting C say it to B about A, but B was supposed to remember it, and he doesn’t. It’s painfully tragic, but it’s a clue to something important, something beyond a trivial conversation. At the same time, it’s stupid!” She laughed, derisive, just like Asune and Berune when Sayo explained the legend of the Golden Witch. “I mean, it’s stupid, right? Something like that is painfully obvious, so it makes the characters agonizingly insipid over a miscommunication. Also, if a reader misses that on-the-nose segment, they’ll never figure out the mystery until the very last page and think the author is a bonafide literary genius when they’re just third-rate! It sucks!”
Her laughter was no longer pure. She bellowed out cackles with all the air in her lungs. Fool that Sayo was, she hadn’t realized she was tied up until it was too late. Sayo was a pop-up pirate in a barrel, and the stranger’s declarations were the swords stabbing into her until she finally died.
Even a stranger knew Battler’s promise was a lie. She had read through the lines without even glimpsing at the mystery of their love.
Eyes widening, the stranger asked, “A-are you okay? You’ve gone pale.”
Sayo’s fists clenched. She gnawed on her lower lip, drawing the metallic spice of blood. The stranger reached for her with hands that were the same as hers. But Sayo jerked backward, closing in on herself, glaring like a beast, like the witch who craved destruction.
The stranger flinched. “Eh, a-are you alright? I - did I say something wrong?”
She steered herself on auto-pilot. Her feet guided her away without thinking. She hurried toward the exit, long strides on thin, wobbling legs. Sayo stared ahead, unable to visualize the store. Only the shadowed, grayed outlines of shelves and humans told her where to move.
“Wait! Wait! I’m sorry for whatever I said that caused offense! Please, come back! D-don’t go! I-I-I-!”
The electrical beep overpowered the stranger’s cry when she walked out the door. Sunlight seared into her retinas. She was outside and several blocks away from the bookshop, passing through people when her vision returned. Still strutting down streets she had traversed a thousand times before, Sayo commanded her tears to remain welled in the corners of her eyes.
Shame sullied her. It was like a thick wool shawl unevenly draped over her head and shoulders. The stranger hadn’t known the pain she rendered. She wanted to believe that was the truth, but the stranger proved it herself. Evidence in her own explanations demonstrated otherwise. Regardless of intentions, the stranger sliced her heart into ribbons, severing the promise Battler had made on a whim.
Sayo knew she would never see her again. Her human life was soon to be over as the fall days crept closer. It was better that way. She hoped the stranger would live a full life, reading and solving mysteries until her natural dying breath.
Sooner rather than later, they would meet again as differently named witches on opposite sides of the cathedral.