A singular, crisp tap on the wooden table was all it took to fill Xiaotan’s eyes with clarity. She harshly inhaled. Her heart convoluted, a wave of hot air washing over her. The dim ambience of the outdoor café cloaked her flustered expression, but her glowing eyes remained ever radiant. Their overflowing gleams bore themselves before her mentor.

An ambivalent beam showered Iris. She picked a piece of freshly prepared crimson apple and took a sharp bite. The crunchy noises echoed inside the invisible barrier, and the sweetness melted on her tongue. She licked her lips.

“Your dazed countenance is a sight to behold,” she said. “I hope what you find is what you want.”

Xiaotan repeatedly blinked. Her reddened eyes flickered, spectres of that dreamy vision haunting her gaze. Those words, uttered by her mother, persisted as she hoped.

“I . . . I have no idea.” She turned away from her mentor but failed to hide her shaky voice. “What kind of magic was that?”

“Unfortunately, the art of dream divination is elusive.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Slip into a nightmare, and you’ll lose more than you could imagine.”

Xiaotan’s eyelids quivered. Her pursed lips subtly mouthed her plead.

Iris sighed. “Destiny is fleeting; only the strong may grasp theirs.”

“Will you help me?”

“If you can prove yourself.” Iris grinned. “A radiant soul will persist amidst the unreal fog.”

Resisting the urge to ask, Xiaotan swallowed a puff of cold air. She ate a piece of bittersweet chocolate and emptied her glass. Her flushed expression gained a phase of cute determination.

“You’re close, so close.” Iris rose from her seat. Antina covered her with a laced shawl. “Reach for your desires; whatever you grasp will be yours.”

“What if . . . I reach for you?”

Iris smirked. “You may hold my hands once you’ve become a Master. My feeling, it’s a secret of such significance.”

“The top three spots, what would be my reward?”

“Excitement.”

The transparent barrier crumbled as Iris walked through it. The muffled chattering flooded the isolated tea table. A waitress walked up to Antina, who took care of everything for her mistress. Before she left, she glanced at the confused but expectant Xiaotan.

Invisible pressure weighed down Xiaotan. Her hair whirled as if she were standing in front of a brewing storm, an all-consuming maw of darkness. Her weakening legs begged to retreat, to flee the danger, to look away from the tempestuous eye.

She gritted her teeth and met the thunder and lightning. Her pupils pinkened, swelling with cold tears, but she persisted. She persisted until the force constraining her lifted. If not for her holding onto the chair, she would’ve collapsed.

Iris glanced at Antina and smiled. Antina carefully bowed. The rim of her dress glowed. Rays of light rushed for the stunned Xiaotan and infused vitality into her tired heart.

Drowsiness took hold. She peeked at her departing mentor and reached out her hand, her voice too faint to be heard. A waitress came to serve a glass of herbal tea.

Xiaotan lifted her swaying head, desperately keeping awake. The aroma freshened her mind, though she didn’t take the cup.

“I didn’t order this.”

“She ordered it for you.” The waitress smiled. “Your friend is lovingly attentive.”

Xiaotan looked at the steaming tea before she shamefully giggled. Her mentor always played her, though she didn’t mind being such a defenceless target.

Without asking for the name of the tea, she took the cup and carefully savoured every drop of the sweet, bitter, and warm flavour. Its flowery scent was enchantingly familiar. She had never drunk this tea before, but it had already become her favourite.

“What tea is it?” She looked at the waitress. “How come I’ve never heard of it?”

The waitress blinked. “I . . . I’m sorry, Customer, but I too can’t recall its name.”

The confused lady perked up and instinctively reached inside her chest pocket. She couldn’t remember putting a note there, though she knew she must give it to her customer.

“Memory and dream once intertwined, truth and lies remain indistinct.”

Xiaotan frowned. She looked at her teacup. The faded flowery scent gave way to the cocoa aroma of the hot chocolate milk. This characteristic airiness, permeating the café, pinkened in Xiaotan’s vision.

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“Follow your instinct,” her mentor’s voice echoed. “Lead with emotions, with passion.”

As if her mentor were behind her, guiding her gestures, she straightened her posture and beamed at the baffled waitress. She passed her hand over her cup of hot cocoa. The dark brown liquid changed its colour, turning pinkish, before returning to its usual shade.

The waitress nearly gasped, but that mystical smile took away her breath. It also planted in her heart an unfamiliar sensation; she couldn’t comprehend it. She could only avoid her customer’s eyes and excused herself.

“Lovely smile,” the voice whispered. “Worthy of a part of me.”

“Are you . . . real?”

A pointless question. The only thing that mattered was that she had gained an understanding of this intriguing path and her enigmatic mentor.

Once the drowsiness left her, Xiaotan found a stack of cards lying neatly on the table. Their theme was of a mysterious lady, a maiden veiled in a thin mist, a princess born from grace. Her mentor . . . had quite a taste.

She took the cards and exited the café. She tipped the waitress who took delicate care of her, though she failed to notice the subtlety in that parting gaze.

She stopped in front of the café; her father was standing there, holding documents regarding a few interconnected crimes.

His eyes narrowed, Centurion wordlessly turned around and sauntered away; Xiaotan, with her head lowered, quietly followed her father. Excuses brewed within her heart, blossoming with phantasmal temptation in her mentor’s tone.

She could lie, misdirect, feint ignorance, but she wouldn’t.

This path, her mother wouldn’t have objected to it.

Centurion called for a carriage. Xiaotan entered with her father, though she kept her heart steady, her eyes gleaming. In her right hand was the card Iris left on the table. The warmth lingering on its surface assured her, yet she let go and placed her hands on her lap while straightening her back.

The carriage incessantly rolled. Its wheels milled the gravel in its path, producing faint but noticeable clicking noises. Xiaotan could feel every tremor, every creak in the stone pavement.

“Your mother,” Centurion said. “You truly resemble her.”

“Her hair was blue.”

“She was adventurous, jovial, and determined. Once she sets her mind on a task, nothing can stop her.”

The muffled chattering from the outside filled this silence pause. Xiaotan closed her eyes. Her reflection manifested, but she failed to imagine her mother’s appearance, personality, or disposition.

She could only see herself. And a blurry picture of someone mysterious.

“Am I really like her, Father?”

“You’ve seen her photograph, touched her hands, and listened to her lullaby.”

“Then why did you stop me from learning about Mother?”

Centurion shifted his gaze away from his daughter. He drew out an article detailing a foreign scholar whose clean profile was too inconspicuous. Xiaotan showed no reaction.

She recognised that painted silhouette, that mystic portrait, even if it failed to capture Iris’s essence.

“Why, Xiaotan?” her father said. “You’re off the case.”

Xiaotan flinched. “You forbade me from using my gift, forbade me from studying magic. Do you hate Mother that much?”

“You’re deliberately provoking me.” Centurion leaned closer. “You know who she is, yet you approached her. Your emotions influence you.”

“I have my gift, and she recognised it. If I cannot find what I want here, I’ll have to find it elsewhere.”

“It’s all for your sake, for you.”

“For what? My safety? My mediocre life? My last connection to Mother?”

“I promised to take good care of you.”

Xiaotan clenched her hands until her trembling palms turned pale. The air she inhaled burned her lungs, though it couldn’t numb her palpitating heart. She slammed her fist on the curtained window. The pain shocked her, but she kept her wince to herself.

“You’re selfish, Father.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You would’ve told me about Mother’s death if you were.”

“Must I . . . when you already knew it?”

“Would you tell me if I didn’t?”

The carriage crawled along the winding road from the crowded street to a residential sector, where few pedestrians inhibited the lonely, soundless sidewalk. The sounds of pebbles grinding against the wheels became louder, louder than the rapid breathing of the passengers.

Despite her pause, Xiaotan received no answer. Her eyes dimmed, disappointment filling her suffocating chest.

“I want to be like you, but you don’t let me. I want to learn about Mother, but you stop me. Now, I will find my own way.” Xiaotan, despite her best effort, gave a distorted smile. “Mother’s enemy, Mother’s gift, I won’t let it go to waste.”

It was the end of the road. Xiaotan exited the carriage and, as she walked to her house, glanced at the driver. Her friendly gaze met the driver’s playful eyes. A familiar perfume tickled her nose. She turned to carefully examine the driver, who innocently tilted her head, before she ashamedly drew back her attention and rushed inside her home.

Sitting in the carriage, Centurion sighed. He examined the document in his hands and separated the file about Iris from the pile. He marked the header with a star and noted down words about her involvement with his daughter.

He didn’t want his daughter to go down the same path as her mother, but if she insisted, he too had no right to stop her.

Maybe it was time to let go, to prepare for the eventual decision, to finally avenge her?

The detective shook his head. He put the document back into his suitcase, looked at his pocket watch where he stored the portrait of his wife, and chased after his daughter.

The carriage driver led her carriage away from the district. She caressed the colourful bracelet on her wrist, a gift from her superior, before she whispered words of affirmation. The bracelet glowed, transmitting the message through the distance.

…

On the third floor of a library café, Iris sat admiring the sunset with a cup of warm chocolate in her right hand and a card dancing in her left. Within the card’s frame, a pair of eyes made from emerald stared through the boundary between the painting and the real world and at an indescribable target, an unknown revelation.

A breeze through the window gap rustled the flowers near her. She raised her head. Her maid faithfully lowered hers.

“Have I ever been wrong?” Iris said. “I may have, but my heart has never.”

“To doubt you is to commit blasphemy.” Antina lightly slapped her cheek. “It was to ensure your secret and protect your lover.”

“She’s not mine. Not yet.”

“Her heart’s already yours, Mistress. What remains is her body . . . and her soul.”

“Such a wicked succubus, am I not?”

“A succubus may bewitch a heart, but only a goddess may command devotion.”

“A false goddess, a holy maiden with a corrupted heart.”

Antina was about to speak when Iris placed down her teacup and tossed away the card of emerald eye. It danced in the faint whirlwind, spinning as if tracing a path towards an illusory forest, before it descended to the ground.

A pair of delicate hands, in a pair of black laced gloves, manifested under the card, allowing it to comfortably drift onto them.

Secain accepted her mistress’s gift, her heart blooming under her mistress’s irresistible presence, her knowing smile.

“I’ve returned, Mistress.”