Chapter 3 – Hawthorn Mansion

<You’re not the Vinoche couple’s real daughter, right?>

A few days later, under the hawthorn tree, the boy asked with a mischievous smile. When Sasha didn’t answer, he handed her a glass bottle so small it could fit in his palm and requested,

<I’m giving this because I feel sorry for you. It’s expensive, so make sure to take it home and eat it alone, secretly.>

Inside the glass bottle was a viscous, transparent liquid. It was the color of the boy’s greenish-gray eyes, but perhaps a bit more yellow.

If it was so precious, she’d better finish it before anyone noticed. If she took it home, Enzo might snatch it away. Sasha, thinking quickly, pulled out the cork and drank all the contents at once. The boy’s eyes wavered restlessly as he witnessed this. Then Sasha, sweating coldly, fainted right in front of him.

Sasha couldn’t return home and spent several days ill at the Hawthorn Mansion. Only after three days did she finally make it back, carried on Enzo’s back. Later, she learned that what she had drunk was a strong laxative prescribed by the doctor for the boy.

Dr. Bresson apologized, flustered, in front of the lemon-colored door. He said boys that age often expressed themselves clumsily, and especially since the boy had been sick for so long, he’d developed a difficult personality. He asked if Sasha could be understanding and generous.

<That’s nonsense. You don’t need to listen. I’d rather give up studying abroad.>

Enzo, who had brought Sasha back, covered her ears and spoke firmly in anger. But Sasha understood well what it meant to torment someone because you liked them. Her mother said her father bothered her because he liked her. Her mother also said she hit Sasha because she loved her. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t hate, and then wouldn’t hit either.

When Sasha said this, Enzo got very angry. He said Sasha’s real mother was mentally ill. Mr. Vinoche had rescued his abused young niece from his mentally unstable sister and brought her to Manolie. Sasha’s birth mother was now hospitalized in a mental institution in Bénével. But even if she was mentally ill, she was the only one who had loved Sasha.

Not long after, the boy from Hawthorn Mansion returned to Laurent. After that, Laurent became for Sasha a mysterious place full of dazzling, unpredictable people like him. Sasha forgot that the street where her mother and she were stripped n*ked and thrown out because her father wouldn’t listen was also Laurent.

Enzo’s seemingly doomed plans to study abroad were fortunately resolved when Grandma Elodie’s distant relative decided to send money. Everything went smoothly, except for Enzo’s decision to tutor Sasha before leaving. Sasha couldn’t understand why Enzo made such a decision.

‘Even if I’m not good at arithmetic or literature, it won’t affect my life at all.’

Sasha’s interests were always focused on the precious things she collected in her room. That was all.

* * *

“What are you?”

The boy, whom Sasha met again in the forest, asked abruptly. Sasha was delighted that her prediction—that he would be in the same spot again—was correct, but she tilted her head at his question. She’d told him her name just yesterday; had he already forgotten?

“I’m Sasha Vinoche.”

Yesterday he’d covered his face with a hat; today, it was with a book. Sasha sat down beside him without asking, and glanced at him. A bookmark was stuck in the back of the book, suggesting he was reading it. It was an unexpected discovery. He didn’t seem like someone who enjoyed books like Enzo. Learning another difference between them, Sasha felt a bit deflated.

“I know. I meant, why are you here again?”

He wasn’t in uniform today. He looked much more comfortable than yesterday. Sasha offered him an orange she’d brought.

“Is it not okay if I come?”

He was about to say no, but closed his mouth as if he already knew what Sasha would answer. With a troubled expression, he accepted the orange. Sasha watched him peel the orange skillfully and proudly spoke up.

“I know who you are.”

The boy’s hand, slicing the orange peel with a folding knife from his pocket, paused. The tangy scent of orange filled the air. Sasha breathed in happily.

“You’re a guest of Prince Lafayette, right?”

She asked for confirmation, and his expression became subtle. No answer came. Instead, he handed Sasha the peeled orange segments. She’d brought it as a gift, but ended up asking him to peel it for her. Feeling guilty, Sasha split it in half and returned it to him. The boy took the half orange, sighed deeply, and ate it.

“You can stay, just be quiet.”

He finally gave permission. From that moment, Sasha kept her mouth shut. She’d noticed since yesterday that as long as she didn’t start the conversation, he was fine.

Sasha took the homework notebook Enzo had given her from her basket and spread it out in the grass where violets, forget-me-nots, and marigolds bloomed. Every time the wind blew, a sheet or two flew away, but she didn’t care. Some pages flew in his direction. Another sigh came, mixed with the wind.

‘This is hard… I haven’t even learned this at school yet, but Enzo must think I’m a genius.’

Stuck on a problem, Sasha groaned. Chewing the end of her pencil, she tasted rubber. Eventually, she lay down, glaring at the problem as if she’d crawl into the paper. In doing so, she didn’t notice someone staring at her.

Only after a while did Sasha notice the shadow cast over her head and quickly looked up. She almost bumped her head into his chin.

“How old are you?”

The boy, who had closed his book, asked. The bookmark was now placed at the very last page, suggesting he’d finished reading.

“Ten years old.”

He said nothing, but Sasha could tell what he was thinking. His puzzled expression pricked Sasha’s pride. Sasha Vinoche was not a student who fell behind at school. She often daydreamed in class, but she wasn’t stupid. The boy seemed to think otherwise.

“Let me see that.”

“This is mine. Why? I didn’t even talk to you like you asked.”

“Isn’t it hard?”

He took Sasha’s pencil and solved the problem she’d been struggling with. Next to the messy marks from her long efforts, he wrote the correct answer in neat handwriting. Sasha stared blankly at his writing. When she turned to thank him, he was already sleeping again, covering his face with the book.

As the sun hid behind the clouds, the boy stood up with his finished book. Sasha buried the orange peels under the tree and followed him.

About halfway out of the forest, an ominous sound pierced Sasha’s ears.

“Don’t move. Stay quiet and behind me.”

The boy whispered. Sasha froze when she saw a black dog beyond his back. Enzo had warned her that morning to watch out for hunters lurking around the village. Still, weren’t trained hunting dogs supposed not to bite people?

The chilling, rough breathing sent shivers down her spine. The red eyes never left Sasha. The black dog seemed to have already chosen its prey.

“What is that doing here?”

The boy frowned, waited for the dog to approach, and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Birds scattered into the trees. The bullet grazed the dog’s leg. He remained calm and fired again.

One shot, another, and finally the last shot hit the dog’s vital spot. He left Sasha behind and went to turn over the dead dog.

“It’s a hunting dog. Looks like it was injected with a stimulant.”

He muttered, seeing the foaming dog. The owner, afraid of being caught for injecting the stimulant, wouldn’t come looking for it. He put the empty magazine in the holster and turned to Sasha.

“Don’t wander in the forest alone. It’s dangerous for someone like you.”

From Sasha’s dropped bag, the homework notebook he’d solved fluttered. Sasha stared blankly. The sound of paper rubbing together scratched her ears.

The boy stepped on the papers to keep them from flying away, bent down, and picked up Sasha’s homework notebook. His hands, reddened from the gun, brushed off the dirt, but faint shoe prints remained. He casually put it in her bag and handed it to her.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

But he realized he didn’t know where Sasha’s house was. So Sasha led the way. Her eyes, trying hard not to cry, were red. The boy sighed and rummaged in his pocket.

“Do you dislike chocolate?”

“No, I don’t dislike it. I like it.”

Sasha shook her head, staring at the gold wrapper in his palm. Even after answering, she couldn’t bring herself to eat it, but he didn’t ask again.

They parted at the entrance of the forest. The sudden gunshots had brought the villagers running, including Mr. Vinoche, who was searching for Sasha. The boy, seeing the crowd from afar, stopped in his tracks.