“What did the master write? Is he still receiving treatment?”
“Yes. He said that he still needs more treatment, but he is getting better little by little. He asked me how I was doing...”
Angie was so flustered that she even stammered. Come to think of it, her mother still didn't know about their relationship. Neither did her father.
Angie wasn't ready yet, and her future with Kai hadn't been decided yet. But she was worried that her parents might catch wind of it. Fortunately, however, her mother didn't seem to think much about the young master's letter.
“Yes. I guess he remembered you because you were always by his side and made sure he didn’t feel lonely. I hope he gets better soon. Hurry up, sit down, and prepare breakfast. It was your favorite roasted pumpkin soup, but I almost burned it! Father baked the campagne yesterday with lots of figs, which you like.”
“Wow, this looks delicious... I’ll enjoy it!”
“Are you going to rest at home today? Is it going to be the first time in a while that you’ve been in the studio?”
“Yes, there are a few things I haven’t finished. I’ll finish them all today and take them straight to the chapel tomorrow.”
After breakfast, Laura Ridsdel left for her husband's cottage workshop. Left alone, Angie took out Kyle's letter from her pocket again. At the same time, she thought about the knitting and men's handkerchiefs in the workshop.
How about making one for Kai? I can give it to him as a congratulatory gift when he recovers somewhat and returns to the main building.
The village women were very fond of the lace handkerchiefs, tablecloths, and gloves she made as a hobby and side job. It was because even the rough fabric gave off a noble and elegant feeling. It may not be the class of the Duke's family, but she thinks the young master would be happy to receive it.
Angie sat at the kitchen table for a long time after the tea in her cup had cooled. She couldn’t take her eyes off the geranium in the flowerpot by the window, the red petals of which Kyle had handed her a flower through the curtain while they were talking about a book they had read together. She tried to pronounce the meaning of geranium flowers out loud.
"I love you."
When did it start? Kai told her that he had loved her from the moment she first entered the room. But she couldn't remember. When exactly did he become special to her?
Is the feeling of love sometimes like what she read in books? Even before hearing the other person's voice or seeing their face, it is something that moves the heart and seeps into the soul just by their presence. Like the breath of this summer that is scattered in the air. It is not captured with the naked eye, but it certainly exists and progresses.
***
As June arrived, the days grew longer. By the time the sunlight began to feel warmer, the island was already well on the verge of summer.
Another month had passed since Angie had received Kai's first letter. There were two more letters since then, in the same handwriting and with similar content as the first.
The content didn't change, but Angie's heart would flutter with each new letter she received. The second letter resonated with her more than the first, and the third letter resonated with her more than the second. At least for now, the relief and hope that Kai was safe, the excitement and the sad longing, all of those emotions were always together.
It was late Friday afternoon when she returned home from her weekend vacation at the Duke's residence. Her parents had not yet come home.
Angie sat down at the table and picked up a guipure sleeve. She had been so absorbed in her sewing that she turned around after a while to look at her tea, which had cooled down. She was about to pick up a cup to quench her thirst when suddenly Martin Silva's words came to mind.
"Angie. Don't drink the flowers from that island, especially the rose tea, which contains narcotic properties. Then, little by little, you will remember. You have to remember! The real you before you came to Cullinan Island! Who you really are."
Angie looked down at the tea in front of her for a long time. There was no more steam rising from the cup. She took the cup to the kitchen sink and poured out the tea without any regret.
The islanders drank the desalinated seawater and boiled it with Bengal roses, Rosa chinensis, and other plants that grew on the island, and it was said that Bengal roses had powerful detoxifying properties. No one knew if it was true or not. However, the Blackwell family took charge of mass production so that the entire island could grind the roses into powder and boil them into drinking water.
Angie didn't take Martin's words at face value. But there was something about the part about memory that bothered her. It was because she had recently had the feeling that there must have been someone else among the girls in the sewing group, but she had forgotten.
Martin Silva. Who on earth is he? Is he a ghost who once lived on the island and died? If he is a real person, where is he now?
She turned her face toward the window. She could see the tip of the Wind's column floating like a buoy on the sea. If Martin was a real person, he had to be beyond that buoy. Does that mean that the outside world, outside the island, is safe? And she was born and raised here, and she had to remember herself before she came to Cullinan Island. What on earth does that mean?
Could it be... that he is trying to harm her on the contrary. Or that he is crazy.
Angie shook her head. The answer came to her as soon as she asked it herself. Martin’s eyes were neither. They were too clear and pure for that to be the case.
She opened the door of the basement storage and took out the water that had not been boiled yet. The water that had been desalinated and cooled had no salt. She poured the amount she would drink alone for the day into a pot and boiled it without the rose powder.
Angie opened the letter from the master that she had left in her bedroom again. She couldn't count how many times she had read it. Only after she had read it enough times to memorize the contents did she put the letter deep in the dresser drawer.
It had been three months since she had touched rose tea. Even when she was working at the Duke’s residence, she would pretend to drink tea, only putting it in her mouth, then quickly pouring it into the sink and drinking water separately. Perhaps because of this, Angie was gradually beginning to remember the existence of someone who had not existed before.
The girl's name was Lucy Perron, a beautiful child with red hair that stood out. Lucy apparently hung out with Angie herself, as well as Emma, Marissa, and Leticia.
But why doesn't anyone know her? How come? Even her parents were bewildered, saying that it was the first time they had heard of such a girl and that she must have misremembered something. And for the past few days, another girl has been creeping into her memory. This time, even her name came to mind clearly.
“Natalia... Rohen.”
She was also a tall and beautiful girl like Lucy. Both Lucy and Natalia, who had been among them until a few years ago, disappeared. They disappeared as if they had never existed in the first place.
“I don’t understand. How could that be? Why did everyone completely forget about it... and now I’m the only one who thinks about it?”
Angie flinched and shrugged her shoulders. The sudden chill gave her goosebumps. Was it really because of the rose tea? She wondered if, as Martin had said in her dream, she had really stopped drinking the rose tea and was slowly and unexpectedly recalling forgotten memories.
Another change that had occurred to her since she stopped drinking rose tea was not just the retrieval of her memories. Angie raised both hands to her head and ran them through. Her hair fell to the floor like fallen leaves in the autumn wind. The area under her eyes was also darker than ever. She looked like a patient suffering from malnutrition.
Why is this happening? I sleep and eat the same as usual. Is something wrong with my body?
But it was a phenomenon that only appeared occasionally at night as if she was not feeling well. Angie would go to bed, vowing to consult Mrs. Dunst or go to the village doctor when the sun rose. But the next day, her complexion was always clear and bright as usual.
Angie stared at her haggard figure beyond the small mirror for a long time. Now that she thought about it, it seemed like the dream she had had before was like this. That weird, hazy dream where someone was surrounding her and giving her an injection in the arm.
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