Chapter 315 Kitchen Woman Transformation

Several more folklore classes passed.

Croft never organized his lectures according to the university’s standard methods.

He set no syllabus and created no categories. He would discuss one case today and another the next, choosing the order based entirely on the old ledger he kept in his mind.

After the Life-Swapping Spirit, he spoke of the Mirror Bride.

She inhabited the mirror surface of old-fashioned dressing mirrors, preying specifically on young women about to be married.

Before their weddings, brides invariably spend a great deal of time grooming themselves before a mirror.

She would use that time to, bit by bit, chew on the bride’s thought of "getting married" until it became her own.

On the wedding day, the girl from the mirror would walk out.

The real girl, meanwhile, would be left behind in the mirror.

"Is there a way to tell them apart?" a student asked.

"An old method," Croft answered. "Place a shallow dish of water on the bride’s vanity, and rest a piece of wrought iron on the rim."

"Why wrought iron?"

"She can’t touch iron."

Croft then spoke of the Zhenni, telling a timeworn tale from a garrison on the Southern Coast of the Imperial.

Two hundred years ago, a squad sent to a desert outpost in the Mediterranean Sea vanished from the sands overnight, men and camels alike.

Half a month later, the entire squad returned, perfectly intact. Not a hair on anyone’s head was out of place.

But from then on, for more than a decade, each of the seven soldiers was followed by an invisible companion.

"This is called a Companion Spirit. Note the distinction." Croft wrote the term on the blackboard.

"They don’t harm people."

"They just follow you. For your entire life."

"What’s so bad about that?" a student scoffed.

"All seven of those soldiers died eventually."

Croft placed the chalk back in its holder.

"It was a very slow death. When a Companion Spirit attaches itself to a living person for more than a decade, the person’s ’tune’ is gradually, bit by bit, replaced with one that does not belong to the world of the living."

"Once the transformation is complete, the physical body can no longer sustain them."

Richard sat listening, arranging these different phenomena together in his mind.

The Mirror Bride, the Companion Spirit, the Life-Swapping Spirit... their methods differed, but their core principle was the same.

The power of definition.

’My child, my bride, my companion...’

’They don’t recognize faces, only the claim.’

Croft’s lectures continued for several more classes. To the average person, each case was just an old wives’ tale, the kind of ghost story told for hundreds of years.

The "Evil Eye" of the Mediterranean Sea’s coastal fishing villages, which preys on those walking along the Pier who’ve had a stroke of good luck.

Those who had recently come into a windfall, just had their first child, or closed a major business deal...

All had to pin a piece of perforated red coral inside their collars, lest that unseen eye suck their good fortune away.

The Noble Rot Corpse Spirit of the Spice Islands hid under sacks of cardamom and cinnamon to travel across the ocean by ship.

Once the ship docked, it would slip into the city’s spice shops, preying on the cooks most discerning about their ingredients.

Once the cook simmered a pot of strangely flavored stew and the whole family ate it, the Spirit would begin to swap their bones.

The "Long Fingers" on the East Coast of the New Continent waited in small-town taverns for drunken men stumbling home alone in the dark.

The Flying Head Ghost on the South Sea Islands preyed on women who hadn’t properly recovered from the blood loss of childbirth.

Those it targeted would know no peace for the rest of their days.

At this point, Croft concluded the day’s topic and pulled a stack of transcribed papers from beneath his lectern.

"Today’s assignment." He rustled the papers.

The stack was passed down the rows, one for each student.

Richard took his copy and saw that it was a nursery rhyme.

The words were neatly transcribed in fountain pen, with the location of its collection noted beneath the title.

A small town in the north of Albion Island, collected several decades ago.

The lyrics weren’t long, eight lines in total.

The wind outside blows gently, and Mama’s hands are warm.

Little darling, close your eyes, I’m singing by your bed.

The lamp is out, the door is closed, so sleep your sweetest dream.

Little darling, now be good, for someone calls tonight.

Don’t you answer, don’t you answer, Mama’s still making tea.

Little darling, remember well: it is not me, and yet it’s me.

The wind outside blows gently, and Mama’s hands are cold.

Little darling, dream again, I’ll call for you in the morning light.

After reading it, Richard felt it was remarkably similar to the Well Forbidden Songs he had read before.

Croft waited for everyone to finish reading before he spoke.

"Anyone who is literate can understand the surface meaning of this song."

"At night, something will impersonate your mother and call your name. You must not answer."

"Even a three-year-old village child would be frightened by that much."

He lowered his voice.

"That is not the layer I’m looking for."

"What I want to see is... how much you can glean from these eight lines that isn’t explicitly written."

"You can use any method you choose. I will only be looking at your conclusions."

"It’s due this Friday."

.........

Back in his dorm room, Richard spread the paper out on his desk.

Imperial University provided single rooms for its recommended students.

First, he placed the Sphinx Lamp in the deepest corner of his wardrobe, far away from the desk.

An unsigned Marvel was sensitive to the slightest wisp of Ether Flow. For what he was about to do, he needed to keep the lamp at a distance.

Having done that, he sat down at the desk.

He went over the surface-level meaning in his mind.

’A voice calls your name at night. Don’t answer it. The caller is some foul thing impersonating your mother.’

’Most of the class would probably just turn in an analysis of that surface layer.’

Richard didn’t dwell on it.

He unfurled [Erudite].

This wasn’t the first time he had encountered a taboo against "answering your name at night."

Whether deep in a mineshaft or in this small northern town, hundreds of miles apart, the taboo was the same.

’But that was still just the surface level.’