The people in the church merely moved their lips silently, their voices nowhere to be heard, only an eerie, mechanical echo filling the air. Yvette, unprepared for the soundless voices, tensed abruptly. Just as she was about to scrutinize her surroundings, she shuddered even more dreadfully—priests and children reciting scripture in the church now bore countless dense, finger-sized protrusions on their skins, as if some nightmarish entity were struggling to break free from the fragile human flesh.

  Click. She stumbled back several steps, nearly crushing the low fence of the roadside flowerbed.

  "Who's out there? Ah... a visitor from afar?" The priest closed his book and stepped out. Perhaps owing to the local accent, his speech was gentle and mellifluous, exuding warmth and approachability.

  "My apologies. I’ve been studying geology in London and this is my first independent field study. I’m afraid I interrupted your teaching just now."

  "Don’t worry; the children were due for a break anyway. If you’re interested, do come inside."

  Before Yvette could reply, a chorus of silvery laughter erupted behind her.

  A group of girls—likely returning from foraging wild greens and berries—darted past her.

  "Father’s trying to trick you again! We’ve all heard those musty old Bible stories a thousand times~ Don’t fall for it, traveler!" A girl crowned with a daisy wreath giggled at Yvette, her basket-laden hands clasped behind her back as she leaned forward playfully. A smattering of freckles across her cheeks only heightened the brilliance of her sunlit wildflower grin.

  The breeze carried the mingled scent of sweat and daisies—pure, childlike, and brimming with youth. Yet somehow, as Yvette met the girl’s dazzlingly bright eyes under the sunlight, an inexplicable unease gnawed at her.

  The discomfort was indefinable, but soon, her gaze drifted to the church’s battered wooden window, where a flock of children peered out with sleepy, mucus-streaked faces and bewildered curiosity. Suddenly, Yvette understood the source of that nameless disquiet.

  The dissonance lay in the artifice—the calculated embellishment. It reminded her of the role-playing scenarios occasionally staged in high-end London brothels, where women dressed as shepherdesses exuded an innocence laced with cunning, purity laced with carnal instinct. Despite their dewy appearances, their eyes were worldly, ripe.

  This fa?ade of wide-eyed naivety was poeticized and romanticized, designed to ensnare admirers.

  "Quite the opposite. I was hoping our guest might share tales of the world beyond with the children," the priest replied, unruffled.

  "Ugh, boring." The "Daisy Girl" huffed, stamping her foot in mock dismay before twirling away. The flounce of her chestnut curls and apron nearly brushed against Yvette, leaving behind a wisp of the girl’s elusive fragrance.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  That girl... had I been a man, I might’ve been ensnared too.

  Yvette watched the crimson-aproned figure flit off like a butterfly, briefly recalling that the other girls accompanying her had radiated the same paradoxical allure—pure yet provocative, as later generations might term it, akin to certain East Asian "moe" illustrations. Innocent maidens, yes, yet every smirk and sway covertly teased the deepest, darkest recesses of desire.

  Compared to the snot-nosed ragamuffins in the church, something felt off. The children were of similar ages—10 to 14—yet the contrast was jarring.

  Shaking her head, Yvette turned—only to lock eyes with the priest, his earlier warmth replaced by glacial detachment.

  "I must resume the lesson. May your research fare well."

  Sensing the dismissal, Yvette wondered if he’d noticed her staring at the Daisy Girl and concluded she was some kind of lolita-obsessed deviant. Though wronged, she couldn’t defend herself without exacerbating the misunderstanding. Suppressing a scowl, she trudged off elsewhere.

  By the time evening bells chimed, Yvette had circled the village enough to grasp its peculiarities.

  By all appearances, this was the Edenic hamlet of poets’ dreams: roads brimming with Daisy Girl doppelg?ngers—each a blend of purity and temptation—while farmers and their wives seemed preternaturally wholesome (by urban standards, at least). Yet Yvette’s rural experiences told her authentic village life was drab and crude, with leisure activities deemed "lewd" by city moralists. Peasants bellowed bawdy folk songs; women matched men in ribald boldness. Here, though? Not a trace of vulgarity. Even taverns—those spiritual bastions on par with churches—were absent.

  This place felt like an oil-painted Arcadia, too idyllic to be real.

  With the tolling of vespers, Yvette retreated to Valérie’s cottage. Earlier, the livestock pen had been vacant; now, a placid ox chewed at the trough, signaling the return of Valérie’s husband.

  Stepping inside, the aroma of stewed meat enveloped her.

  "Valérie~ what’s for dinner?" piped a child’s voice.

  "Pork-cheek-and-trotter pie, darling."

  "Yay! I love the wobbly pudding bits!" another cheered.

  The farmhouse’s open layout—kitchen, dining, and living spaces merged—let Yvette survey everyone at a glance.

  Valérie’s husband ladled water from an ewer, while four children (three girls, one boy) clustered around her. The eldest, about 14, was none other than the Daisy Girl from the church. The youngest, barely 7 or 8.

  "Perfect timing, Monsieur Jiménez. I’ve just told my family about your stay. They’re thrilled to host a gentleman from the city." Valérie beamed. "This is my eldest—"

  Yvette exchanged greetings. Ever the imp, the Daisy Girl feigned first-meeting decorum, sidestepping her earlier cheekiness toward the priest. "A Londoner! The city must be fascinating~ Would you tell us stories after supper?" she simpered.

  "Gladly." Yvette mirrored her saccharine tone with a Duke-of-Lancaster-worthy smile. "Your mother’s worked tirelessly—cleaning my room, unpacking, cooking this feast—so let’s not pester her further. I’ll entertain you four post-dinner, yes?"

  The Daisy Girl blinked, thwarted by the flawless deflection. Unperturbed, Yvette cheerfully set the table.

  Dinner was rustic: bread, vegetable salad, and a centerpiece meat pie—an Albion classic of pork cheeks and trotters slow-cooked until gelatinous, deboned, and encased in pastry.

  Problem was, as with most Albion cuisine, seasoning was minimal. The overwhelming greasiness and gaminess walloped Yvette’s palate like a cudgel.

  ...So this is how Sir Humphry feels during Winslow’s "culinary punishments."

  Her smile didn’t waver as the hostess served her a slice containing what was proudly declared the "prime, collagen-rich cut"—complete with a pork eyeball.