…And then they said this:
“Thank you so much for your help. As a token of our gratitude, let us photograph the two of you as well. Go on, line up.”
“Wow, lucky us, Eko-chan! We get a souvenir photo.”
Oz sent up a genuinely happy cheer, but Echo was bewildered. She fidgeted and hesitated.
She wanted to have it taken. She did want to, but the idea of being photographed standing next to Jyanta-kun, having fun, was terribly embarrassing. Besides, although her fundamental objective was the search for “Basil,” she was technically working as a server at the moment.
Oz gave her back a supportive little push; his voice was cheerful:
“Come on, Eko-chan, it’s okay. It’s not every day that someone volunteers to take your photo for you.”
“It’s Echo, not Eko.”
Echo corrected him, as if she’d just remembered.
“And in any case, we’re at work. Having souvenir photographs taken is not part of a server’s job.”
She spoke flatly, and Oz’s shoulders drooped dejectedly.
When he did that while dressed as Jyanta-kun, the gesture became vaguely funny and charming, and Echo felt a bit tickled. Of course, she didn’t let it show in her expression, not at all. As Echo and Oz squabbled, the elderly husband ducked his head apologetically.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to make you quarrel. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Yes, really.” The wife also bowed her head, quietly.
“Oh, no—”
Unsettled by the apology she’d provoked, Echo shook her head. The elderly husband patted the camera and murmured, sounding very regretful. He cleared his throat.
“I didn’t think a chance like this would ever come again, you see.”
—Never again?!?!
The words rang in Echo’s mind like the sound of a bell.
Never again.
Never again.
Never again.
She would never get another opportunity to be photographed with Jyanta-kun.
…Besides, the person inside Jyanta-san is… No, this has nothing to do with who’s inside!
In any case.
When she thought of the days she spent working under Vincent, it really didn’t seem likely that she’d get another chance like this one.
Shoulders drooping, the elderly husband slowly began to return the camera to the leather satchel.
On reflex, Echo spoke:
“I-if that’s what you’d like, sir…then…there’s no help for it…”
“Oho,” he murmured, and the elderly couple both looked at Oz, flashing him impish, assertive thumbs-up. Their triumphant faces seemed to say, Now that’s the wisdom of age. From inside the mask, Oz gave a delighted whoop. “Yesss!”
And then…
In the garret of the Nightray manor. Echo, who’d been looking up at the skylight, rolled over.
“……………………”
She was looking at the diary she’d set beside her bed, and at the single photograph turned facedown on top of it.
Echo stretched out a hand and picked up the photograph.
She turned it over, holding it up to the moonlight that streamed in through the skylight.
It was a picture of herself, standing next to the Jyanta-kun costume. The elderly couple had left Silver Moon Garden, but had come back when Echo and Oz got off work, just to bring the photos to them. “We got them developed quickly.” They’d laughed.
They’d given Oz and Echo one each.
“…Oz-sama has the same photograph as Echo…” she murmured, half-unconsciously, but in the next instant, she shook her head vigorously.
And what if he does? It doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t important.
She desperately canceled out the words she’d murmured.
“”
Echo reached out for her diary and picked it up. She sat up and opened it on her lap. For a little while, she gazed at the photograph. Then, gently, she put it on that day’s page and closed the book. Even if somebody saw the picture, they wouldn’t know who was inside the Jyanta-kun costume.
Setting the diary on the floor, she picked up the lantern, took off its cover, and blew into it, extinguishing the light.
Only moonlight filled the garret room.
Echo lay down on the bed. Soon sleepiness crept up on her, and she gave a small yawn.
Her lips moved, addressing no one in particular: Good night.
That night, Echo didn’t dream.
4
“Well, in three days, the matter should be settled.”
As Vincent had predicted, on the afternoon of the third day, Basil put in an appearance at Silver Moon Garden.
Echo carried out her original duties perfectly, and informed Vincent.
A FEW DAYS LATER.
Someone raided Basil’s hideout in a corner of Old Town. Basil and every last one of the members of the criminal organization with which he’d been meeting were killed. Basil did make a temporary escape in his carriage, but his body was found the next day.
· 10:30 AM
The sound of scissors cutting things apart is coming from Vincent-sama’s room.
· 11:07
On Vincent-sama’s orders,
went to Pandora to check on Gilbert-sama.
· 12:40
At Pandora, observed Sharon Rainsworth-sama.
She was grumbling that she hadn’t seen Xerxes Break since morning.
· 1:33 PM
Met Gilbert-sama in an office.
Entered the room and saw Gilbert-sama gazing at a black leather glove he was wearing (just one). He looked happy.
Continued to watch. Gilbert-sama hastily removed the glove and asked me not to tell Oz-sama about it. He seemed desperate.
A single glove, and Oz-sama. What is the connection?
………Unclear.
In his room at the Nightray manor, Vincent lay on the sofa, drowsily talking to Echo:
“Basil’s carriage ran recklessly down Hodgepodge Street. I hear it caused a bit of a stir…
“Quite the nuisance.” Vincent smiled thinly.
Echo nodded in agreement. Her face held no emotion whatsoever. It seemed almost artificial.
Vincent narrowed his eyes at her in a smile, as if admiring a favorite doll, and spoke:
“All right then, Echo. Here are your next orders…”
The world still holds lots and lots of things that Echo doesn’t know or understand, Echo thought.
“—That is why Echo keeps a diary.”
Murmuring, she closed the diary on the entry she’d just finished writing and tucked it away inside her jacket. Her expression seemed very faintly satisfied.
~ Fin ~
In Closing
Thinking about sin is like thinking about life, or about the world.
In terms of wickedness, acts of creation are precisely equal with crimes worthy of the death penalty. Not only are all artists murderers, but they target indiscriminately, wallowing in pleasure and joy over killing the souls of anybody and everybody. It’s true. Within every work of art, from the very beginning, there is sin.
Art is the act of expressing the world we see with our own eyes in such a way that it becomes clear to the eyes of others. If an artist presents a single pebble as his work, it means that, to him, the world is a pebble. Should he present countless corpses, then the world is a pile of corpses.
The man with the black leather gloves murdered again and again for no reason, and before the heap of corpses, he still felt an unslakable thirst. All that was there was a vast, vague landscape of the imagination. Therefore, he was not an artist.
I enjoy having my works misunderstood. At the same time, I also take the position that there are no misunderstandings in this world. Misunderstanding is understanding. Let all my readers dramatically misunderstand this book as well. I welcome all accomplices. Therein lies a new world, a world transformed.
To my mind, the world
must not simply exist, but must change constantly. The reversal of reality and appearance, in other words. If the world is not equal to this task, then that world is truly idle. Above all else, such a world is boring.
Sin, life, and the world form circles. Art, or creation, is nothing less than working to appropriate these circles for ourselves. No doubt I’ll kill the world someday, through sheer curiosity.
I contemplate original sin. What was the first crime committed in this world? Who passed judgment on that crime? Or rather, to begin with, were they able to pass judgment on it at all?
To debate, we must have definitions. As I mentioned earlier, the world is a work of art, and in that case, we may consider the first crime to have been the creation of the world. Thus, we who dwell in this world are with sin from the instant of our birth. If everyone bears the blame for a crime, there is no meaning to criminal acts. In other words, there is no meaning to art. This is precisely why people love it.
Creation, needless to say, is the act of destroying something. As we create, we destroy. In that case, destruction is creation. Therefore, I create, and I grow intoxicated on works created by others. I love art. Love, along with a kind of dread.
The murderer murders people, and the detective pursues him. There is a circle there as well. To join its ends, I used black leather gloves. Black is the color of night. Leather gloves signify that he is unable to touch the world with his bare hands. However, even cloaked in night, the world is far too hideous to touch with one’s hands. —Who was it that said its atrocity and cruelty are beautiful?
Those words may be true art.
Thinking about sin is like thinking about life. Or about the world. Or art. And, I trust, beyond that darkness sleeps new potential for mankind.
—ON A NIGHT WHEN THE CROW JEERS, BY EVIL B.
The knock at the door of his study came just as he finished writing the afterword.
It was late at night, and the whole Baskerville mansion was hushed and sleeping. The study was lit by the soft glow of candlelight.
“I’ve brought your tea, Master.”
The voice of his valet, Oswald, came to him through the door. Levi returned the quill pen he was holding to its stand, ordering him to come in.
The door opened quietly, and Oswald entered, balancing a tray on one hand. His expression held its usual reticence, but there was a hint of displeasure there as well. When he’d come up beside Levi, he set a steaming teacup down on the edge of the desk, which already held parchment and an ink bottle.
Oswald glanced at the parchment on which Levi had just finished writing, but soon averted his eyes, seeming disinterested. He looked at his master steadily.
“Although it is late at night, some servants are still awake. If you would like tea made, you could order them to make it.”
His tone held an unspoken reproach: Why me? Everyone in the Baskerville mansion knew Oswald wasn’t good at making tea.
“I wanted to drink your lousy tea to commemorate the occasion. I’ve just finished writing.”
As he spoke, Levi picked up the teacup and took a sip. He drank as if it tasted wonderful.
“Yeah, that’s awful. That’s it; that’s what I wanted.”
“……………………”
Morosely, Oswald was silent. Completely ignoring his valet, Levi merrily savored his tea, saying, “Nasty, nasty” over and over. When he’d drunk about half of it, he returned it to the desk. “Nn,” he sighed, raising both arms in a stretch.
Returning to his original position, he murmured, “Oh, that’s right.” From the chair where he sat, Levi looked up at his valet, who stood beside him. Oswald merely looked back at him.
“I was writing the afterword for a novel, and I was really on a roll this time. Read it through for me?”
Levi took the parchment from the desk—the ink wasn’t entirely dry yet—and held it out to Oswald.
As he took it, Oswald frowned slightly.
However, he didn’t refuse. He dropped his eyes to the document and silently began to read. It wasn’t very long; in a few minutes, he’d finished. When his valet raised his head from the parchment, Levi asked, “How is it?” He was intensely interested.
Oswald answered without the least hesitation:
“I don’t know.”
His tone was adamantine, something that would never shatter. With his mouth half-open, Levi murmured:
“I see…”
“Yes. I don’t know.”
“I see……”
Somewhere in the darkness of night, a crow cawed.
Afterword
It’s the third novel, and I’m officially greeting you in an afterword for the very first time. This is Shinobu Wakamiya. It’s a pleasure to meet you.
I’ve always loved children’s stories, and I love Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. When I heard that PandoraHearts had a world that was linked to children’s stories and to Alice, I tracked down the series and became—and stayed—a reader who was at the mercy of a story just as tricky as Lewis Carroll’s Alice series. …And now, as fate would have it, I’ve been allowed to write the novels.
When I was simply reading as a reader, it was fine for me to just enjoy the unpredictable story and what the characters said and did, and to let everything surprise me. However, when it came to moving the characters on my own and describing them through text, I had to do better.
My head isn’t wired for thinking about difficult things, but I put it into full operation, and I read the story—with its double and triple foreshadowing—over, and over, and over.
When I imagined I understood the characters and got carried away and tried to predict where the story would go, I fell hard for false leads and ended up being surprised anyway. That was what it was like to become deeply acquainted with PandoraHearts. I have no idea how often I got worn out and exhausted from being surprised!
PandoraHearts is full of appealing characters, but my first favorites were Alice and Gilbert, the ones who are straightforward and easy to understand. Characters like Oz and Break have something complicated deep inside them, but as the story advanced in the original manga, and as I wrote about them over and over in the novels, I gradually deciphered their feelings…and then, all at once, I felt close to them.
Then I discovered that Alice and Gilbert, the characters I’d thought were straightforward and simple, were actually much more than just straightforward and simple, and I trembled with fear.
In other words, even now that I’m writing the novels, my relationship with PandoraHearts hasn’t changed from what it was when I was just a reader. In that case, I plan to let this cruel and beautiful story toy with me and to enjoy it until the very end.
If I’ve managed to add even a little extra color to the pleasure of following the original through these three short-story collections, which focused on the characters’ everyday lives, I’ll be happy.
In closing, a few words of thanks.
First and foremost, to the creator of the original, Mochizuki-san. Every month, in the midst of the turmoil of her limit-pulverizing work on the series, Mochizuki-san helped me by meticulously checking the manuscripts and providing material. Without her help, I really don’t think these three collections would have been completed. The illustrations and bonus manga are masterpieces, every time! They are!
These three books also exist through the help of the original manga’s supervising editor, Mukasa-san, and the many other people who are involved with PandoraHearts. I’m very grateful to all of you.
…And, above all, my greatest thanks go to you, the readers who’ve picked up this book.
I hope we’ll be able to meet again in a fourth collection of short stories.
Shinobu Wakamiya
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Contents
Cover
Welcome
Insert
Title Page
The Story of Thresholds
A Side Episode of a Promise Lost
The Story of Genuine Trust
A Side Episode of Adoration 1
A Side Episode of Adoration 2
The Story of a Relationship
The Story of a Dream Weaver
In Closing
Afterword
Yen Newsletter
Copyright
Copyright
PandoraHearts ~Caucus Race~, Volume 3
Created and Illustrated by JUN MOCHIZUKI
Written by SHINOBU WAKAMIYA
Cover art by Jun Mochizuki
Translation by Taylor Engel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Novel PandoraHearts ~Caucus race~ vol. 3
© 2013 Jun Mochizuki, Shinobu Wakamiya/SQUARE ENIX CO., LTD
First published in Japan in 2013 by SQUARE ENIX CO., LTD.
English translation rights arranged with SQUARE ENIX CO., LTD. and Hachette Book Group through Tuttle-Mori Agency, Inc.
English translation © 2016 SQUARE ENIX CO., LTD.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
PandoraHearts ~Caucus Race~, Vol. 3 Page 17