Late August.
Autumn had yet to arrive, but the chill carried by a sudden drizzling rain had allowed the villagers of St Catchpole to feel the bleak cold of late autumn ahead of time.
As far as the eye could see, the sky was blanketed by gloom.
Before an old, crooked locust tree in the eastern part of the village stood a lopsided three-story wooden house. Evelyn stood at its door, gazing anxiously in the direction of Stoatshead Hill.
In spring and summer, the lush grass that swayed across the mountainside in the wind always refreshed the spirit when gazed upon for long.
Yet through the curtain of rain, the grass sprawling over the wilderness appeared an suffocatingly dark shade, its rain-bent forms even more oppressive.
Evelyn's fixed gaze shifted to a field of rice at the foot of the mountain, equally listless beneath the autumn rain, and her expression grew more melancholy.
Wave after wave of dark clouds swept over Evelyn's head in the raging wind, and even the old locust tree before the house thrashed wildly.
But Evelyn remained unmoved, staring worriedly at the rice paddies at the foot of the mountain until—
The sudden smell of burning that filled her nostrils made Evelyn's smoke-darkened face change color. She spun around and rushed into the kitchen.
"Ah!"
Her panic had clouded her mind. She reached directly for the iron pot, scorching hot from the flames, and badly burned her hand on its handle.
Her anxious eyes darted about, and she inadvertently caught sight of an old wand on the windowsill beside the stove, feathers sticking out of it and thickly coated in dust.
Without thinking, Evelyn picked up that "wand" and gave it a wave—
Bang!
With a loud explosion, the heavy lid flew into the air and