Canned Fish

Did Number One Hope write this book?

No, that couldn't be right. If he had really written it, there shouldn't be so many oversights...

It must have been Number Two, Number Three, or Number Four Hope.

Comparing the handwriting at the beginning of the book with that at the end, the writing at the end was clearly more fluent, and differed even more from the title I had written. The writer had gradually gotten used to writing in New Federation language and had incorporated more of his own quirks.

Although he had written in pencil, the lines of nearly every word were almost perfectly consistent in thickness... The writer might have had obsessive-compulsive tendencies and been very meticulous.

Perhaps I could rule out Number Four Hope. Her newspaper was certainly folded very neatly, but there were lots of jagged tears along its edges. She'd folded it carelessly, then ripped it open with brute force.

Hope rubbed his chin... Even with its oversights, the book was still more detailed and accurate than the memories I'd received. Perhaps Number One Hope's knowledge was partly lost each time he "lost his memory."

The writer must have recorded all this knowledge for that reason, so those who came after him could use it...

For those who came after him?

Hope froze.

Why had he assumed there would be anyone coming after him... Number Four Hope had happened to write on the newspaper on the very day I arrived here...

She was sure she'd meet her successor on June 5. That successor was me.

And Hope, the one who'd written this book, must have had the same poor eyesight as me. It would have taken a long time to write such a thick book.

Yet he'd known he would have a successor even before he began writing...

And I knew nothing about my current situation...

Number One Hope's knowledge diminished gradually with every "loss of memory." Perhaps it wasn't just knowledge that was lost. Maybe I'd failed to inherit some memories that all my predecessors had possessed.

Hope reached into his pants pocket and felt the newspaper scraps through the fabric... The message Number Four Hope had left behind... A message encrypted in the language of another world...

Hope had prepared such a thick book for his successor, yet he hadn't left a single word about "losing his memory."

And Number Four Hope must have foreseen that I wouldn't remember anything about it. That was why she'd left a note, yet still risked her successor being unable to understand it by using an "encrypted language"...

Was this information some unspeakable secret?

Who were they protecting themselves from?

Damn it, most importantly, where had they all gone... Were they all dead?

A sense of danger from beyond the Whateley family swept over Hope.

Time, time, the intervals between replacements... That was the easiest thing to determine. All he had to do was ask Lavinia or Wilbur when he'd lost his memory.

Then there was the translation of the Russian left by Number Four Hope... For now, all he could do was hope Old Williams's Reading Potion would work.

Hope was so eager to find out what Number Four Hope had said that he wanted to go up to Old Williams's roof right away and prepare the potion. But reason told him it wasn't a good time.

He should at least wait until night, preferably midnight, when the other three were asleep.

Wilbur and Lavinia probably weren't night owls. The cultists kept a more regular schedule than college students. That would be the safest time.

Shaken by his own deductions, Hope no longer felt like reading. He put the book on the bedside table and stared at the ceiling, trying to suppress his agitation.

Time was unpredictable. Without anything to tell the time, Hope had no idea how long had passed when Lavinia suddenly opened the door. She was holding an opened can of peas and a small plate. There seemed to be some kind of meat on the plate, but Hope still couldn't make out what it was.

It was dinnertime.

Hope remembered that he'd only told Wilbur to knock, not Lavinia.

It wasn't too late to tell her now... Wearing the same expression and using the same tone he had with Wilbur, Hope asked Lavinia to knock every time she came in.

Unlike Wilbur, who had hesitated, Lavinia quickly nodded. She set the can of peas and the plate on the table, then asked, "Can I have these onion rings?"

"Uh... Sure." They were cold already, anyway.

"Hey, wait!" Hope called out to Lavinia, who had picked up the paper bag of onion rings and was about to leave. "How about we talk for a while? It's really boring in here."

Lavinia happily agreed. She wasn't as dour as Wilbur. Hope could imagine her ordering Wilbur to do everything, leaving her with plenty of free time.

There wasn't even a stool or chair in Hope's room. Lavinia sat on one side of the bed, while Hope sat on the other, near the bedside table, which was now serving as a dining table.

Hope could see what was on the plate now: pieces of fish with the head and tail removed. He couldn't tell what kind of fish it was. This time, Wilbur had specifically brought him a fork.

But Hope hated fish.

Not very skillfully, he used the fork to lift a piece of fish a little, then opened his mouth beside the plate to catch it.

A small piece of fish fell into his mouth. Hope chewed a couple of times and found that the bones had softened until they were mushy. Relieved, he chewed a few more times and swallowed. It was a little salty, but went perfectly with a bite of peas.

If he wasn't mistaken, this was canned fish that had been heated up. Wilbur had just poured it onto a plate this time.

Hope glanced sideways at Lavinia. She was focused on dealing with the onion rings in the bag.

Although she'd sat down, she didn't seem to have any intention of chatting. It was more like she'd stayed because she figured it didn't matter where she sat.

"Do you eat fish?" Hope put two pieces of fish into the can of peas, then offered the rest to Lavinia.

Hope had meant to use it as a conversation starter. He expected Lavinia to turn it down when he offered her the plate.

But Lavinia accepted without hesitation. She didn't even mind that Hope had used the fork.

Hope blinked. Watching Lavinia eat with such relish, he suddenly lost interest in hiding his real purpose behind small talk.

He swallowed the peas in his mouth. "Do you know when I last lost my memory?"

"No."

"Huh?" He'd struck out on the very first question. Hope barely managed to keep his expression neutral. "W-why don't you know?"

"I forgot," Lavinia said matter-of-factly.

"But it can't have been that long ago, right?"

"Sometimes you lose your memory, and you and Wilbur don't tell me."

Don't tell her...

So she can't tell on her own...

Hope had no choice but to settle for something else. "Then do you remember when I was locked up?"

"Last summer."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Don't remember."

Last summer... That was vague.

It was early June now, and outside looked like early summer. From last summer until now was probably somewhere between nine and twelve months.