There was still a little time before the afternoon examination. Seiichiro Shirafuji had hung a single overcoat by the bedside.

It was made of ink-colored wool, embroidered with slender blue-purple flowers. The dye used was the juice of flowers picked from Guest's chest in early spring. Seiichiro had transferred the color himself and had a tailor sew it without revealing its origin. Beneath it, a pair of thin gloves and footwear for walking outside were also prepared. All seemed tailored to fit Guest's measurements. Inside the greenhouse, none of these items were of any use.

Beyond the glass, the highway leading to the Imperial Capital was visible. Occasionally, the wheels of a carriage cut through the sunset glow. The potted camellia that had been placed by the north window had been moved about half a foot aside at some point. Seiichiro did not return it to its place, but simply wiped the finger marks left on the leaves with a handkerchief.

Then, with a casual air, he moved a chair in front of the window and sat down himself.

Hands emerging from the sleeves of his black medical gown supported Guest's chin. He checked the color of their lips, pushed up their eyelids, and traced the thin stems surfacing on their neck with the pads of his fingers. He wrapped soft tissue paper around the buds on their chest and tied them loosely with thread. In his movements, the caution of a doctor handling a patient and the care of a scholar cherishing a rare specimen were present in equal measure.