At another intersection, Turan got out of the car and bought several newspapers and magazines printed with Hesta's portrait, then handed them to her after getting back in.
Hesta flipped through them one by one — in those articles appeared a girl named Jane Hesta, someone completely unfamiliar to her.
This girl not only shared her name but also entered the same convent. Yet unlike herself, she was portrayed as gentle, devout, and blessed with the compassionate heart of a saint.
The articles overflowed with vivid details, depicting the life of the convent in striking realism. The journalists must have interviewed some of the surviving children from Saint Anne's Convent — but anything related to Hesta was wildly distorted.
For instance, it was Flasanne who had found a squirrel with a bloody hole in its chest on the day of the incident — yet in the articles, it became Hesta who discovered it first. Not only that, but this "gentle, humble Hesta" had supposedly gathered the children together to pray for the little creature when the nuns weren't around.
Hesta frowned.
"They're just… making things up."
Just then, Turan's car passed by the Civic Square. A sudden swell of noise made Hesta instinctively turn her head.
In front of a tall monument, a crowd had gathered — countless people holding flags or homemade cardboard signs. From the shifting angles, she could see many of them holding portraits and photographs of her — the very same picture featured on today's magazine covers.
On the flags and placards, in thick red or black paint, were written the words: "Let Her Be Free!"
Beneath the monument, someone was giving a passionate speech. They were too far for Hesta to hear clearly, but she saw a line of police officers standing quietly at the edge of the square, arms crossed, watching the demonstrators.
Perhaps the speech was ending, for the speaker suddenly raised a fist and shouted. In an instant, the entire square roared with a thunderous chant —
"Let her be free!"
"Let her be free!"
"Let her—be—free!!"
Hesta turned to Turan. "What are they doing?"
"They're demanding that the Union Government step in to negotiate with AHgAs."
"Negotiate… about what?"
"They want AHgAs to let you go," Turan explained as she straightened up to check the road ahead. "They want you to return to a habitable zone and live as an ordinary person — not be turned into a weapon against the Chelates."
Seeing congestion up ahead, she began looking for a place to make a U-turn.
Hesta asked softly, "Why would they do that?"
"Who do you mean by they?"
"...The people in the square," Hesta replied in a quiet voice. "I don't know a single one of them."
Turan gave a short, knowing laugh. "Of course not. That's because someone wants them to do this."
"The Union Government?"
"Mm-hmm." Turan nodded. "Even though AHgAs is an autonomous organization, a considerable portion of our funding still comes from regional government allocations and public donations. Our public image in each district directly affects next year's budget. Whoever knows how to use that pressure, controls the leverage against us."
Through the window, Hesta looked back at the shrinking square. The chants still echoed faintly, rising and falling in waves. As Turan pressed harder on the accelerator, the sounds grew softer until the street fell into a short, calm silence.
Once they entered the Old District, the city came alive again.
Hesta saw taverns, bakeries, small supermarkets, and window displays showing off new clothing. Outdoor spaces were set with brown or navy tables and chairs beneath wide parasols. People gathered beneath them, chatting and laughing, with cups and plates scattered across their tables.
Because of the strict speed limits in the Old District, Turan had to slow down — which gave Hesta more time to take in the beauty of the place. Unlike the bright, storybook row houses they'd passed earlier, the buildings here were grander and more restrained in color.
Bronze statues stood everywhere along the streets, their bases engraved with names and life dates. After years of rain and wind, the surfaces had become mottled and dark, radiating a somber, timeworn elegance.
Turan finally stopped in front of a bakery. She unfastened her seat belt.
"Come on — let's get something to eat."
"I already ate at the base this morning—"
"I didn't," Turan said as she stepped out. "And food at the base tastes like hell anyway."
Hesta followed her out of the car. Above the door hung a wooden sign carved with the words 'The White Ship', followed by a string of letters she didn't recognize — likely the name in another language.
As soon as she pushed the door open, a wave of warm, buttery sweetness enveloped her. The smell of melted butter mingled with the soft aroma of coffee — it was so heavenly that for a moment, Hesta thought she'd stepped into paradise.
She silently followed Turan, gazing at the glass displays filled with breads and cakes. Under the soft yellow lighting, the cream and sugar glistened like jewels. She leaned closer, fogging the glass slightly with her breath.
After ordering three croissants and a coffee, Turan turned to her.
"What would you like?"
Hesta froze for a moment, flustered. She hesitated for a long time before finally pointing to a small cake topped with strawberries and raspberries.
"Um… that one."
Turan nodded to the clerk.
"One strawberry fruit tart, and two cannelés."
They soon sat down by the wall — one side was rough stone, the other faced the street through a panel of stained, frosted glass. Beyond it, passersby were nothing more than blurred silhouettes.
A few minutes later, Hesta's fruit tart and Turan's coffee arrived first.
"Go ahead," Turan said. "No need to wait for me."
Hesta held her breath and carefully picked up the knife and fork. She made two precise cuts from the cake's center, shaping a perfect sixty-degree wedge.
"Who taught you to use cutlery like that?"
Hesta paused. "Sister Gelding at Saint Anne's Convent."
"Not bad," Turan smiled, resting her chin on her hand as she watched. "I've been coming here for five years and still can't get used to those things."
As she spoke, the waiter brought over a large white plate with Turan's three croissants. Pulling a napkin from the wooden holder, Turan picked one up directly with her hands.
Neither spoke for a while.
Outside, rain began to fall — soft and steady, tapping against the colored glass beside Hesta's hand.
The bell above the bakery door jingled. A mother and daughter came in, pausing briefly at the counter before sitting nearby.
The mother held her daughter's hand and carefully set a black violin case on the chair beside her.
(End of Chapter)