Yesterday, her cheek had been wiped clean with a thumb. That fact remained logged in Elena's mental processing system, and morning had arrived. To be precise, an entry labeled "Contact Incident by Alphonse Fleuresia—Cheek Area—Value Incalculable in Silver Coins" had been written into an off-ledger column without permission. Moreover, every time she tried to delete it, the burnt-sweet scent of caramel would mysteriously resurface. (This is aftereffect from magical consumption. It lingers in the nervous system. Medically speaking.) Elena stood in the kitchen of Tsukikage-tei—a small café with ivy-covered walls, tucked down an alley off Central Market Street in the royal capital of Blanche—and diagnosed herself as such, cleanly compartmentalizing the matter. Perfect. She'd processed it perfectly. She'd shoved the whole thing, including that one off-beat heart palpitation, into the "Miscellaneous Expenses" column of her ledger, blaming it all on magical consumption. Today there was a