The house party at the Duke of Lancaster's concluded swiftly. Alongside Yvette and Ulysses, several nobles were flattered to receive coveted invitations to Windsor Castle – social currency to last them seasons.

  The Duke's selections appeared meritocratic, favoring wit, social grace and French fluency – the continent's lingua franca. Paris set civilization's trends and philosophies, its fashion so dominant that many foreign aristocrats spoke French better than their mother tongues.

  Naturally, native French speakers Yvette and Ulysses qualified easily.

  En route to Windsor, Yvette studied foreign noble etiquette intently.

  "...Other nationalities behave thus. Most notably, avoid political discourse with the French – though don't tolerate deliberate provocation."

  "Are they hostile toward French in Albion's service?"

  "Worse," Ulysses said. "Expatriate French nobility are universally considered traitorous rebels."

  This stemmed from her world's historical divergence – where late 18th century France beheaded its monarchy, here the crown crushed revolutionaries.

  Only now did she grasp Paris's vampiric dominance. The Sun King centralized France's elite at Versailles. Where Albion's lords prized sprawling country estates, French nobles measured worth by cramped Versailles chambers.

  They bankrupted themselves for royal proximity – gem-encrusted gowns worn once then resold. This competitive pageantry made Paris luxury's global capital. Even Albion's peeresses slavishly copied Parisian designs arriving each season.

  Securing fashion-forward status meant dining nearer the Sun King – Parisians' existential purpose.

  She marveled at nobles' druglike fixation on Versailles while their estates languished. They siphoned provincial wealth to fund capital decadence. Previously, tax revenues funded local craftsmen and servants; now, absentee lords drained regions to feed Paris' excess, creating a grotesquely swollen metropolis as hinterlands withered.

  By 1740, Montesquieu observed: "France is Paris and distant provinces Paris hasn't yet consumed."

  The revolution had essentially been provinces revolting against their parasitic capital.

  Uninvited nobles – mostly rebellious "nobility of the sword" – were replaced by loyal "nobility of the robe" bureaucrats. In both worlds, these old families joined commoner rebels, but here, defeat meant exile and forfeited lands.

  As Burgundian lineage accepting Albion's ennoblement, Ulysses was doubly traitorous in Parisian eyes.

  "Why invite adversaries?" Yvette asked.

  "The crowns intermarry constantly," Ulysses explained. "Such entangled bloodlines caused the Hundred Years War – Albion's king claimed France through a French princess. For centuries afterward, Albion's monarchs stubbornly styled themselves French kings... unrecognized by any Frenchman."

  "Now they marry distant heirs," he added. "Our fellow guests are fifth in line or lower – statistically safer."

  Ulysses' tales made the journey pass quickly. They'd await the queen's arrival by royal train, when proper festivities would commence.

  ...

  Meanwhile, Constable David struggled with his reluctant assignment – investigating Windsor's thefts.

  The castle's servant hierarchy bewildered him. Beyond the queen's permanent staff, transient cleaners, scullery maids and laundresses cycled constantly – dismissed for affairs or resigning to marry. Identifying thieves in this chaos proved impossible.

  Posing as steward Sir Granville's nephew assisting household management, David lacked authority for proper investigation.

  Sir Granville hovered anxiously, hinting at his impatience.

  "Her Majesty arrives shortly after hospital visits and ship christenings," the steward fretted. "Two train cars of jewels, gifts and wardrobes accompany her. If thieves strike during festivities, my reputation perishes."

  David recognized the threat – Sir Granville's displeasure could end his career. He vowed faster progress.

  "Your banker murder solution showed remarkable insight," Sir Granville said diplomatically. But David sensed diminishing patience.

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  How he missed young Fisher's genius – that prodigy had cracked the banker case singlehandedly, pioneering ballistics analysis now revolutionizing police work.

  Sighing, he returned to examining charred wine corks among excavated bottle shards – puzzling evidence of playful vandalism amidst theft.

  "One mischievous thief at least," he muttered, rubbing his chin.

  Windsor Castle traces its origins to an 11th-century stronghold, painstakingly expanded by generations of Albion’s monarchs into a sprawling domain—now rivaling ten football fields in size. Though time and renovations softened its martial edge, this fortress remained no Versailles. Hewn from rugged granite instead of brick, its walls boasted arrow towers and angular bastions designed to unleash devastating crossfire upon attackers, rendering it all but unconquerable. Even during another world’s Second World War, England’s king sought refuge here from German bombers.

  The Albion royals maintained numerous palaces, each ruler favoring different retreats. Queen Margaret IV held special affection for Windsor. Since the 17th-century rise of constitutional monarchy, real governance had shifted to Parliament, leaving the Crown with symbolic duties—and copious free time. Margaret annually enjoyed five months of holidays (Christmas, Easter, and seasonal breaks) where she escaped London’s gilded cage to unwind at her country residences.

  Yet royal obligations lingered. This gathering of foreign nobility, ostensibly casual, served to shore up monarchical prestige. Yvette privately likened it to Lunar New Year matchmaking—even queens couldn’t avoid social engineering during vacations.

  As hosts, the royals invited more than token guests. French-speaking nobles like Yvette were tapped to chaperone visiting dignitaries through weeks of orchestrated merriment.

  Preparations began months earlier. Royal Guards swarmed the castle, implementing exhaustive security protocols. Now, with the queen’s arrival imminent, Yvette joined rehearsals for reception formalities. Young aristocrats received particularly exacting tutoring:

  "Should Her Majesty offer fruit," advised an elderly functionary whose starched collar could slice paper, "eschew oranges—their juice betrays discretion. Grapes allow dignified consumption."

  Between drills, Yvette admired the scarlet-clad Guard’s ceremonial drills—their towering bearskin hats lending a whimsical martial air.

  Post-rehearsal, she wandered the graveled avenues until startled by a familiar voice: "Young Fisher?!"

  It was Constable David, last seen solving London crimes. "Transferred to Windsor’s guard?" she inquired.

  "Special assignment," he hedged. "Involves a gentleman’s honor… Might your deductive talents assist?"

  Freed from days of banal pageantry, Yvette eagerly agreed.

  In a makeshift office, David revealed meager clues—shattered bottles and peculiar charred corks. "The permanent staff’s above suspicion," he fretted. "But transient laborers? Some quit after harvest season; others got dismissed for petty theft. The steward doesn’t even know their names."

  Yvette inspected the shards. "Where were these found?"

  "Gardener Carbon’s lilac bed. But days have passed—"

  "Show me."

  They entered a courtyard where a florid-faced old man brandished shears at retreating nobility. "Off my lawn, you heathen!"

  "That’s Carbon," David whispered. "Treats his plants like sacred relics."

  Approaching carefully, Yvette explained their investigation.

  The gardener eyed her noble attire skeptically. Lords didn’t meddle in servant matters. (Even the queen, raised at Windsor, only met her lifelong chef during a post-banquet thank-you—having eaten his meals for decades without knowing his name.)

  David intervened: "Young Fisher solves crimes—"

  "Amateur hobby!" Yvette amended.

  Carbon scoffed. "Hang the fiend who murdered my lilacs at Tyburn, and I’ll talk!" He gestured toward vibrant rhododendrons. "Beneath lay a lilac thick as four men. Withered overnight—dug-up soil hid those glass abominations!"

  Yvette squinted. Artful transplanting masked the loss; only pruned branches betrayed new arrivals.

  "Why just the lilac?" she mused. "Rhododendrons thrive beside it."

  Carbon appraised her anew. "Clever girl. They demand different soils. My secret?" He leaned in. "Solid fertilizers—wood ash for lilacs, coal soot for ’dendrons. Filthy stove scrapings, but the shrubs adore them."

  Yvette listened, fascinated, as the gardener shared his theories. But David grew restless—time was running out. Sir Granville grew more impatient by the day, his warnings sharp as knives. With the Queen's arrival looming, they couldn’t afford delays. Steeling himself, David nudged the conversation back on track.

  "So the killer damaged the lilac roots while burying something—that explains the withered leaves! Mr. Capon, how soon would a plant show damage if its roots were harmed?"

  "I doubt it’s the roots," Yvette cut in. "The disturbed area was small, and Mr. Capon’s plants are hardy. The nearby rhododendrons are fine—why only the lilacs?"

  The gardener gave her an approving nod, then shot David a withering glance. "The lad’s right. Damaged roots don’t yellow overnight—they wilt slowly. Trim the leaves, lighten the load, and the plant recovers."

  "Then what caused this?" Yvette pressed.

  "Like it was planted in wrong soil—but far quicker than normal."

  Wrong soil...

  Lilacs loved alkaline soil—wood ash, specifically. Yvette remembered a comic where ash water made dough springy. Maybe the issue was acidity?

  Rhododendrons thrived in acidic soil. In mansions like hers, coal fires were banned from living spaces—their sulfur dioxide ruined tapestries and paintings. Coal ash, then, must be acidic.

  Had someone buried something acidic with the lilacs? The half-charred corks returned to mind. Wood turned black without fire—sulfuric acid could do that.

  "Mr. Capon, you’ve been invaluable," Yvette said.

  "Just nail those thieves," the gardener muttered, shooing them off.

  David, still baffled, trailed her. "Where now, sir?"

  "The wine cellar."

  The cellar master snarled before she finished speaking.

  "Bleeding footmen! Next time, give ‘em cheap swill upfront—or they’ll pinch the good stuff!"

  "Not here about theft," Yvette said calmly. "Those missing crates—were they ever stored horizontally?"

  "That’s for fine wines! Cheap stuff stays crated until guzzled. But..." He scratched his chin. "New bloke delivered it. Mild as milk, till a footman tried grabbing a crate. He near scared the lad to death with a look."

  "Where’s that man now?"

  "Gone. Quit days back."

  Too convenient. The staff ledger confirmed it.

  Six-tenths certainty became eight when Ulysses identified sulfuric acid on the corks.

  Dangerous. Rare.

  And now in the hands of conspirators still inside Windsor.

  But for what?