If the plan was simply to throw sulfuric acid at the Queen, the security around her would make such an attempt nearly impossible. She was constantly surrounded by guards, and every visitor approaching her along the red carpet was scrutinized by a thousand watchful eyes. Success seemed unthinkable.
Still, Yvette reported her findings to Lord Granville. When the steward of Windsor Castle learned that the broken wine bottle had poisoned the flowers, he nearly fainted—reaching for his smelling salts in alarm. Knowing nothing of chemistry, he assumed sulfuric acid was some deadly toxin and grew frantic at the potential danger.
“What can we do? Is there any way to root out every suspicious person in the castle, Mr. Fisher? I pray your answer is yes.”
“I doubt it. Not with the Queen arriving so soon. Tracking a threat in a crowd this large would take time.” Yvette’s past successes relied on narrowing down suspects, but here, hundreds of people milled about. No detective could sift through them all quickly.
“So we just wait for the villain to strike?!”
“Coordinate with the Royal Guard. Tightening security is our safest move for now.”
Lord Granville reluctantly agreed, though he hated the idea—more people knowing meant more scrutiny on his own failures.
With no further leads, Yvette was at a dead end. The wine bottle shards had been buried too long; any footprints were long gone, witnesses’ memories unreliable. Solving this would require prophetic powers.
Worse, she lacked backup. A recent wave of attacks on the Order in London meant all capable trackers—like Alto—were already hunting threats there.
Thankfully, the Queen’s safety wasn’t in real peril. Ulysses had explained that her assigned protector, a supernatural operative codenamed “Phase Witch,” was formidable. The Queen had survived assassination attempts before—once, a gunman fired point-blank at her head. Newspapers credited divine intervention when the shots “missed.”
In truth, the bullets passed through her harmlessly—her protector had momentarily shifted her into another dimension, leaving only a phantom image. The shocked assassin went mad on the spot.
Assured by this, Yvette relaxed—until she casually asked Ulysses how he knew such details. He deftly sidestepped the question.
Smooth evasion, she thought.
With no immediate crisis, she settled into aristocratic leisure: reading, strolling, and chatting with visiting nobles. Remarkably, even the French contingent behaved. Their wit and charm, polished in elite salons, made them surprisingly agreeable company.
One French nobleman lamented London’s industrial gloom: “Your countryside is divine, but the capital is a soot-choked beast. Factories belch smoke till the sun vanishes. No aristocrat should endure such air!”
Nods followed—many Albion nobles fled London each winter, though they missed its luxuries.
The Frenchman continued: “Paris suffers too. A dye factory recently exploded—leveled, with hundreds dead. A navy friend two streets away said it dwarfed cannon fire.”
“A dye factory? Surely you mean an armory?”
“I swear it! Or do you call me a liar?” He nearly challenged the skeptic to a duel before recalling diplomacy—and the Queen’s impending arrival. “Ask your ladies: Paris’ latest fashion is lemon yellow, yet none is to be had—the blast destroyed the supply.”
Murmurs of confirmation rose—until Yvette abruptly stood and left.
A realization struck her:
The conspiracy wasn’t about acid. That dye factory explosion mirrored history—picric acid, a yellow dye later discovered to be a brutal explosive. Here, aristocratic demand had likely sped up its use. Conspirators must have noticed the blast’s iron debris—and recognized its potential.
Picric acid, made from phenol (a disinfectant resembling sugar), was devastatingly powerful. Even the Phase Witch might not react fast enough to an unexpected detonation.
Yvette mentally reviewed the missing inventory: sacks of sugar. Phenol could’ve been smuggled as such. And last month, Lord Granville had rejected a shipment of “mislabeled” yellow dye—likely picric acid.
The plotters, thwarted, had switched to precursors. The real threat wasn't acid—it was a bomb.
Yvette knew time was running out. The Queen’s private train could arrive by afternoon, and Windsor Castle needed to be secured—immediately. Lord Granville had to be warned, the meeting postponed, and every inch of the estate swept for hidden explosives.
But when she hurried to the butler, his news stunned her: they had a breakthrough in tracking the sulfuric acid conspirators.
The truth was, Lord Granville had been terrified ever since discovering the stolen "wine" was no such thing—it was a lethal chemical, corrosive enough to wither plants and char wood to cinders. Wisely, he abandoned any attempt at discreet damage control. Better to face censure for negligence than risk the monarch’s safety by hiding the threat.
He ordered an exhaustive search of the entire servant staff, personally leading trusted men through every room. The method was inelegant but effective.
Servants in grand households lived cloistered within the estate, barred from marriage and dependent on their masters for life. This insular world bred endless gossip—and Lord Granville exploited it. After floating the idea that a departed porter was suspect, whispers spread like wildfire.
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Amateur detectives among the staff soon recalled something vital: that porter had been seen speaking often with the distillery maid.
Distillery rooms were common even in middle-class homes then, as store-bought goods were scarce. Candles were molded from wax, soap rendered from fat, and pest-killers brewed in-house. Windsor’s distillery, however, resembled an alchemist’s workshop—glistening glassware, labyrinthine shelves, all the tools of chemistry (and perhaps magic).
The previous maid, famed for her rosewater, had left abruptly after inheriting property from a newfound New World cousin. Her replacement—hired through an agency (nobles like Granville seldom mingled with the pharmacist/medic class who bred such specialists)—had seemed unremarkable. Until now.
With the distillery’s endless bottles, hiding smuggled acid would’ve been child’s play.
When Yvette found Granville, he was reviewing fresh rumors about the new maid.
"Mr. Fishers! Come—we must inspect the distillery. I haven’t the faintest how to identify such poisons," he breathed.
"Gladly. But I suspect the plot runs deeper than acid attacks," Yvette warned.
"Worse?! Speak, before my nerves fail me!"
"First, the distillery. We may yet stop this."
They entered flanked by guards—only to freeze.
The maid lay contorted on the floor, lips peeled back in a rictus, eyes and nostrils streaked with blood.
"Miss Ballaran! Is she—?" The nobleman swayed, steadied by a soldier.
"Don’t touch anything," Yvette snapped. She examined the corpse. Warm, but pupils fixed; mucous membranes ravaged by hemorrhaging. "Arsenic."
A footman recalled her breakfast: eggs, bread, bacon—all served in the monitored servants’ hall.
Then Yvette spotted two teacups by a side table. Residual warmth, fading bergamot scent. "Brewed within three hours," Granville judged expertly.
Arsenic acted fast—unconsciousness in minutes, death in two hours.
As she searched, the distillery’s arcane shelves loomed like a sorcerer’s trove. Testing vials with wood slivers, she pinpointed the sulfuric acid—a jar half-full of amber liquid that carbonized wood on contact. Far stronger than household needs.
No trace of phenol or picric acid remained. The explosives were likely finished and removed.
Near the cooling hearth, she found scattered crystals—phenol, perhaps? The killer might’ve burned its packaging here, accidentally sprinkling residue. A hasty cover-up, assuming Granville only knew of the acid.
But why murder? They could’ve fled. A corpse guaranteed relentless scrutiny, dooming any further plans—even forcing the Queen to cancel.
Unless... the conspirators weren’t done.
Yvette sat in silent contemplation while nearby, Lord Granville shook off his horror at the corpse and sprang into action. He demanded to know if any servants had spotted people moving to or from the distillery in the last few hours, and pressed the Royal Guard for reports of suspicious departures from Windsor Castle.
With the Queen’s arrival imminent, the household had been in chaos—servants laying carpets, arranging flowers, dusting already pristine antiques. The distillery lay at the end of a corridor; while no one might recall exact comings and goings, any movement along that hallway would have been noticeable.
The guards confirmed no one had left the castle since the maid’s poisoning. Given Windsor’s fortified security, the killer had to still be inside. Granville pored over a growing list of individuals with access to the distillery, his expression grim.
"Your help has been invaluable, Mr. Fisher," he admitted reluctantly. "After recent events, I must advise Her Majesty against using Windsor as her retreat—not with a murderer loose among us. For her safety, I’ll urge her to divert to Holyrood, Balmoral, or Osborne. When she arrives, I’ll explain.
We owe this to you. You saw through an assassin’s plot where others saw only missing wine. Forgive me—there’s much to do. Once this conspiracy is unraveled, I’ll express my gratitude properly."
Meanwhile, Yvette settled at the tea table where killer and victim had sat, reconstructing the scene.
One teacup bore lipstick marks—Miss Ballaran’s. The other showed none, not even smudges. Wiped clean?
She’d secured the scene upon entry; nothing had been disturbed. Handling the suspicious cup with a handkerchief, she noted more oddities.
The handle’s position was off.
Though placed conventionally to the right, it felt arranged for appearance, not use. Returning it after drinking would require an unnatural wrist twist.
And—
A delicate tea stain trailed the rim, not from sipping, but as if liquid had been poured out, leaving a stray drip.
Did the killer poison both cups, abstain, then discard his own after the maid’s death? Unlikely. Poisoning every cup was a server’s tactic—but here, the guest would’ve prepared tea, not the hostess. And why not clean the cup to stage a suicide?
The staged empty cup, discarded poison, phenol traces, locked doors—these disjointed clues suddenly aligned.
"Young Mr. Fisher?" Lord Granville looked up as Yvette snatched test tubes, collected samples from the teapot and both cups, and bolted.
——
On Windsor’s riding grounds, the Duke of Lancaster and Ulysses cantered, their privacy ensured by the open space.
"Really, Ulysses," the Duke sighed theatrically. "There’s no intrigue between me and your 'rabbit.' I merely assisted with trifles—repaying a fraction of my life-debt. The hardest was buying that Royal Academy portrait..."
"A portrait?" Ulysses’ horse halted.
"At the exhibition— Oh." The Duke caught himself, then breezed on, "Hardly worth mentioning. Must you distrust old friends?"
"A portrait," Ulysses repeated, cool. "You knew it was her."
The Duke groaned, clutching his forehead. The painting depicted a girl unlike Yvette’s current self—yet instinct and features confirmed it. His usual feigned ignorance had allowed harmless teasing under the guardian’s nose. Now, his mask had slipped.
"If you knew she’s a lady, adjust your conduct. Keep your distance." Ulysses’ tone was arctic.
"The Seraphim blundered," the Duke grumbled. "Raphael should’ve guarded the Tree, not Eden’s gate. Now Heaven stations Michael between me and the apple..."
Spotting them, Yvette spurred her horse over.
"Yves!" The Duke beamed. "We were just—"
"No time, Your Grace! Sir Ulysses—which sample is poisoned?" She thrust forward the tubes.
Ulysses sipped each impassively. "Ceylon tea. Ceylon tea. Arsenic." The toxic one matched Miss Ballaran’s cup.
Only the maid’s drink was poisoned. The second cup, though harmless, was emptied—because no one could drain two cups so quickly.
Conclusion: the maid acted alone, imbibed poison, and planted the extra cup to fake an accomplice’s presence, diverting scrutiny to the castle.
The theatrics aimed to concentrate attention here—but the real threat lay elsewhere. Bombs required foreknowledge of the Queen’s movements, easily gleaned from rehearsals. With the castle plot foiled, the assassins had pivoted.
"Your Grace," Yvette asked urgently, "does the Queen always take the royal train?"
"Not historically," the Duke said. "She favored carriages, shipping baggage separately. The late King adored trains, but she avoided them—until this year. She privately refurbished a carriage; when work finished early, St. James’s announced her rail arrival."
"New interiors," Ulysses added. "Blue wallpaper replaced green."
Yvette understood: a reference to the arsenic-laced wallpaper that killed the prior monarch. The Queen wouldn’t board until toxins were purged.
The assassins’ initial plan—a castle explosion—had failed. Now, with attention fixed here, they’d switched targets: the Queen’s train, unprotected and en route.
She checked her watch. The conspirators might’ve fled with explosives before the maid’s staged death. Every second wasted here brought the train closer to disaster.
