Honestly—what an appalling breach of etiquette. These days, visits weren’t conducted so brusquely.

  The custom was straightforward: first-time visitors left their carriage before the estate gates, sent their calling card inside via a servant, then withdrew with dignity—whether the host was available or not.

  If the host accepted, they returned their own card, arranging a formal appointment at a later time. Even among friends, the same protocol stood—though usually, a close friend’s card prompted the host to pay a return visit instead.

  Noblefolk in Albion kept frantic schedules, their days consumed by social calls, their evenings spent sorting the latest stack of accumulated invitations. Lingering uninvited outside a man’s house? Absurd. Unless one had an excellent reason, it was the quickest way to earn contempt.

  "Let us hope this is urgent," muttered Strychnine, plucking up the card and eyeing the feminine name.

  "Lady Margie Ansorpe. She’s scribbled a note—begging our assistance with a dire matter."

  "That name rings a bell," mused Henbane, exhaling pipe smoke. "She was Margie Darlington once—a stage singer. Saw her perform before she wed some widowed squire and retired. Last I heard, her husband shot himself, leaving her tangled in an inheritance feud."

  "So that’s her crisis?" Strychnine shrugged. "She needs a solicitor, not us."

  "Hear her out—there’s often more beneath such tales." Oleander sniffed the card theatrically. "Ah, the sweet stench of an Albion murder—inheritance, greed, all the classics."

  Moments later, a veiled widow in black swept into the parlor.

  Though visibly tense initially, she steadied herself well—evidently no stranger to high society.

  "Mr. Faulkner," she began, voice trembling just so, "I’m an admirer of your work. As both your reader and a grieving woman, I’m indebted you’d receive me so abruptly. My late husband, Robert Ansorpe, and I wed two years past. He’d been widowed once—his first wife and child lost in childbirth. Had he died without issue, his nephew Henry stood to inherit everything.

  Then Robert saw me perform. Love struck, and soon we wed. Henry opposed it instantly. But Robert, bless him, refused to let a spiteful nephew dictate his happiness. He even threatened to cut Henry off if the slander didn’t cease.

  Henry owns some shabby little portrait studio—hardly funds his vices. So he bit his tongue… though his hatred festered.

  And when I announced my pregnancy last month? It must’ve been the last straw. Then last week—oh God—Robert was found shot through the skull! The police called it suicide. Suicide! When we were expecting a child! What madness!" Tears welled, dabbing at them with lace.

  "You suspect Henry orchestrated it?"

  "I can’t prove it… but who gains most? Robert’s wealth is land, not coin. With our babe unborn, Henry inherits the lot."

  Strychnine leaned forward. "We’ll inspect the scene. Tell me—is it preserved?"

  "Exactly as found. The police chalk marks remain. Only his body’s been moved. Help me, Mr. Faulkner!"

  "We’ll try. Though we’ll need access to any evidence the police hold—including the weapon."

  "Anything—I’ll have it all brought here."

  Once she left, the others turned to Yvette.

  "Well, Detective Chevalier? What’s your verdict?"

  Verdict? Hardly supernatural.

  "Too soon to say. We’ll need those police reports."

  "Ever cautious, Mandrake!" Oleander teased. "But we all know you’ll dazzle us yet."

  Yvette smiled absently, her mind snagged on that factory disaster in the papers.

  A dozen dead seamstresses—yet the Labyrinth of Thought barely blinked. Albion’s class divides ran deep. Her friends, for all their warmth, were aristocrats first. The plight of the poor simply didn’t register.

  And the law agreed. No charges filed—just an “act of God.” The mill owner got compensation. The victims’ families? Nothing.

  But why had the Viscount intervened? What tied a factory collapse to the occult?

  Unable to shake the thought, Yvette headed to Hampstead Heath.

  After sending Eddie home, she arrived at Ulysses’ estate. The butler guided her inside—His Lordship wasn’t due back yet.

  In the parlor, Winslow stood by the balcony, feeding birds. The flock had grown—sparrows, tits, pigeons—all jostling for crumbs.

  "Winslow," she greeted.

  "Master Ives." He smiled warmly. "Here for His Lordship?"

  "Partly." She held up the paper. "This piece bears his mark. Something serious?"

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "My role was merely quelling labor unrest. The press wasn’t my concern."

  Ah, the labor factions—rabble-rousers demanding rights and votes, in the gentry’s eyes.

  Yet despite the deaths, no outcry. An article alone couldn’t explain the hush.

  "How does one ‘quell unrest’…?"

  Winslow’s smile didn’t falter. "Oh, diverse methods."

  His tone was mild, but the autumn light through the window lent his usual warmth a pallid chill.

  Yvette stiffened—just slightly.

  Winslow noticed.

  "Something amiss?"

  "Nothing."

  "No? For a moment, you looked at me as if I were a stranger. Or something… callous." He scattered the last crumbs. "Master Ives, I follow chivalry, not morality. The latter requires too much tedious pondering. Point me where I’m needed—I’ll act. No second-guessing.

  Overthink, and the Old Gods’ snares await. Simpler to cleave to the code."

  Chivalry…

  She thought of knights in her homeland, pledging to defend the weak—then slaughtering cities in holy wars.

  The contradiction unsettled her. Winslow, so kind—could he too turn ruthless?

  That was Winslow's decision in the end. Though Yvette felt it didn't quite align with the man she knew, she wouldn't interfere.

  Truth be told, she wasn't entirely certain about the validity of her own doctrines and pursuit of discernment either.

  "I wonder when the gentleman will return. Fancy some reading in the study? Master Ives mentioned the collection was stuffed with Latin tomes, Greek texts and specialized works - terribly dull stuff. He had a bookseller deliver more recent popular novels instead. Haven't seen those yet, have you?"

  "Oh? He never mentioned it, but how thoughtful!" Surprised by this, Yvette decided some light reading might be pleasant after all.

  "I'll prepare tea and pastries then. Recently mastered these French soufflé pancakes - might I have the pleasure of your opinion?"

  "I don't mean to trouble you... but I'd be delighted."

  Seeing her enthusiasm, Winslow permitted himself a small smile: "No trouble at all. Quick to make - similar to cakes but airier. Our Albion desserts rely on whipped butter for volume, while soufflés use frothed egg whites - much lighter on the palate. The gentlefolk ladies seem to prefer this modern approach."

  "That must please the gentleman. He always complained our pastries were just bricks of butter and sugar."

  "Actually, he doesn't know about these yet," Winslow said with a conspiratorial wink. "An idle mind makes a dull student - his current studies don't warrant such indulgences."

  "...Can't say I agree entirely. Lately I've come to think him rather dedicated."

  In Ulysses' study, Yvette found the promised novels - freshly bound and conspicuous beside the usual dreary academic volumes. Among them sat the first three Chevalier detective stories, though other titles occupied the shelf as well. Gothic fiction lingered like a dying ember, its predictable formulas failing to excite. The golden age of detective stories had yet to dawn - to her critical eye, only the Chevalier series showed merit. And who knew Chevalier better than she?

  Romance novels proved equally disappointing - page after page of fragile, swooning heroines that left her cold.

  Setting these aside, her attention was caught by an odd box near the shelves.

  The contraption featured a hand crank and wire terminals - unmistakably one of those electrotherapy devices physicians were so fond of.

  Now that she understood electricity, its workings might prove interesting.

  Opening the case revealed simple components - a rotating shaft, coiled wire and magnets. Turning the crank spun the coils through the magnetic field, generating current.

  Electricity produced magnetism just as magnetism created electricity. During her hospital days, she'd undergone MRI scans - the medical staff's strict warnings about metal objects still fresh in memory. Over tea, a friendly resident had shared horror stories - how activated MRI machines could hurl oxygen tanks across rooms, even crushing patients with wheelchairs.

  That terrifying force was just a byproduct of the scanning process. The principle was simple enough. If electricity proved too unwieldy as direct weapon, perhaps converting it to magnetic energy might serve better purposes?

  She was deep in contemplation when Ulysses' voice startled her.

  "Find anything interesting? I should mention that gadget's useless for what they claim - nerves, pains or hallucinations. Expecting it to stabilize supernatural abilities is pure fantasy."

  "Just examining the mechanism... wait a moment! Last winter you recommended electrotherapy to me!"

  "..." His gaze slid away uncomfortably.

  "So that's it. You'd grown tired of me and suggested that ridiculous treatment..."

  "Another time. You're here about next week's assignment, I presume?"

  She recognized the deflection, but professional curiosity won out.

  "What assignment?"

  "Apparently not informed yet... We're accompanying the Duke of Lancaster's hunting party."

  "Merely hunting? Or is there more to it?"

  "Her Majesty remains unmarried despite Parliament's wishes. A suitable foreign candidate arrives next week with several noble companions - officially guests of various aristocrats. Some have... connections to our world. To prevent unfortunate incidents during their stay, our presence is required."

  Ah. A royal matchmaking event, then.

  Selecting a monarch's spouse was no simple matter. The candidate must possess royal blood - some minor European prince, perhaps - but stand sufficiently distant from succession to avoid complications. Family history, temperament and appearance all factor in, then Her Majesty's approval atop it all.

  No formal announcement yet - just preliminary evaluations. Should the candidate prove unsuitable, the visit could pass as ordinary.

  But those accompanying foreign nobles presented concerns. Old bloodlines occasionally awakened supernatural talents, necessitating both protection and surveillance from their hosts.

  "That's the situation. You'll receive particulars shortly... Normally one operative would suffice, but Lancaster's taken liberties..."

  "Oh?"

  "He invited us both, contrary to my instructions. Should you prefer to decline, plead illness and maintain low profile to avoid gossip."

  "No other engagements next week. Might prove useful should complications arise."

  She understood his meaning. Vile rumors already circulated among Albion's elite - whispers that Sir Ulysses and the Duke shared more than friendship.

  Unsurprising, really. The eligible Duke kept no known paramours, yet showed marked favor to this foreign knight - a rank barely noble at all. That Ulysses had amassed such disproportionate influence could only mean one thing to the aristocracy - scandalous favors granted rather than earned.

  Were she to decline this public invitation while Ulysses attended? The implications were painfully clear: only Sir Ulysses' jealousy could explain refusing the Duke's summons.

  No - she wouldn't have him suffer such slights on her account.

  Still, why her inclusion? She recalled that ghoul doctor recently delivered to the Duke's care. Though the good doctor had vanished weeks ago, London's papers merely noted financial troubles forcing his abrupt departure.

  Never mind that everyone knew his practice flourished. When numerous noble agents testified to his debts - their word being credit itself in Albion's stratified society - who could argue?

  Was this the Duke demonstrating his club's reach?

  Yvette pondered this while Ulysses contemplated darker concerns.

  Personally, he cared nothing for idle gossip - in mere years he'd shed this identity anyway. But London's underworld had grown restless of late, its shifting factions difficult to track. The monitored countryside estate offered security amidst this foreign delegation's visit.

  At least it might shield her from any remaining Doomsday Clock agents still lurking in the capital.