By the time dinner was served, every guest invited by the Duke of Lancaster had arrived.

  Yvette, clad in her evening gown, stepped into the dining hall and was immediately enveloped in warmth. The banquet space had been flawlessly prepared—countless high-quality smokeless candles bathed the room in a glow as bright as noon, the heat making it feel like early summer. No wonder the servant had advised her against heavy fabric; even ladies in plunging necklines wouldn’t feel a chill here.

  Their lavish skirts whispered against the floor as they moved, their bare arms and necks adorned with gleaming pearls and faceted jewels that sparkled under the candlelight like miniature chandeliers. The grand dining hall, its walls adorned with frescoes of the war god’s triumphant chariot pulled by wolves, held silver pitchers filled with drinks—both chilled and warm—while the table groaned under tiers of French pastries, out-of-season fruits, and candied delicacies, all artfully displayed in crystal goblets.

  “The strawberries served tonight were handpicked this afternoon by the ladies,” the Duke announced, lifting one to inhale its scent. “I must thank these divine creatures—your fingertips carry a fragrance more intoxicating than the fruit itself.” The ladies demurely averted their eyes, their practiced reactions as choreographed as his gallantry.

  This was high society’s unspoken script: men played the charming suitor, lavishing attention like chivalrous knights; women feigned flustered modesty, their pale skin and blushes serving as calculated weapons. Desire was both flaunted and concealed, a game of push-and-pull where innuendo reigned supreme. These were nobles bred for such performances, experts in the art of social seduction, where victory meant reigning as the most dazzling star in the room.

  The Duke’s a real smooth operator, Yvette mused. No wonder he’s the center of attention—aristocracy through and through. Half the men here will probably dissect his flirting techniques later like it’s a manual.

  She, however, had no intention of emulating such shameless finesse. Instead, she leaned into her role as the awkward debutante, reacting to any flirtation with exaggerated nervousness. It served a dual purpose: it flattered the ladies’ egos while shutting down further advances. After all, if she played the bumbling novice, any real pursuit would require their initiative—hardly proper at such a high-profile event.

  Step on their path before they even take it, she thought smugly, then cast a sideways glance at Ulysses. He sat stiffly, exuding an air of disdain—a peacock among doves. His wooden demeanor had earned him a dismal reputation; if he possessed even a shred of her social agility, he wouldn’t be the subject of endless gossip. Only his absurdly handsome face spared him from total ostracism.

  If social standing were a chart, the Duke would be a perfect hexagon—impeccable in wealth, pedigree, looks, and charm. Ulysses? A statistical anomaly: one extraordinary trait (his beauty) and a pile of zeros everywhere else. As for herself? Middling across the board, with confidence lagging notably behind.

  But tonight was the Duke’s arena, a clash of the elite—SSRs and URs battling for dominance. As a humble SR, she’d stay quietly on the sidelines, out of the fray.

  Etiquette demanded strict seating: married couples were separated, seated beside unmarried nobles of the opposite sex. A tradition that practically encouraged affairs—not that anyone minded, since most noble marriages were contractual. Once an heir was secured, spouses lived separate lives, occasionally dining together for appearances.

  The Albion aristocracy adored French cuisine, and the Duke’s feast followed suit. Courses arrived with choreographed precision—pheasant with roasted mushrooms, venison ribs, veal loin kissed with marjoram and citrus, all served on engraved silver platters. No peacock or swan here; the French had long abandoned medieval excess for the refined flavors of carefully bred livestock. Wild game, they argued, was gamy and tough, while castrated animals yielded superior fat and tenderness.

  Yet the meal was hardly modest. Out-of-season fruits—cucumbers, peaches, tender lettuce—graced the table, a luxury even for the upper crust.

  Suppressing a sigh, Yvette sliced into a perfectly cooked piece of fowl, her movements precise, her napkin untouched. Most guests merely sampled dishes, lest they be labeled gluttons. But the flavors were exquisite… especially the strawberries. She fantasized about sneaking into the greenhouse later for more.

  After each course, servants offered linen cloths—a redundant gesture for this crowd, whose hands never bore a smudge.

  Conversation flowed like champagne: light, bubbly, and strategically empty. But the mood shifted when the lobster arrived, its buttery surface blanketed in truffle shavings.

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  Truffles—the so-called aphrodisiac of the aristocracy. Their musky scent was said to stir uncontrollable lust, like Eden’s forbidden fruit. One noblewoman had once confessed that after a truffle-laden meal, she’d slept with a man she despised, claiming the fungi had “bewitched” her. Naturally, their infamy made them the perfect scapegoat for scandal. By serving them tonight, the Duke had all but issued an invitation to sin.

  Nearly every guest helped themselves, their willingness to indulge an unspoken proclamation: I am ripe for romance.

  Sure enough, after dinner, pairs drifted into shadowed alcoves, murmuring behind potted palms. Fluttering lashes, smoldering glances—a dance of mutual narcissism, where each sought validation of their own allure in another’s gaze.

  They played at being lovers, yet in truth, they were Narcissus, enthralled by their own reflections.

  Most dalliances ended harmlessly, the participants soon parting to chase new flirtations. But sometimes, the game spiraled into reality.

  Not that spouses minded. The ton’s finest couples often aided each other’s affairs. Only the jealous made scenes—and they swiftly became the butt of jokes.

  The hall was utterly silent, save for the soft strains of blindfolded minstrels echoing through the pillared corridors. Noble couples played at romance, generating sparks with each intimate touch and kiss, their passions transcending the need for words. The very air seemed thick with ripe anticipation, like fruit ready to burst at the slightest pressure.

  This atmosphere left Yvette acutely aware of her alienation. As someone touched by the transcendental, she often felt separate from this world - but never more so than now, surrounded by these so-called peers whose values diverged so completely from her own. The sensation clung to her thoughts like stubborn sediment stirred from still waters.

  "I am but a wanderer seeking my soul," she mused, "What meaning have these worlds for me? The truth I seek lies at their furthest edges."

  Her gaze drifted across shadowy revelers to the moonlit balcony where a tall, fair-haired figure stood alone.

  He might have been the moonlight given human form - detached yet not disdainful of worldly affairs. Unlike moralists railing against aristocratic decadence, nor yet joining in their frivolities. He reminded her of some ancient sea-stack, enduring while waves of golden candlelight (heavy with sensuality) broke impotently against his shores.

  Compelled by some unnameable attraction, Yvette approached as naturally as she might select a fascinating tome from library shelves. The ancient manuscript's cover bore no title, yet she'd known instinctively it contained hidden truths.

  And what drew her now?

  Brilliant moonlight streamed through the windows, illuminating Rothschild roses that climbed the balcony in sweet profusion.

  Roses - eternal symbols of secrecy. "Sub rosa" the Romans called it - "under the rose" - a phrase preserved through all the tongues of Europe.

  Too much moonlight now, distorting perception until dream and reality blurred. Yet paradoxically, Yvette's thoughts burned clearer than ever.

  What was pursing her?

  "The rose's secret," she concluded.

  "Your Lordship," she ventured, "Might I pose certain questions?"

  He turned gracefully against the balustrade. "Indeed?"

  "Consider how humans were once far lesser creatures - mere self-replicating genetic matter. For protection, it cloaked itself in protein, enabling movement, nourishment and advantageous unions. Over eons, these membranes grew complex, birthing nature's infinite forms."

  She gestured toward amorous couples inside.

  "Yet fundamentally, we remain that ancient genetic matter, though now enslaved by the protective shells we grew. Those shells developed wills of their own. See how they pursue ideal mates, obeying primordial drives, yet restrain those urges - enjoying union's pleasures while thwarting procreation's purpose. Women even deform their bodies to attract mates, though corsets endanger childbirth."

  The Essence of things - here was revelation approaching! She knew she should stop these dangerous thoughts, these forbidden truths, but knowledge itself seemed to pursue her - hungry to be known, understood, reproduced in other minds. The luminous understanding swelled behind her eyes, threatening to overflow.

  "My Lord...which is the true self? The ancient genetic thread? The dominant protein shell? Or some divine breath animating my soul?"

  Ulysses abruptly drew her into an embrace, pressing her against a rose-wreathed pillar where none might observe two formally-attired figures locked in apparent passion.

  "You ascend too high, perceive too much."

  Though his breath warmed her neck like a lover's, his words carried death's chill as he recounted an ancient horror:

  A great emperor, besieged by plague, initially sealed his capital to protect the realm though it meant his own death. Then came the plague-herald with a ghastly bargain - spread the pestilence to weaken neighboring enemies, and in exchange, the herald would return to wreak vengeance when the empire next faced peril.

  The emperor accepted. Though half his people perished, his enemies suffered equally, ensuring his empire's survival. Thus was signed history's cruelest passport - by Justinian's bloody quill in 542 AD - unleashing the Black Death across medieval Europe.

  Ulysses' poisonous telling seemed to brush Yvette with death's own fingers, chilling her ecstatic intellectual fever. Whether genetic essence or biological shell, all life rejects death's touch.

  Shivering violently, she gasped, "Your Lordship—"

  But he turned away. "You should rest," he murmured before departing.

  Dawn found Yvette waking beneath sunlit sheets, last night's luminous revelations now dim and lifeless as the morning light upon her bed.

  What had provoked such strange clarity? Not merely forbidden texts about hidden histories - they required some catalyst.

  She recalled the balcony's solitary figure, radiating silent truths more potent than any drunken revelry.