Yvette rose leisurely from bed, her thoughts lingering on yesterday’s strange episode—particularly the forbidden secrets she’d recklessly revealed to Ulysses.

  Oh dear…

  Two minutes later, she burst from her room in disarray, struggling with her necktie.

  Please let those mad ramblings not have addled his mind.

  "Why the hurry? Being chased by monsters?"

  Ulysses stood near the staircase, eyebrows raised at her frantic state.

  "Mm—" Hair tie clenched in teeth, hands wrestling her cravat—hardly the picture of noble decorum.

  A quick retreat, five minutes’ primping, and she emerged to find him unmoved.

  "Waiting for me, sir?"

  "Naturally. Had you not recovered, I’d have summoned a replacement and made my excuses to leave."

  "My apologies… I don’t know why I… Those things I said yesterday—did they… affect you?" She flushed, recalling how the supernatural’s honeyed whispers had eroded her caution.

  "Hardly. The concern is you—how do you feel?"

  "No ill effects, though my memory’s foggy…"

  "Then leave it buried." His tone brooked no argument.

  As they descended, Yvette mustered courage: "What did you say to calm me? Some anti-madness spell?"

  "…Merely more esoterica. Forget it."

  "Eh?"

  "Forbidden truths can cancel each other—like balancing Machiavelli’s cutthroat pragmatism with Plato’s ideals. Yesterday’s fleshly fever required the chill of the grave to wither those fevered fantasies."

  "Wait—that works?! Why don’t they teach this?!"

  He smirked. "Fools who think they can flirt with madness and ‘rebalance’ later end up drowned in it. You wouldn’t have realized you’d lost control."

  True—she’d felt terrifyingly omniscient.

  "Besides," he added, "this isn’t a cure—just bailing water from a sinking ship. Self-discipline is the only real safeguard."

  "Ohh~" Nodding eagerly: "You’re so learned—you could lecture at Headquarters! Why choose fieldwork?"

  Ulysses ignored her. A nobleman brushed past—odd, given the empty corridor.

  "Discreet rooms for liaisons," he murmured. "His lady likely slipped out another way."

  Albion’s priggish mansions had dedicated adultery staircases? How… practical.

  "Be careful not to wander into such places."

  "As if—"

  He spun suddenly, halting her mid-protest. The stairs put them eye-to-eye as he leaned in, all tragic blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones.

  "Yet last night, I could’ve led you anywhere."

  "You wouldn’t."

  "Hmm. Flattered by your faith in my virtue, or insulted you find me unappealing?" His sigh feigned heartbreak. "Which is it?"

  That face—so close—sent her stumbling back, cheeks burning.

  "The first! Obviously!"

  "Good." Deadpan again: "Now, my dear… maybe skip the truffles."

  What was this act today? She trailed warily behind.

  Except… this nonsense had started after she’d praised his knowledge. A distraction?

  Hah! So the unflappable Ulysses could be flustered!

  As for truffles causing madness? Unlikely. Still, having tried the overpriced fungus, she’d happily abstain.

  ……

  The hunt commenced post-breakfast—a proper, galloping affair unlike most nobles’ scripted pantomimes.

  The Duke’s boundless wealth showcased itself in manicured deer parks (stocked year-round) and sprawling hunt-worthy lands—other lords sacrificed mere token acres before letting beaters drive prey to their guns.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Decadent parasites.

  Lunch was picnic-style. A whimsical moment: the Earl of Sandwich’s descendant received nods over their eponymous meal—his ancestor had invented the portable snack to avoid leaving card tables.

  Men vied fiercely for kills, their prize-laden saddles bristling with game. Yvette, riding sidesaddle (and thus disadvantaged), had bagged nothing—her attendant trailing uselessly.

  Ulysses sidled close in a thicket, offering spare fowl.

  She declined: "They’re already smirking at my empty saddle. Sudden success would seem suspect."

  Not that anyone would gloat…

  …Right?

  Yvette had dismissed such petty antics in her mind—until an actual noble brat proved her wrong.

  Munching her sandwich, she watched a young lordling saunter over, ostentatiously eyeing her tethered horse.

  "They say in Versailles, pretty verses and wit charm the ladies. Such French frivolity won’t fly here. Real Albion men hunt."

  "Your point being?" She recognized the preening viscount’s heir.

  "Merely observing how odd it is—returning empty-handed from such abundant woods. Frenchmen clearly lack sporting blood~"

  His deliberately loud jibe drew onlookers. Unless countered, "little Fisher" would be branded craven.

  Nearby, the Duke of Lancaster nudged Ulysses. "Pity—his father bans 'frivolous French cuisine,' serving that dreadful Albion fare. The apple didn’t fall far, our ardent patriot~"

  Ulysses remained unmoved.

  "...Our Yves needs aid, dear friend!"

  "A minor squabble. He’ll manage."

  Unprovoked malice deserved retaliation. Finishing her meal, Yvette approached the duke.

  "Your Grace, might you have a rabbit gun?"

  "Those popguns?" The duke chuckled. "Good for children hunting hare—too weak for proper game."

  "Precisely what I need."

  An hour later, Yvette received the slender firearm where she’d waited—while the hunting party pressed onward.

  In the woods, the viscount’s heir gloated to companions:

  "That French fop slunk off! Our ladies need proper Albion suitors—"

  A sudden gunshot whizzed past his ear.

  Yvette leveled the smoking barrel as her hound retrieved a headshot rabbit—the tiny entry wound through its eye proving her marksmanship.

  "—Devil’s luck!" he spat, spurring away—only for Yvette to shadow him relentlessly.

  Thereafter, every animal entering his range fell instantly to her flawless headshots while she reminisced loudly about childhood hunts.

  By dusk, a mystified party beheld Yvette laden with pristine headshot trophies while the viscount’s heir slunk like a whipped cur. Even the duke marveled at the improbable accuracy.

  Back at the manor, ladies whispered behind fans:

  "They’re calling him 'le petit démon' now!"

  "How thrilling—who knew the quiet boy hid such fire? I do hope he attends the masque tonight!"

  Amid speculation about his costume (Eros? Narcissus?), one fact became clear—none would underestimate "gentle" Yvette again.

  After tea, all the guests retired early to prepare their costumes for the masquerade that evening.

  Though the ball wouldn't begin for hours yet, no one considered the time excessive—especially given the evening’s Greco-Roman theme. The Olympians, dressed in flowing silk robes reminiscent of ancient sages, draped themselves in artful folds that accentuated graceful lines with effortless elegance.

  Effortless, of course, being anything but. Each pleat had been painstakingly arranged by servants, pinned and pressed into calculated perfection—much like the deceptive "natural" fashions of later centuries, requiring far more labor to appear artless.

  Yvette, at least, had it easier. Swathed entirely in her hooded cloak, she spared herself the battle against fabric.

  While everyone else was preoccupied, she slipped into the greenhouse—finally getting her hands on those strawberries she'd been eyeing earlier.

  ...

  The Lancasters' estate had been built during the Baroque heyday of the 17th century—an era where artistry took inspiration from antiquity, then gilded and embellished it into dramatic grandeur.

  And if any space in this architectural masterpiece embodied Baroque opulence, it was the ballroom beneath its gilded dome. Fluted columns soared between intricate reliefs in white and gold, offering a feast for the eyes. The acoustics, calculated by a master’s hand, wrapped the chamber in resonant harmony, making the orchestra’s strings echo as if from celestial heights.

  For tonight, the duke’s staff had outdone themselves: fountains cascaded beside fragrant roses; servants stood statue-still with trays of delicacies, blending into the decor.

  As music swelled, guests began arriving in dazzling array—each clearly having spared no effort. One man, playing the hero Peleus, wore only sculpted muscle beneath his armor; his lips had gone blue from the cold metal in the heated room until he hovered by the fireplace. Another, as Prometheus, sported shackles and perched a falcon on his wrist—though the poor bird, overwhelmed, left an unfortunate droppings streak down his sleeve.

  The ladies avoided such indignities, instead deploying every stratagem to shine. A buxom Aphrodite let her silks cling suggestively, her languid gaze promising delights. Twin sisters—one radiant as Dawn in gold-speckled white, the other Night incarnate in star-studded black—played on contrast, drawing admirers despite plain features.

  The true fun of a masquerade lay in embodying one’s role, and Ulysses had chosen well: Hermes, trickster god of wit and alchemy, whose caduceus now jabbed pointedly into the ribs of “Apollo.”

  The duke—laurel-crowned, dagger at his hip—had been scanning the room with a "jealousy glass": those spy-telescopes nobles used to covertly scrutinize lovers and rivals alike. Through its lenses, several guests had already noted the oddity skulking by the walls.

  Yvette, oblivious, dodged through shadows, hood pulled tight. The ballroom’s scale usually meant one needed optics just to find acquaintances—surely no one would notice her?

  She was wrong.

  “What on earth—?”

  “Did you see that gray thing dart behind the fountain?”

  “Who comes to a duke’s ball dressed like a vagrant?”

  Propriety was paramount. Louis XIV had once stormed out because a mistress repeated an outfit.

  As Yvette reached for a flambéed dessert, Apollo’s hand caught her hood, yanking it back.

  “A rabbit?” The duke grinned. “I don’t recall inviting Wonderland.”

  Her face, dwarfed by the cloak, was all pointed chin and quivering ears—adorably unlike any myth he knew.

  “Unhand me, vengeful god!” She swatted him away. “I am Midas! You cursed these ears after I judged your contest with Pan! I’ll burn your temples for this!”

  This Midas—petite, sharp-tongued—was far finer than the oafish king in paintings. The duke’s laughter drew stares; none expected tolerance toward such impudence.

  “My dear king,” he purred, “had you been this pretty, Apollo would’ve pardoned you. What reparations might I offer?”

  A well-placed caduceus to his ribs cut short the antics.

  Apollo—ever the indiscriminate flirt—was soon whisked away by simpering goddesses, each more enticing than the last: perfumed, jeweled, trembling like goblets waiting to be tasted.