A Garter Knight? Seriously…

  Yvette was stunned. Admittedly, watching the knights in their time-honored regalia during last season’s parade had been mesmerizing. This era straddled antiquity and modernity, and back then, the past had seemed to turn and wave at her in all its romantic glory—nothing quite captured the imagination like castles, princesses, knights, and swordplay.

  Had it been a humbler honor—say, from the Albion Empire—she might’ve accepted gracefully. But the Order of the Garter? That legacy stretched back to King Arthur’s Round Table, with membership capped at two dozen, openings only arising when a knight died. Unless, of course, you were foreign royalty.

  “Isn’t this… a tad abrupt?” The scrutiny she’d face—peers dissecting her every move for the “secret” to her sudden ascent—already made her skin crawl.

  “Not in the least,” Queen Margaret IV replied. “The Garter ceremony isn’t till June. Plenty of time to make your appointment seem inevitable.”

  Huh. So she’d soon be one of them. Funny—she’d dreamed of that parade’s grandeur, but now all she could think about was the stiff uniforms, the pomp, the awkwardness of performing like some costumed actor…

  How does a man as lazy as Sir Ulysses endure it?

  Her mind flicked to him—they’d split up earlier when confronting a supernatural threat in the woods. The queen was safe now, but Ulysses’ absence gnawed at her.

  “I had a companion,” Yvette told Lianna. “We were ambushed, so we separated. He never arrived—I should check the forest.”

  “Wait. If this is a trap—”

  Outside, a guard barked, “Halt! Another step, sir, and you’ll regret it.”

  Peeking past the curtain, Yvette spotted Ulysses—splashed with blood—flanked by redcoats.

  “Your Majesty, that’s him!”

  “Stand down,” the queen ordered.

  Lianna verified his identity via code-phrase before permitting entry. Privately, she noted Yvette’s occasional lapses in caution—trusting faces is na?ve in our line.

  But observing Ulysses, she saw something else: the usually unflappable young genius seemed to instantly drop his guard—like a battle-hardened knight relaxing at home.

  Gifted, yes. But still too trusting.

  “The woods held a malform,” Ulysses reported. “Beelzebub’s line—‘Lord of the Flies.’ Three thralls accompanied him, dressed as Windsor servants. Explains the castle’s disturbances.”

  Lianna frowned. “Beelzebub’s ilk control vermin—not minds.”

  “This one was deeply mutated. His corruption amplified his powers—extending to humans.”

  “Wait. If he was that far gone, how’d he orchestrate a coherent plot?”

  “That,” Ulysses said, “requires explaining to the Order. Europe’s occultists may have found a way to stall corruption—sacrificing physical function but preserving reason. For a time.”

  Lianna tensed. Dead ends or not, this changes everything. “Where are they?”

  “Gone. Disposal took extra time.”

  Yvette noted Ulysses wasn’t hurt—his bloodied clothes were pristine, like a surgeon’s post-op coat.

  Thank heavens.

  Lianna, however, eyed the stains. No battle leaves patterns like that. What kind of ‘disposal’…?

  Ulysses, meanwhile, was studying Yvette. His wish for her survival wasn’t sentimentality—it was fascination.

  She was different.

  Few humans stood out to him. Like the Spindle brothers: the duke played the jolly ancestor’s part, but the timid younger brother was that man’s heir in spirit.

  Their forebear—a bishop who’d rather dance than preach—had abandoned pleasure when plague struck London, marching into hell to save it. He’d died nameless, in ashes.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  At first, Ulysses barely noticed. Humans replaced prized hounds, after all. But watching the bishop’s descendants, he’d realized: none could fill that void.

  Now, Yvette had bloomed in his garden—a flower unlike any other.

  Riding back, he asked out of nowhere: “Thought of marriage? Children?”

  “…Huh?”

  Ulysses shrugged. “Children needn’t require marriage. Though society makes it harder for women alone.”

  “Who says I want kids?” She shuddered, picturing the eldritch nightmares lurking in her bloodline. No child deserved that.

  “Your descendants could be…” Remarkable, he didn’t add. A legacy worth tending—long after you’re gone.

  Yvette almost snorted. Coming from him?

  “You’re the one who’d better hurry. Men’s hairlines flee after thirty. Yours still has dignity—find a kind lady before it deserts you.”

  Her imagination served up a balding Ulysses—Would a receding hairline make him look regal, like some Elven lord? Or would a monk’s ring ruin even his charm? The image of him sporting a tonsure sent her into helpless giggles.

  “…Am I the butt of a joke?” he deadpanned.

  Aboard the departing train, Queen Margaret stirred her tea absently—watching the riders shrink toward Windsor.

  “Your Majesty?” Lianna prompted.

  “I’d thought my distaste for men had faded,” the queen murmured. “Turns out… I simply don’t dislike young Fisher. Perhaps because his sanity is nothing like my father’s monstrosity.”

  Several days later, in a quiet Berkshire town not far from Windsor Castle, a tall red-haired man stood before the telegraph office window, waiting to dispatch an encrypted message.

  The telegraph operator, spurred by a generous two-shilling tip, took extra care with the transmission—sending it painstakingly slowly, verifying it over and over. This wasn’t due to incompetence; rather, the message, like many coded telegrams, was peppered with nonsensical words only its intended recipient could decipher.

  Merchants often used such encryptions—firstly, to conceal trade secrets, and secondly, to compress entire sentences into single fabricated words, slashing the exorbitant cost of telegraphs. Yet this system was far from foolproof. Unfamiliar letter combinations defied natural reading, and errors crept in. Not long ago, a single mistaken letter—an a for a u—had cost a wool merchant over a thousand pounds. Though he’d furiously sued the telegraph company, the courts only reimbursed him for the message fee—a pitiful fraction of his losses.

  Still, despite the risks, people clung to cipher telegrams, paying premiums for accuracy in crucial communications.

  This customer had been particularly free with his coin. For months, each visit came with an extra two shillings, ensuring flawless service.

  "Sent and triple-checked, sir—no errors, as always," the operator said cheerfully, eyeing the man’s traveling cloak and case. "End of your holiday, then? Hope Berkshire treated you well."

  "Time to move on. As for memories…" The man smiled cryptically.

  No reply had come from The Spider in days. Had the plan succeeded, Berkshire would be swarming with troops by now.

  But plans could fail. So long as they stayed in the shadows, there’d always be new ones. At least his brother’s death had been avenged.

  One last letter, then. If the secret police traced it back through The Spider, who knew what might happen?

  "Life for life, eye for eye," he murmured from Deuteronomy, tightening his cloak against the autumn wind.

  ——

  Much had transpired—in shadows and in daylight. Three bodies, hauled from the woods, were identified as Windsor Castle’s newest kitchen staff. One had quit earlier—the very man who’d clashed with a servant over sulfuric acid. Of the others, one matched a local youth who’d left home months prior.

  Meanwhile, London’s hopes for a royal romance lay in tatters. None of Europe’s eligible noblemen had sparked Queen Margaret IV’s interest.

  "That one’s family carries hemophilia. I won’t taint Albion’s bloodline."

  "Him? His valet’s far too pretty—doubtless sinful tastes."

  Such reasons flowed easily, yet none cast suspicion on the Queen. After all, intimacy between women wasn’t the scandal it was for men. Especially not when whispers placed a French youth—one Monsieur Fisher—firmly in her favor. They rode together daily, took tea in the afternoons…

  Rumors blossomed. Since Yvette rarely attended society events, curiosity about "young Monsieur Fisher" swelled.

  "You must meet him—Ulysses’ nephew, and just as divinely favored in looks! Only… less like a wrathful archangel and more a Greek Adonis."

  As invitations flooded in, Yvette again found herself summoned to Windsor. The castle shone beneath royal banners. Servants guided her through courtyards and past guards to where a steward received her coat. Portraits of monarchs lined the halls—by now, she recognized the Queen’s chambers by the coronation painting outside.

  A plush sofa, thick carpets, and gilded drapes framed a sunlit haven overlooking the gardens.

  Yvette had noticed jealous glares lately. She’d considered lying low—but then, the pastries...

  Scones studded with raisins, almond cakes, glazed soufflés—each bite was magnified by lemon zest, brandy, or mint. Resistance was futile.

  Even Sir Granville, initially fretful she’d blunder before the Queen, now relaxed.

  And so Yvette sat, munching blissfully through a three-tiered dessert stand, stars in her eyes.

  Margaret IV watched, amused. She could’ve spent hours just watching him eat. Odd, really—she’d once only fancied women like Lady Delan, all dashing boots and hunting rifles. So why did this lace-clad youth strike her as… adorable?

  Other powdered dandies made her want to toss them out. But him? His delicacy felt genuine, not foppish.

  Then—oh. He’d noticed.

  Young Monsieur Fisher froze mid-bite, swallowed carefully, then hesitated—was he… checking his reflection in the butter knife?

  God help me, this is too much.

  Smiling, the Queen rescued him. "Do enjoy those. I’m avoiding sugar, but watching you is delight enough."

  "You’re perfectly healthy—no need to diet!" Yvette replied cheerfully, deciding the Queen must be an early form of food-stream enthusiast.