During her stay at Windsor Castle, Yvette found herself frequently in the Queen's company after teatime, strolling through the castle grounds. Though these walks never lasted more than a few hours, such personal attention from the busy monarch was considered an extraordinary privilege.

  Queen Margaret IV personally escorted her to Windsor's St. George's Chapel. Among countless churches sharing this saint's name across Christendom, the Windsor chapel stood apart as the historic seat of the Order of the Garter. Each Garter Day saw the knights assemble here in full regalia, inducting new members through solemn ceremonies.

  The Order's great hall stretched before them, its crystal chandeliers already lit at the Queen's command. Dozens of pillars lined the chamber, each topped with heraldic shields and banners. At the far end rose a massive round table encircled by high-backed chairs, nearly every seat flanked by its corresponding banner and an empty suit of armor.

  Yvette noted several empty spaces among the displays.

  "This shall be your station," Margaret IV indicated an unmarked chair. "You'll need to settle on a new coat of arms before next season - the College of Arms requires time to prepare the proper heraldry."

  Though aware of Yvette's supernatural nature, the Queen presumed her to be exiled French nobility - her family titles and lands revoked by the Sun King's decree. The absence of personal crests suggested a desire to sever past connections, an assumption Margaret IV found convenient. Adopting Albionese heraldry would effectively make young Fisher one of her own aristocracy.

  "But surely I've accomplished nothing to merit such honor," Yvette protested.

  "Merit?" The Queen's laugh carried an edge. "Our lords inherit parliamentary seats with their christening gowns. I've yet to meet one who earned his place through service."

  Margaret IV had proven herself a conscientious ruler - when attacked with picric acid, her first thoughts turned to its potential as weaponry rather than personal danger. Her father's negligent reign had weakened the crown's authority alarmingly. Parliamentary wags joked that should both Houses present her own death warrant, she'd have no choice but to sign it.

  Rebuilding royal influence required nurturing loyalists. Yvette's remarkable talents and Margaret's personal fondness made the young woman an ideal candidate for patronage.

  Beyond personal regard, political calculations shaped the Queen's plans. Though largely reduced to ceremonial functions, moments arose - particularly during parliamentary deadlocks - when judicious intervention could expand royal prerogatives. The Koh-i-Noor diamond might yet prove useful in these maneuvers...

  Meanwhile, in London's academic quarter...

  The tree-lined neighborhood near Albion Imperial University housed professors and their families in respectable comfort, each household acutely aware of its position in the city's relentless social climb. After supper, Julie no longer lingered at the parlor piano as in her girlhood, but retreated directly to her chamber - her thoughts too troubled for music.

  As a telegraph operator, she now earned nearly as much as her university professor father. Combined with family savings, this constituted a respectable dowry. Her father's recent introductions to minor nobility had improved their standing further. With her beauty and this social footing, securing an engagement to some baronet's military son should have been assured.

  Yet her father grew increasingly agitated by rumors concerning his former student. "Young Fisher's prospects were obvious from the start!" he lamented over dinner. "His admission bore the Duke of Lancaster's own signature!" The unspoken implication hung heavy - if only they'd secured him for Julie when they had the chance.

  Julie bit her tongue. She knew the sacrifices behind their genteel facade - the professor's patched shirts beneath his decent coat, the second-rate tobacco smoked when no guests called. Every economy served to enhance her marriage prospects.

  Once, in frustration, she'd challenged her mother: "Why must I wed some titled wastrel who divides his time between gambling hells and brothels?"

  "All young men sow wild oats," her mother soothed. "Marriage settles them. And consider - if the Queen indeed favors Fisher as they say, his wife would surely become 'Lady Fisher.' Far better than some officer's wife waiting years for her husband to distinguish himself!"

  The knowing look chilled Julie. Her mother actually approved of the Queen's rumored interest in Fisher as a mark of favor. London society tolerated noblemen's indiscretions, provided they occurred in sufficiently exalted circles.

  She dared not voice her secret thoughts - that she wanted no part of aristocratic hypocrisy, nor of Fisher's complicated position. Her clandestine correspondence with a brilliant young machinist's son (conducted through encrypted newspaper advertisements since her vacation began) would send her parents into apoplexy.

  For three days now, no replies had come. Had illness struck? Had trouble found him? Or had his affections cooled? With nothing to distract her, Julie sank into anxious speculation, dreading answers she couldn't bear to learn.

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  In just a fortnight, Yvette had gone from being known as "Sir Ulysses’ nephew" when she left London for the Duke of Lancaster’s estate, to the whispered-about darling of the Queen—a rising star upon her return. Her desk overflowed with invitations from high society’s most prominent figures, as if titles were being tossed about in a carnival. Yet she turned most down. Her first stop back in London was to visit Professor Charles Wheatstone, a scholar, to discuss electromagnetism.

  An instrument-maker’s apprentice with no formal education, Wheatstone had taught himself into the annals of science. In both worlds Yvette knew, he was a celebrated British physicist—inventor of the telegraph, the stereoscope, and a groundbreaking method to measure electricity’s speed through wires using rotating mirrors (later adapted to gauge light’s velocity). Barely thirty, he already held a professorship at King’s College London and was a Royal Society Fellow.

  Yvette had heard rumors: eccentric, introverted, stubborn to a fault. When a collaborator once offered him a one-sixth share of profits to commercialize his inventions, Wheatstone had refused—not because the cut was unfair (it was generous), but because it implied inferiority. He demanded an equal split. Never mind that the collaborator fronted all the capital and labor—Wheatstone would’ve bled him dry. Eventually, he settled for the smaller share—provided his name always came first in credits.

  With social skills so poor he’d given up teaching entirely, Yvette feared accidentally offending him. But she needn’t have.

  Wheatstone’s genius wasn’t entirely devoid of tact—else he’d never have risen so high. He understood Albion’s power structure: aristocrats ruled; the bourgeoisie merely rode along. Investors got icy disdain, but nobles received deference. He even devised parlor experiments to charm them, so long as they championed his work.

  When Yvette arrived, he greeted her stiffly, mustering awkward praise for the now-famous "young Fisher." Sensing his discomfort, she swiftly shifted to science—her modern knowledge impressing him far more than the usual clueless lords.

  The real breakthrough came when she acknowledged electrical resistance—a heresy to most British scientists, who still rejected Ohm’s Law. Wheatstone, secretly a believer, was overjoyed. Years later, he’d invent devices proving Ohm right. For now, an aristocrat’s validation was gold.

  Their talk stretched for hours, leaving both inspired. Wheatstone scrapped old blueprints, scribbling new ideas. Yvette, meanwhile, found a way to refine her electromagnetic powers: launching bullets at gunlike speeds.

  Past attempts had faltered—a projectile would jam mid-coil due to opposing magnetic forces. Wheatstone’s solution? Pulsed currents, cut off before the bullet reached the coil’s end. And by layering electromagnetic bursts within her three-meter range, she could achieve terrifying velocity.

  Testing on gelatin dummies, she matched pistol firepower—especially when augmented by her Flame Cloak potion. Better yet, without gunpowder constraints, bullets could be redesigned for aerodynamics.

  (She’d still carry a pistol—some specialty rounds required it, and it offered plausible deniability.)

  Exhausted but satisfied, she slept—only to be woken at 10 AM by a disguised Julie.

  Her mentor’s daughter, eyes red, whispered of a missing colleague—the telegraph operator who’d once defended her with the legendary quip, "Why not use the other foot as well?"

  "Police aren’t taking it seriously," Julie pleaded. "Can you help?"

  Yvette first soothed Julie’s frayed nerves before settling in to listen to her friend’s story.

  Julie didn’t mince words—she and the clever telegraph clerk, whom she playfully called her "little genius," had grown close after he defended her honor. But when his company expanded, they assigned him to a new station in Berkshire. Chatham wasn’t just quick-fingered; he could handle two operators’ workloads and fix machines like a tinkerer. A man of his talents was wasted in London’s seasonal lulls, and with most clerks refusing countryside postings, the company sweetened the deal with double pay. Being a practical steam engineer’s son, Chatham accepted.

  Though parted, love found a way. During quiet hours, their telegraph keys tapped out conversations—a Victorian-era long-distance romance.

  Then winter brought smog-fleeing aristocrats and skeleton crews. Julie, desperate for shifts, mourned lost chat time—until they devised a workaround: coded messages nestled in the obscure Hornet newspaper’s classifieds.

  At first, it was exhilarating. Julie smuggled each edition upstairs, pulse racing, though her bookish father—who screened her mail like quarantine—never batted an eye at newspapers.

  But soon, Chatham’s replies stopped. Had he fallen ill? Been ensnared by some rosy-cheeked shepherdess? Country girls were rumored to be forward, even indulging in premarital "trial unions." The thought made Julie shudder.

  Then—a bombshell wedged between advertisements:

  Don’t come after me. Be happy.

  Julie abandoned her leave. Fabricating an outing with friends, she raced to Berkshire—only to learn the telegraph office had been ransacked, Chatham vanished.

  The math was damning: newspapers took days from submission to print. Chatham had written this before disappearing.

  "Could someone else have sent it?" Yvette asked. "Like when you impersonated that cad’s cipher?"

  "Never!" Julie scoffed. "Chatham lived for ciphers—our code had layers. Crack one, and you’d hit gibberish, thinking it nonsense."

  "The police?"

  "A robbery, they claim! Chatham’s corpse dumped in a ditch!" Julie fumed. "Berkshire’s officers are swamped—probably hunting remnants of the Queen’s would-be assassin."

  Given the note’s intimate tone, authorities would likely dismiss it as a lover’s spat—a cliché even scandal rags found tedious.

  Yvette agreed to investigate.

  "Oh, bless you, Yves!" Julie clasped her hands.

  "What of your parents?"

  "Tell Father? Are you mad?" Julie recoiled. The professor’s resulting inquisition would dwarf the Second Coming itself.

  Yvette blinked—perhaps she’d misread his hints about Julie needing outings.

  Post-breakfast, they departed. Leveraging connections, Yvette secured access to Berkshire’s records—without burdening the overworked Althaus.

  Julie watched enraptured as officials tripped over themselves to assist the unassuming "Mr. Fisher." Here was nobility without pretense, a knight errant in a cynical age.

  Ascot—nestled near Windsor’s manicured racetracks—boasted a police station in chaos. Two clerks drowned in paperwork while others chased leads.

  The file was damning:

  The remote telegraph office—wedged between train tracks and village—had few witnesses. Staff confirmed Chatham worked alone that day, mask-clad (illness?), yet transmitted at his usual blistering pace. After hours, he’d stayed to tinker. By dawn, the place was vandalized, the clerk gone—likely abducted or murdered.

  No body. No suspects. Case closed.