The raven winged its way toward London, bearing a carefully phrased message about "a friend's predicament," certain to reach Ulysses within hours. Yvette had taken precautions—she’d obscured certain facts and changed Chatterham's occupation from "telegraph operator" to "mechanic." That way, even if Ulysses disagreed with her approach, he wouldn’t easily trace the matter back to Chatterham himself.

  Still...

  She hoped he wouldn’t see through the ruse and retort, "This 'friend' of yours—is it you?" Because then she’d have no defense.

  While awaiting his response, Yvette didn’t idle. After a short rest, she awoke early the next day and began her search for the book that had ensnared Chatterham. According to his landlady, the secondhand merchant hadn’t just bought books—he’d also hauled away several heavy chairs and old door panels. The shrewd woman grumbled to Yvette about the merchant’s impossible standards.

  "He turned up his nose at perfectly good tea canisters and salt cellars! Fine, sturdy pieces, but he wouldn’t spare them a glance. No wonder his business won’t last," she sniffed.

  Yvette nodded politely, though she suspected otherwise. The merchant’s acquisitions—paired with the stripped doorframes—hinted at expertise beyond mere junk dealing.

  In fact, he’d clearly sought out rare mahogany furniture.

  From the landlady’s description, the chairs were unmistakably Chippendale, work of the legendary Thomas Chippendale, Albion’s foremost cabinetmaker of the previous century. His favorite material, mahogany, was the finest wood for furniture—so scarce, in fact, that within fifty years of its discovery in Cuba and the Caribbean, it had been logged to extinction.

  Like many artists, Chippendale died unappreciated—penniless and forgotten, his legacy buried under debt. Yet in another world (and era), his creations would be priceless. Many now gathered dust in rural estates, handed down to servants, or discarded when noble families abandoned their ancestral homes for modern London suburbs.

  Even now, Chippendale’s pieces weren’t yet considered antiques, but connoisseurs already prized them. A merchant who recognized their worth clearly had an eye for value—just as he did for the antique texts he’d collected.

  An antique dealer, then.

  This simplified things. Tracking the book by title alone would be futile, but following the trail of Chippendale furniture first—then retracing it to the book—was both subtle and efficient.

  With her plan set, she wrote to Randall at once, asking him to investigate recent Chippendale sales. Success depended on luck, but she liked her odds.

  By noon, Ulysses’ reply arrived. He agreed that Chatterham’s case warranted intervention, but Yvette’s report should emphasize his victimhood—if he cooperated in recovering the dangerous book, the organization would likely treat him as a well-meaning civilian who’d stumbled into the extraordinary.

  He also recommended Lochaber Monastery—officially a retreat for spiritual seekers, unofficially a sanctuary for those with minor aberrations. Of the organization’s several such facilities, Lochaber was the best. Its overseer, a healer, wasn’t the most powerful, but his profound empathy made him uniquely effective—when those around him suffered or rejoiced, so did he. Moreover, the location itself was therapeutic, nestled among mountains and lakes, its forests perpetually whispering under mountain winds—a natural "white noise" known to soothe frayed minds.

  As reliable as ever, Ulysses. Satisfied, she turned to her final task—explaining matters to Julie.

  Upon returning to London, she learned from classmates that the professor’s daughter had been grounded for defiance.

  No surprise. Her absence had likely shattered whatever excuse Julie had concocted. I should’ve escorted her home first before planning anything else—why wouldn’t she listen?

  Standing on the professor’s doorstep, Yvette sighed—then smoothed her expression into polite concern and rang the bell. Inside, the professor had just finished lecturing his daughter about propriety. After Julie stomped upstairs, he brooded over his pipe.

  Where had he failed? His sweet, sheltered child now lied and vanished for days! If that scoundrel luring her astray ever showed his face…

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The doorbell interrupted his thoughts. Normally genial, he yanked the door open, pipe clamped between his teeth—then froze. The pipe clattered to the floor.

  "Professor," Yvette said, worry darkening her clear eyes. "They told me Julie was gravely ill—she hasn’t worked in days. Is she all right?"

  Ah, such kindness! Hope flickered in the professor’s heart. Could this mean…?

  "A—a slight chill," he sputtered. "I may have overreacted. She’s nearly recovered, perhaps returning to work tomorrow! But she’s been dreadfully lonely—so afraid of contagion. Your visit would lift her spirits!"

  Seizing the opportunity, he dispatched his wife to fetch Julie, then made himself scarce, granting them privacy.

  The so-called scoundrel sighed. "I told you we should’ve been more discreet. No father tolerates his daughter vanishing for days—no wonder the house reeks of tobacco."

  "You don’t understand!" Julie hissed before urgently whispering, "What of Chatterham?"

  Yvette softened her voice. "He has leprosy. To spare you, he faked his death. But he’s no villain—just as you hoped. My uncle arranged treatment abroad. They’re optimistic, but… outcomes vary. His wish is for you not to wait—to find happiness with another."

  Tears splashed silently onto the floor. Finally, Julie lifted her chin. "And what if no such person exists?"

  "But your family—"

  "I’ll support myself—my wages suffice. Other women clerks do the same, working until marriage. I’ll simply… work longer."

  "And if the treatment fails?"

  "Then I’ll remain unwed," Julie said, forcing lightness into her trembling voice. "Yves… help me one last time. Find me a room near the telegraph office. I’ll manage the rest."

  But single rooms were dangerous for women—assaults were rampant.

  "That’s unwise."

  "I’ll carry a blade."

  "Julie." Yvette’s gaze sharpened. "Tell me truthfully—is there anyone but Chatterham you could love?"

  Julie hesitated. There was something uncanny about Yves—an aura of quiet power, as though his words could reshape reality itself.

  "No," she whispered. "Only him."

  "No regrets?"

  "None."

  "Then as you wish." Yvette gently dried her tears. "I won’t let our princess languish. I’ll arrange your wedding—and ensure your father accepts him. That’s a promise."

  With a graceful bow, she pressed a hand to her heart—a knight’s gesture. But to Julie, illuminated by the fading light, Yves seemed less a knight and more an enchanter—one who, with a wave of his hand, could summon carriages from pumpkins and slippers from glass, ensuring the happily-ever-after she craved.

  Jonathan nearly cheered. Telegraphs traveled relay-style, hopping station-to-station. Gretna Green—Scotland’s infamous "runaway marriage" town—lay far north; London, far south. This order spanned the entire country. Whatever headquarters was planning, it had to be big.

  Better yet: the commandeered line was his idiot’s. A stay of execution!

  The day after Yvette’s visit, Julie "recovered" and returned to work. Her father had splurged on a carriage—normally unaffordable—to escort her, still distrustful.

  Yvette’s cryptic words haunted her. How will he convince Father? The old professor wouldn’t listen to reason. She just hoped he wouldn’t take the eventual disappointment too hard…

  But the telegraph station today was wrong.

  Dozens of gleaming carriages crowded the street, disgorging silk-clad aristocrats. Investors, even Mr. Wheatstone himself, milled about.

  Then Julie saw him: Yvette, standing poised as Wheatstone effusively thanked him.

  "Mr. Fisher! You’ve outdone yourself—the Duke of Lancaster’s circle, here!" Wheatstone, championing an undersea cable project, glowed at the crowd. "This exposure is priceless!"

  Yvette shrugged. "The Duke arranged the guests. I merely proposed the idea."

  "Modesty doesn’t suit you! Without your ‘telegraph wedding’ concept, they’d never have come!" Wheatstone shook his head in awe. "Reporters await. By tonight, all England will know your name."

  At "telegraph wedding," Julie’s breath caught. Before she could process it, her supervisor materialized, uncharacteristically genial.

  "Miss Orville! The upstairs office is prepared—your stylist awaits."

  Dazed, Julie sought Yvette’s gaze. A confirming nod sent her floating upstairs.

  Gretna Green Telegraph Office

  Chatam fumbled with the equipment, uneasy. "This… This is legal?"

  "Scotland recognizes marriages without parental consent," said the blond stranger—Yvette’s so-called "uncle."

  "But—I saw a blacksmith officiating outside! No priest!"

  Ulysses rolled his eyes. "Historically, smiths held sacred roles. Fire transforms base ore into purity—much like love tempering souls. Poetic, no?"

  Chatam groaned. "But the vows—"

  "Oh, for—" Ulysses snapped open a book. "Dearly beloved, we gather in the sight of God…"

  Precisely at noon, Gretna Green’s telegraph trilled to life. Chatam’s transmitted vows leaped southward, relayed station-to-station by bemused operators.

  In London, Julie—resplendent in white satin—faced the telegraph machine. Nobles whispered behind fans; cameras stood ready.

  The decisive click-clack echoed.

  "I DO."

  Flashbulbs erupted. Among the photographers, Graben—a veteran journalist—lowered his camera, uncharacteristically silent.

  His assistant frowned. "Sir? Was the magnesium—"

  "No." Graben stared at the shot. "We just captured history."

  He was right. Decades later, the image would hang in museums, immortalized as:

  The moment communications leaped into modernity.

  The day a woman claimed agency over marriage.

  The snapshot of tradition shattering as Julie Orville—bridal gown stark against the machine’s brass—took her future into her own hands.

  And for Graben? It became his defining work. Because some photographs don’t just capture light—they ignite change.