Having aided the destitute stranger, Yvette sought more test subjects—all visibly struggling souls whom she compensated for their cooperation. By infusing her Awakened essence into the brass pocket watch and swinging it within arm’s reach, she harnessed "Mr. Rabbit’s" power to rewrite memories.

  The process unveiled a phantom reel in her mind—fragmented but vivid, like recollections of a haunting film. She could skim twelve hours of a target’s life as though flipping through a picture book, selecting moments to reshape. The watch’s cost: time itself. Five seconds was the minimum edit; interruptions risked warping memories beyond repair.

  Trials revealed its subtler rules. A blind beggar proved sight unnecessary—proximity triggered the effect. A shivering flower girl showed even concealed movement worked. Relieved (no one would suspect a hypnotist’s prop), Yvette grew bolder, testing covert activations beneath her coat.

  Four trials later, euphoria gripped her—a rush surpassing any earthly delight. Then the gaslamps’ glow began to swirl like Van Gogh’s stars. The vision jolted her awake. This was why Borgard, the watch’s maker, had eyed her like a prized lab rat. Walked right into his trap…

  At home, she pondered the rabbit-shaped holder—a lifeless plush with button eyes. You’re just a battery. The watch’s the real power. Rifling through drawers, she offered it Otherworldly shards (relics from the Ship of Fools debacle). No luck. Prodding the toy, she recoiled as it lurched forward and pawed her chest.

  “Hands off!” She threatened to box its ears and fetched a lockbox—missing its eerie mutterings: “Ain-Soph… Veils… Devour…” Returning, she caught it devouring a moth-eaten handkerchief, a memento from a murdered girl’s mother.

  “(Munching) Twice-blessed cloth,” it squeaked. True—the girl’s spirit and dying mother had both found peace through Yvette. Though gutted, she noted the watch now held fourteen extra minutes—rare karma earned through compassion.

  As she locked the mischief-maker away, Yvette sighed. You’re trouble. But useful trouble.

  Dawn broke earlier than usual when Yvette rose to fasten her cravat before the floor-length mirror. After days of investigating the meteor incident in Albion's trending attire, she finally resumed her preferred French aristocratic ensemble.

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  The intricate outfit unfolded in layers: a white blouse with delicate lace cuffs, a cream waistcoat embroidered with golden threads, and a gray frock coat adorned with silver buttons. Snow-white stockings contrasted sharply with fitted breeches matching her coat's subtle hue. A black cravat would perfect today's look, she decided.

  Her wardrobe mirrored a treasure vault. Drawers overflowed with cravats sorted by color, gloves arranged by occasion, even buttons classified by material – silver filigree beside brass clasps and gem-studded brooches. Bespoke tailors ensured every garment in her adjoining dressing room carried Ulysses' signature muted grays, effortlessly elegant and endlessly versatile.

  Cinching the black cravat around her throat, Yvette appreciated how its ruffles disguised her lack of an Adam's apple – and allowed looser breast-binding beneath her layered frills. After tucking the Mad Hatter's brass watch into her waistcoat, she traded slippers for heeled leather boots whose authoritative click echoed through the marble foyer. How ironic that what later became feminine footwear once symbolized martial prowess, she mused, recalling the cavalry officers who popularized heeled riding boots.

  On St. James Street, murmurs followed her exit from the carriage. Ladies admired the youth's willowy legs in white stockings; gentlemen envied his tailored silhouette. Such svelte figures remained rare in sugar-gluttonous London, where many peers resorted to hidden corsets, derisively dubbed "whalebone Bastilles" by commoners. Oblivious to admirers, Yvette vanished into the "Mind Labyrinth" clubhouse.

  Her arrival sparked instant animation. "Mandrake graces us at last!" members called from velvet armchairs. Eager voices overlapped:

  "Upas' new serial leaves me parched for answers! Who poisoned the magistrate's wine?"

  "Withhold spoilers, friends." Yvette chuckled, joining the central discussion group.

  Nux Vomica spun toward her. "Thank heavens! Gentleman Thief Robin's struck in London – three nights past!"

  Blankness met the proclamation. Oleander gaped. "You don't know Europe's most notorious art thief? He's plundered a hundred mansions from Madrid to Vienna!"

  "Sparing lives doesn't earn my notice," Yvette shrugged. "Let insurers handle it."

  "Insurers hired us." Upas adjusted his spectacles. "Baron Pedro's stolen Titian could ruin their firm. Families face destitution unless we recover 'Golden-Haired Lady at Her Toilette.'"

  Nux Vomica clasped dramatic hands. "Only you can apprehend this phantom, Chevalier!"

  Yvette repressed an eye-roll. These theatrics! Last week they'd bemoaned London's "dull peace." Now they cast her as moral champion? Still, the club's infectious enthusiasm proved irresistible.

  "Schedule the inquiry," she relented. Delighted whoops erupted. Oleander jerked back mid-embrace, recalling her aversion to touch.

  As members dispersed to gather case files, Yvette caught Nux Vomica's starry-eyed murmur: "Robin leaves clues like poems... A true artist of crime!"

  Art or not, the thief had unwittingly signed his capture warrant. Yvette's fingers drummed the watch in her waistcoat – tock, tock, like a detective's mind clicking into motion.