A few days later, in the dimly lit workshop of Master Maskin, a handful of apprentices hunched over their workbenches, meticulously polishing pocket watches and fastening delicate chains. Their employer—a man known as much for his craftsmanship as his fondness for drink—lay sprawled in his backroom quarters, deep in an alcohol-induced slumber.

  The industrializing spirit of Albion brooked no idleness—yet Maskin's apprentices never begrudged their master's midday stupors. By tradition, apprentices toiled like indentured servants for nearly a decade—enduring harsh treatment while their masters jealously guarded trade secrets. But Maskin, for all his gruff demeanor, proved a rare exception, freely sharing knowledge and even slipping coins to diligent students. One senior apprentice had even chosen to stay beyond his term, unwilling to compete against the man who'd treated him fairly.

  Yvette remembered the proud apprentice who'd first boasted of Maskin's skills—"Be it timepieces or firearms, there's none finer in all London." That same young man now squinted at ledger books by the sunlit display window. Recognizing her, he hurried forward with a shopkeeper’s smile.

  "Mr. Fisher! Come to browse our wares or speak with the master?"

  "Has he been drinking again?"

  "You know him too well," chuckled the apprentice. "He's in the back—and woe betide any man, lord or laborer, who disturbs him now. Though for you, he'd make an exception."

  After Maskin had once misplaced a ghost-revealing camera—only realizing his error after catastrophe struck—it had been Yvette who recovered the artifact and smoothed things over with the investigating Undertaker. Were it not for her intervention, the master artificer might have faced severe sanctions—including cuts to his precious material allotments.

  This debt ensured Maskin would rise—however reluctantly—when Yvette came calling. Following the apprentice to the backroom, she waited through a full minute of insistent knocking before a slurred grumble answered.

  "Blast it—who dares—?"

  "It's Mr. Fisher, Master."

  "The younger one?"

  "Yes sir. Waiting outside as we speak."

  "Confound you, why didn't you say so?!"

  A tremendous crash erupted within, suggesting Maskin had upended half his furniture in haste. The door finally creaked open to reveal the disheveled horologist, his breath reeking of juniper spirits.

  "Mind the clutter," he muttered as Yvette navigated past teetering stacks of tools—her sharp eyes catching a mechanical spider skittering into shadow. No mortal smith could craft such a construct—proof that rumors of Maskin's supernatural talents held truth.

  "Those lads know better than to trouble me here," Maskin said defensively, though his chief apprentice's recent "discoveries" made Yvette suspect otherwise.

  "So, Scales—what brings you to my humble den?"

  Yvette nodded—then asked abruptly: "Do you keep cats about the workshop?"

  Maskin scratched his stubble. "Strays, mostly. Horrid creatures—always caterwauling when decent folk try to sleep."

  Producing a vial of Bastet's Ointment, Yvette daubed her forehead. Within moments, a tortoiseshell cat appeared at the window, picking its way through the mechanical debris to press one velvet paw against her brow. The ritual complete, the bewildered feline fled as suddenly as it came—leaving Yvette's irises slit-pupiled like a predator's.

  "The elixir grants night vision—but alters my eyes." She lied smoothly. "Is there a way to conceal this?"

  In truth, the ointment's two remaining uses hardly warranted specialized artifacts. Her true purpose concerned young Eddie.

  Vampires and werewolves—prolific and dependent on human proximity—had warred with the Church for centuries. Consequently, hunters could spot their tells effortlessly: icy seats left by vampires; the bestial dilation of a lycanthrope's pupils. Since manifesting his curse, Eddie carried these marks—untenable for London residence.

  Of the two artificers Yvette knew, Maskin—specializing in metalworks and blessedly gullible—seemed the better choice over the elusive "Artist" who crafted leatherbound horrors.

  "Trifling matter!" Maskin boomed. "Spectacles with illusion-fitted lenses—none shall note the change!"

  When Yvette inquired about materials, he scribbled a list swiftly. The organization granted her requests without scrutiny now—her reputation preceding her like an academic laureate securing grants. Last month, Sage Keegan had concocted Flamecloak potions for her using institutional reserves—she'd only needed to supply the prized Salamander's Blood.

  List in hand, Yvette returned home—where a trembling Alison awaited.

  "Master Yves... I've failed you."

  The story unfolded haltingly: For years, local vintners had pawned off adulterated swill as fine wine—exploiting Alison's untrained palate. Earlier, Eddie's keen nose had exposed their fraud, leaving the merchants scrambling with refunds—and fat bribes to buy her silence.

  Temptation had whispered: take the money, hide your incompetence. But Alison—the girl Yvette had pulled from darkness—refused. Even terrified of dismissal, she chose truth over comfort.

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

  And thus, upon entering the parlor, Yvette found her maid standing stiffly—not with guilt, but quiet resolve.

  "There’s no need to be so hard on yourself, Allison. You were never trained to spot counterfeit wine—how could this be your fault?" Yvette reassured her gently.

  "But... because of my mistake, you’ve been drinking swill for months!" Allison’s eyes welled with tears, her voice thick with shame.

  "If I didn’t notice, how could you? This should’ve been the butler’s job, but I forced it on you. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me—especially since I still owe you a proper salary."

  Yvette’s words softened Allison’s frown. Honor was everything in Albion, from lords to laborers. Poor nobles starved to keep up appearances, and even servants clung to pride. A century ago, a chef had killed himself after serving a late dish at a royal feast.

  At least Allison wasn’t that extreme…

  Yvette turned to Eddie, the young werewolf cowering by the stairs. "Mr. Fisher... did I mess up?" he whispered. "I said something normal today, but the wine-seller and Sister Allison got really upset. She even cried! I swear I’ll keep my mouth shut from now on—d’you think she’ll forgive me?"

  Despite his short time here, Eddie adored Allison. Her kindness reminded him of his late sister. Now, with his ears drooping like a kicked pup, he looked positively wretched.

  Yvette sighed, tweaking one furry ear upward. “Ears down, Eddie. Someone might see.”

  “S-sorry, Mr. Fisher…”

  His watery eyes were downright pathetic.

  “You didn’t do wrong. Allison’s upset because the merchant scammed her, not because of you. Next time someone shady tries selling her stuff, sniff it out for her.”

  “Yes! I’ll protect Sister Allison from swindlers!”

  Eddie lit up like a pardoned puppy, barely stopping his tail from wagging.

  “And stop wiggling your ears!”

  “Yip! Er—I mean, yes, sir…”

  Note to self: Expose that fraud in next week’s paper. Unlike in modern times, a ruined reputation meant ruin, period.

  Days later, Yvette eyed the third new tablecloth that week. “Burned it ironing,” Allison mumbled before hurrying off, clearly distracted.

  Odd. Ironing newspapers took seconds—Allison never slipped up.

  Frowning, Yvette flipped through the morning paper. A scorch mark obscured part of page three—a half-iron shape suggesting it’d been left there ages.

  The seared section? Mostly ads. But above it:

  “John Leptons, Surgeon & Mountaineer: ‘Conquer Life as You Would the Alps!’”

  His photo showed a burly man—impressive for pre-oxygen-tank climbs. His smug interview oozed industrial-era ambition, the kind Albion ate up.

  Was Allison so engrossed she forgot the iron? Suspicious, Yvette noted his name.

  ——

  “—The killer is YOU, Mrs. Wilkins! That ‘almond liqueur’ was POISON!”

  Onstage, the actor playing the Chevalier (chosen for his Ulysses-esque pomposity) struck a heroic pose. The audience erupted—ladies included.

  Good grief. I don’t sound like that.

  From her private box, Yvette watched the crowd through her opera glasses. Mostly women.

  Figures. They’d faint if they knew the real Chevalier’s a shrimp.

  A glint caught her eye. The masked man in the next box was watching her through his own glasses.

  He lowered his mask—just briefly.

  Lancaster?!

  “Darling Ives!” The Duke grinned like summer. “Come hunting with me!”

  “Hunting?”

  “Mm. Autumn’s slipping away, and my prey still runs free.”

  Yvette’s smile froze. He wasn’t talking about deer.

  The Duke of Lancaster's smile was warm and earnest—the picture of a friendly invitation. But in Yvette's mind, he’d already been stamped as untrustworthy.

  "It’s an honor to receive Your Grace’s invitation..."

  "Marvelous! Ives, I knew you wouldn’t leave a delicate soul like me to face those dreadful beasts alone! As thanks, I’ll introduce you to the most thrilling diversion. You’ll adore it, I promise~" The Duke’s grin widened.

  "...I should inform Uncle Ulysses of my plans. Given Your Grace’s generosity, I’m sure he’d approve."

  The Duke’s smile stiffened. Only as Yvette turned to leave did he snap back to life, grabbing her arm.

  "—Wait! A true gentleman acts on his own counsel, Ives. No need to consult others for every little whim."

  "Actually, I thought I’d invite Uncle Ulysses too. Aren’t you two close? He’d double the fun."

  The Duke groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. "A terrible idea. We’re barely acquaintances—soon to be strangers... Tell him, and I’m a dead man. For pity’s sake, pretend this conversation never happened—and never mention it to Ulysses!"

  Is Uncle Ulysses that frightening? Even this buffoon’s terrified of him...

  A smirk flickered across Yvette’s lips—one the Duke spotted between his fingers.

  "Darling Ives... Are you enjoying my torment?" he whined.

  "Perish the thought—you’re imagining things." She paused, twisting the knife. "Sure you won’t invite Uncle Ulysses? He’s very free these days~"

  His sulk lasted until she left. Then, the pout vanished. His lips curved, eyes gleaming like polished sapphires.

  That smile—sharp as a sickle moon—bore no resemblance to his usual sunny charm. This was darker. Hungrier.

  "So be it... I’ll wait. However long it takes."

  "Move it! Order 40,000 more copies—now!"

  "Fifth reprint?! This is insane!" The protest dissolved into laughter.

  "Insane? It’s the finale of The Almond Cocktail Murders! Readers are ravenous! The SS Silver Star alone bought 5,000—to resell in the Americas! Cunard’s running a 'pilgrimage cruise' retracing the novel’s route. Tickets cost triple! They’re auctioning the cabins tied to the story!"

  "Madness..."

  At the editor’s office, Yvette found chaos—exhausted staff buzzing over the frenzy.

  The Silver Star’s bulk order made sense. The ship’s captain had a nose for profit, and America devoured Albion’s trends (legally or otherwise). Even The Times, among the nation’s top papers, usually sold 20,000 copies—a steep seven pence, half a laborer’s daily wage.

  Yet the finale had shattered records. The latest print run: 40,000. Readers who’d shared copies or haunted libraries now scrimped to own the ending.

  Yvette rapped the doorframe.

  "Fisher! This issue’s gold!"

  "Your doing? Please—it’s Faulkner’s serial, thanks to Fisher," another teased.

  She shrugged. "Credit the team. You’ve earned a round at the pub tonight—my treat."

  Cheers erupted.

  Once the reprint orders stabilized, she cornered a veteran editor. "Got time for research?"

  The old-timer, eyeing his free drinks, grinned. "Your wish, my command~"

  "John Lepton. Any interviews? Or insights?"

  "Ah! The ambitious Dr. Lepton." He launched into tales of the man’s youth in revolution-riddled Gaul, assisting a neurologist in gruesome experiments: stitching a guillotined head to a dog’s body, reviving its twitching snarl with bull’s blood and electricity.

  "Papers called it ‘resurrection’—though it was just nerves firing. Still, imagine stitching arteries that fast!"

  Lepton had parlayed that infamy into wealth—patrons, a clinic, even entry into the elite Alpine Club. "But no one climbs so high cleanly," the editor winked. "Rumors say his clinic discreetly aided women 'in trouble.' Nowadays, he’s too rich to dirty his hands."

  (Abortion was illegal, yet every class needed it: poor mothers, courtesans, even nobles hiding infidelities.)

  Modern-minded Yvette barely blinked. "Moral panic" bored her.