Though auctions date back to Ancient Rome, sellers personally conducted them back then. The modern practice of professional third-party auctioneers is barely a century old.

  Sotheby’s pioneered this trade. In 1744, bookseller Samuel Baker—inspired by London’s high-society salons—envisioned a refined bidding arena for the wealthy. His inaugural auction made history, securing his reputation and fortune.

  The event’s success cemented Baker’s image as a trustworthy connoisseur. Collectors entrusted him with rarities, unveiling countless priceless manuscripts to the world.

  Generations later, despite rivals like Bonhams and Christie’s, Sotheby’s remains the gold standard for books and documents.

  Per tradition, daytime previews allowed bidders to inspect the offerings. At dusk, attendees gathered in a library-like hall, awaiting the auctioneer’s chant.

  Among them, a smoke-wreathed observer studied the crowd.

  To most, he appeared just another affluent collector. In truth, he belonged to a clandestine order: an Arcane Constable tasked with intercepting occult relics before civilians unwittingly purchased cursed artifacts.

  Sotheby’s often traded in family diaries and cryptic manuscripts. His duty was to screen such items—like the grotesque book now displayed, its copper-wired binding crusted with verdigris, resembling a padlocked prison door.

  A loose parchment protruding from its pages caught his eye. Strangely, it seemed older than the book itself.

  The sight triggered his memory. The Book of Azrael—a malevolent compendium where each page described a ritual drug requiring sacrificial ingredients. Merely possessing a page could transform mundane organs into magical conduits… until separated.

  His order’s scholars believed Azrael’s true purpose was ceremonial, its "recipes" mere pretexts for dark rites.

  Centuries of fragmentation had scattered its pages across secret hoards. Most discoverers dismissed them as lunatic scribblings—a mercy that spared the world disaster.

  Yet this book’s owner had clearly feared its power, sealing it inside another volume with obsessive care.

  The Constable resolved to claim it.

  On the auction floor, bids erupted as the showman-auctioneer worked his magic:

  "Three hundred pounds! Do I hear three-twenty?"

  The price skyrocketed, thinning the competition to two determined tycoons. When the numbers surpassed his budget, the Constable yielded—but not his mission.

  If money failed, magic would suffice.

  Sotheby’s security—multiple exits, armed escorts—meant nothing to beings like him. He’d track the buyer, then retrieve the book through other means.

  Shadowing the carriage, he trailed his target into London’s squalid underbelly, where crumbling alleys forced the buyer to proceed on foot, clutching his prize.

  The man’s furtive manner confirmed suspicions. He knew what the book held.

  The Constable ghosted after him.

  ......

  "Your prediction proved accurate." The Canterbury See’s messenger laid a leather-bound tome on the table, its spine still indented from copper bindings.

  Ulysses examined it as the messenger explained:

  "Our agent vanished near the slum where this was found. The scene suggested a depraved ritual. We recovered only his bloodied clothes, a… cleaned skull, and this."

  The opened page revealed a passage about blood feuds—the sole bloodstained section in an otherwise pristine journal.

  Vengeance again.

  Previously, a customs officer turned informant had acquired forbidden knowledge, melting into a foamy monstrosity. The prime suspect: "Tally Onis," a pseudonym invoking Babylonian lex talionis—an eye for an eye.

  Yvette’s report had alerted Ulysses. Now, history repeated.

  "…Just the skull? The rest?"

  The messenger shuddered. "Gone. The bone bore tool marks—knives, forks, sharpened spoons. As if…"

  "Other at-risk operatives?"

  "Evacuated to Kievan Rus. Once we confirm they’re untracked, the Flesh Sculptor will remake their faces. Their old lives end today—even their families must believe them dead."

  For those touched by the occult, survival meant severing every earthly tie.

  A grim necessity—but better than the alternative.

  "That slum’s a mess—too many traces, no way to track his killer. The Holy See sent me to ask: Got any leads?"

  "What kind of blades left those marks on the skull? Rough work—inconsistent shape and size?"

  "Dinner knives, forks, that sort of thing. Some fork prongs were even bent."

  "Then look for his eaters among women—likely all women—heavy drinkers who gather drunk, fluting and dancing. Probably holed up in brothels or textile mills."

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "You’re saying—"

  "Sounds like Dionysus cultists. In myth, he was reborn thrice—once torn apart and eaten. His followers repaid the favor. King Pentheus of Thebes mocked Dionysus, but his own mother and sisters were Maenads. They ripped him apart—left just his head on a staff. Orpheus too—only his skull washed ashore."

  "Brilliant! I’ll alert the Holy See—these fanatics must be purged!"

  Ulysses shook his head. "I only identified the eaters. The mastermind’s still out there—here or fled. Either way, tread carefully."

  "I will."

  Alone, Ulysses stirred cold coffee, lost in thought.

  The Church had stamped out Dionysus cults in the witch hunts—yet the creed survived. Someone had resurrected it, using those madwomen as expendable tools.

  He started with Dionysian rites too. Hardly surprising...

  The tale of the Titans feasting on Dionysus’s predecessor had enthralled him. Without that obsession—would things be different?

  The Albion Church’s leaders: Canterbury and York archbishops. The Special Missions Bureau often held one—sometimes both.

  Aristotle wrote: All men desire to know.

  Years back, the traitorous Archbishop of York told Ulysses:

  "The masses under lies’ veil are dregs. Those with powers? Only slightly better. True men of spirit pierce through all illusion!"

  He lived those words—pursuing knowledge at any cost.

  The bird fights free of the egg. The egg is its world. To transcend, one must shatter a world.

  ...

  Late sun slanted through the window as Yvette stroked Marcus. The black cat rolled, purring for more.

  "Who knew you’d be decent at this, meow?"

  Thick carpets and fleece-draped furniture kept the library cozy—but dry air sparked static, frizzing Marcus’s fur. Yet Yvette’s touch banished it.

  "Practice helps—" Marcus’s tail smacked her hand.

  "Filthy stray-touching hands on Lord Marcus?!" Ears flattened, he glared betrayal.

  "I barely pet strays now!" She smoothed his fur, feeling absurdly guilty.

  "Why read Asia Minor’s Occult today, meow?"

  "Just... thoughts."

  "Ask Lord Marcus instead!"

  "Do gods die?"

  "Old Ones are beyond life—like storms! Can you kill wind?"

  "Right, just wondering." In her dream: a god’s corpse, eaten by fish-faced children, empowering them.

  Dagon—man-fish god—ascended by devouring an Old One’s flesh. If so... could humans too?

  Does the Bureau know? Suppress it? Otherwise, power-hungry agents might invite the Old Ones over...

  At Malkin’s workshop, Yvette collected glasses to hide wolf-boy Eddie’s pupils. She also ordered grappling wires—her energy-conversion power could electrify weapons at will, even shoot currents through wires. Deadly or nonlethal—an edge either way.

  "Know any electricians, Mr. Malkin?"

  "Professor Wheatstone—Royal Society, telegraph magnate. Bought parts here, but he’s an odd duck. Can’t stand his type."

  Wheatstone. Remember that.

  Home again, Eddie tried the glasses—illusion magic masked his light-sensitive eyes perfectly.

  "Feel alright?"

  "Perfect! Thanks, Mr. Fisher!"

  "Remember—no ear-twitching in public." She’d raise him right—teaching London’s ways. But eventually, he’d leave. Better that way.

  (Besides—her dreams whispered she might not last long.)

  She’d even prepared for Alison: a letter to Ulysses, money enclosed. If I turn monster—stop me. Help them.

  No ghoul-doctor fate for her. No public horror like that melted customs officer.

  Let Ulysses end it cleanly.

  How sane am I, really?

  Unanswerable.

  Another quiet afternoon at the Labyrinth Club found Yvette surrounded by fellow members before the Honor Wall. Standing beside Antiaris and Nerium, they collectively held a worn execution rope while posing for the photographer's lens.

  "That's it - Mr. Fisher, eyes here. Mr. Faulkner, tilt left slightly... Perfect. Ready? Smile gallantly now - one, two, three!"

  Under the black hood of his antique camera, the photographer fussed over their arrangement until satisfied, then ignited the magnesium flash powder.

  A bright flare and soft pop later, their likenesses were captured on the silver plate.

  Applause erupted as waiters produced champagne for the celebration.

  "Months ago, Birmingham trembled under the 'Midnight Killer' - a butcher preying on vulnerable women until our members Yves de Fisher, Dubhe Faulkner and Riley Dickinson helped authorities end his reign. This very noose delivered justice. Today, Birmingham sends both rope and gratitude."

  As the city's commendation letter concluded, attendants mounted the grim relic alongside its parchment in a glass display for the Wall.

  The rope's grimy fibers still clinging with prisoners' hair made Yvette shudder. Those once hanged upon it included some lord left dangling like market fish - a thought prompting silent pity.

  Her companions quickly discarded their gloves afterward, aristocratic noses wrinkling at contact with criminal residue.

  Conversation naturally turned to Birmingham's ordeal:

  "Exciting material," Antiaris mused, "but too adventurous for proper detective fiction. True Albion murder requires familiar settings where upstanding souls prove capable of villainy. A killer appearing only at resolution lacks dramatic tension."

  "Then write it as supplemental adventure!" countered Strychnos. "The immigrant slums' lawless exoticism fascinates our readership more than London's gritty districts. Chevalier navigating such terrain compensates for lighter deduction."

  Nerium clasped hands dramatically: "And romantic elements! Picture some fallen gentlewoman-turned-courtesan slated for slaughter until Chevalier's eleventh-hour rescue. What delicate heart could resist loving her savior? Yet society's chains forbid confession - such delicious torment!"

  The group enthusiastically outlined this new direction.

  Alas, Chevalier failed to save this fictional damsel. Yvette sighed internally, relieved Eddie showed no distress at the parallel. She deftly redirected:

  "Enough sequels - how progresses The Vanishing Phantom Thief? Following The Almond Cocktail Mystery's success, all expect brilliance from your next serial."

  "Already published." Antiaris flourished the newspaper. "You've clearly been too occupied for current events."

  Indeed - between ghoul doctors and contingency plans, newspapers went unread.

  Scanning the page, she admired Antiaris' suspenseful opening... until page two's factory disaster: iron roof beams snapping "like shirt buttons," crushing workers before steam boilers exploded into infernos.

  Unlike typical sensationalism, the report clinically detailed structural flaws before condemning iron's overuse in architecture - citing bridge collapses to support its thesis. Impeccable journalism... in suspiciously familiar prose.

  Those intricate subordinate clauses and scholarly flourishes evoked Ulysses' authoritative voice - from food safety treatises to toxic pigment warnings in his study.

  If he authored this, the accident might conceal supernatural elements. What else transpired beyond her awareness?

  "Mandragora," a member whispered, "rumor claims Her Majesty attended The Almond Cocktail Mystery incognito! My friend's earl father spotted royal attendants near the Duchess of Argyll's box - the 'young lady' inside could only be the Queen!"

  Though officially mourning, Victoria resisted ministers' matrimonial schemes. Yet theater excursions hardly suited grieving daughters.

  Only Yvette knew the Queen orchestrated her mad father's demise without remorse - having a competent monarch outweighed sentimentality.

  "How splendid!" Yvette teased. "Now the whole court knows Albion's newest literary luminary! Prepare for invitations, our modern Shakespeare."

  Antiaris reddened: "Spare me. Should Her Majesty inquire about Chevalier's real identity... well, patriotism might outweigh friendship."

  "You betrayed me to Montague once!"

  "That ended favorably! You're practically cordial now - shame he lacks daughters for advantageous marriage."

  (If only he knew Montague had ordered his daughter's execution over this...)

  "Joking aside - disclose nothing to Her Majesty." Being remembered by that cunning monarch felt ominous - especially recalling her wallpaper poison plot.

  A waiter approached bearing a silver tray:

  "Sir, a visitor awaits with this card."