The steamship docked at Norfolk, Virginia — gateway between the Federal States and the Old World. Salt-tinged winds carried the mingled scents of coal smoke and Southern jasmine as Yvette disembarked onto teeming wharves.

  "Every European delicacy awaits here, my lady," De Luca remarked, sweeping a gloved hand toward the bustling port city. "Should you desire local companionship, a whispered mention of Continental nobility would summon admirers like hounds to the hunt."

  Yvette adjusted her traveling cloak. "I sail tomorrow. Today requires only rest."

  Her inquiries about Ulysses had gone unanswered during their voyage. The knight had barricaded himself in his cabin, voice emerging thin and strained through oak panels. Whatever supernatural processes sustained him clearly demanded recovery. With both travelers declining shore excursions, they'd secured immediate passage home — Ulysses to his mysterious convalescence, Yvette to reluctant social obligations.

  Norfolk's transient nature provided ample lodging. While Ulysses vanished into self-imposed solitude, Yvette ventured through streets echoing with polyglot voices. Mediterranean olive-skinned traders haggled beside Nordic-blond sailors; freedmen in rough-spun shirts unloaded crates while tribal-marked natives sold woven baskets. The aromas of French bisque mingled with Italian garlic oils and Chesapeake crab boils — a dizzying collage of immigrant legacies.

  Yet beyond the clapboard storefronts and cobbled seafront, another Virginia lurked. Plantation fields stretched inland like ragged green quilts, stitched together by mud tracks. Carriages bearing plantation wives in Lyons silk passed fieldhands plodding in homespun — no Burgundy-gowned merchant class to bridge the divide.

  "Eighty percent of Albion’s mills hunger for our cotton!" declared a planter at the dockside tavern, whiskey sloshing his crystal tumbler. Yvette’s journalistic pretense — feigning interest in agricultural economics to avoid discussing her actual voyage — peeled back the Federal States' paradox. With land transport costs prohibitive, raw bales flowed seaward while finished cloth returned priced beyond yeomen farmers’ reach. The wealthy imported Italian marble for garden statuary; their workers patched shirts with local cotton thread.

  Yvette stored these observations for future debates with Winslow, though cosmic horrors likely rendered such mortal struggles trivial. She purchased gifts — a fox fur muff for her maid, Havana cigars for the club members — from merchants hawking pirated books beside cured hams. There, prominently displayed, glowered The Vampire Murders — Hemlock’s garish retelling of their Parisian misadventures.

  He’s made us both characters in his penny dreadfuls, she realized, unaware this literary fame would soon manifest in more disconcerting ways...

  London’s drizzle greeted their return. Ulysses departed with uncharacteristic haste, hiring a carriage directly to King’s Cross Station. When Yvette called after him — "If I can aid your affairs, beyond the paper..." — his rare smile held winter sunlight’s fragile warmth: "Noted."

  The exchange lingered as she absently fingered the vials of eldritch ichor in her breast pocket — trophies from an expedition that had veered from specimen collection into realms beyond reason.

  Alison’s tearful welcome at Covent Garden momentarily dispelled darker thoughts. "Your room’s been aired thrice weekly, sir! Mrs. Beeton’s latest menus attempted, though the beef Wellingtons still... That is..." The maid’s prattle ceased when Yvette produced the silver-fox muff.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Federal flea market find. No use to me — you’ll spare me the dandy’s reputation."

  The maid’s protests dissolved into gratitude — and urgent news. "Letters! So many! Half of Mayfair’s written! And Mr. Faulkner’s own man delivered this!" She brandished a leather-bound tome. Gold-leaf letters proclaimed: THE SPECTER OF BELL STREET — Complete Edition.

  Yvette’s sandwich turned to ashes. Society pages, club stationery, even Montagu’s crested parchment spilled from the mail pile — all praising/alarming/pondering Hemlock’s magnum opus. His serialized thriller — its detective protagonist "Chevalier" clearly mimicking her — had concluded to unprecedented frenzy. The Marquess’ annotated critique suggested multiple rereadings; Randall’s blunt note declared: Your fictional self’s too dashed handsome — lacks your rabbit-in-lantern-light demeanor.

  "Editorial begs interviews about the Chevalier phenomenon," Yvette read acidly. "Shall I invite the plagiarist himself for tea? Hemlock’s theatrics could sell broadsheets by the ton..."

  As autumn shadows lengthened across first editions and unanswered letters, Yvette foresaw the coming storm. The true adventure, it seemed, lay not in eldritch battles, but in surviving literary celebrity.

  Yvette sifted through a stack of letters, many penned by debutantes impressed by her debut at this year’s social season. Invitations piled up for country estate visits—a post-season tradition where nobility retreated to hunt and forge closer bonds beyond London’s stifling formality. Autumn’s relaxed atmosphere promised easier camaraderie than the ballroom’s ritualistic pageantry.

  To society, "Yves de Fisher" was a prize: a handsome French exile with distinguished lineage, a confirmed bachelor uncle’s fortune awaiting inheritance, and ties to ducal houses like Lancaster and Montagu. Mothers schemed; daughters blushed. None guessed the truth—that this eligible bachelor was, in fact, a woman. With practiced diplomacy, Yvette declined most offers.

  One letter stood apart, perfumed with lily water—a note from Julie, her former mentor’s daughter. During Yvette’s university days, the professor had pushed courtship until realizing "Yves’" indifference. Now Julie wrote sparingly, this time inviting classmates to farewell drinks before she started work as a telegraph operator.

  The telegraph’s novelty lingered. In Albion, cables snaked only between vital rail depots and London’s periphery. Yet once tasted, instant communication spoiled merchants on sluggish pigeons. Operators pounded Morse keys in sweaty offices, queues of impatient brokers snaking down pavements. Women found rare empowerment here: high wages, cerebral work, no bustles hindering desk chairs. Julie, middle-class and marriageable, needed the income—beauty alone wouldn’t secure a titled match without dowry gold.

  Yvette penned warm regrets and encouragement, sanding ink as she mused: Ulysses had once explained why their shadowy order shunned telegraphs. Each click passed through a dozen hands between Birmingham and London—too many ears for secrets. Even ciphers risked cracking. Ravens sufficed for clandestine trysts; trusted mouths carried graver whispers.

  A letter crackled—not Julie’s, but a vampire contact’s. The telescope inventor she’d sought was in town, eager to meet patrons. Yvette’s interest wasn’t lenses, but astronomers in his orbit. Since dreaming of the Star-Maiden—a frozen comet trailing eldritch spawn—she’d hungered for cosmic insight.

  The dream had shown her an Elder God… or had it planted the very obsession? Cold doubt prickled. Am I hunter or puppet? Memories of Moloch’s warped form steeled her: humanity’s outrage burned brighter than eldritch whispers. She’d cling to that flame.

  Resolved, Yvette departed for the Labyrinth Club, where members pounced.

  “Mandrake! Your absence left our coffee cups barren of omens!” Oleander swooped for a hug.

  Scabbard raised, Yvette parried. “Spare me, monsieur. Childhood… incidents left scars.” A fabricated priestly predation explained her distaste—trustworthy for Catholic France’s scandals.

  Chastened, Oleander gestured to their tea spread. “To Curare’s latest triumph!”

  The haggard author grinned. “Your escapades inspired it. But wait—” He described a new plot: murder on the Silver Star, bound for Virginia..."

  Yew gasped. “Mandrake’s holiday haunt! He brought me Virginian leaf!”

  A trap. Yvette edged toward the exit.

  Curare pounced. “The sleuth had a doctor uncle—like Sir Ulysses! Admit it—you’re my mystery’s muse!”

  The club roared. Cornered, Yvette cursed her souvenir tobacco.