The Star Seekers Society hosted public lectures, though entry was hardly unconditional. Two guards flanked the doors, barring those deemed "unpresentable"—a label encompassing wrinkled tunics, soiled cuffs, or ill-fitting waistcoats. In an age where gentlemen’s fashion differed only in tailoring and threadcount, Yvette’s thrifted Petticoat Lane attire—skillfully altered by Winslow—marked her as scholarly youth from respectable stock. The guards waved her through but halted a patched-coat man and another whose belly threatened his vest buttons.

  Snobbery? Perhaps. But this was Albion, where parks turned away the shabby.

  The filtered crowd glittered with gilded walking sticks, gem-studded timepieces, and pipes carved from ivory-hued meerschaum. Beside Yvette, a man dabbed his gold-rimmed spectacles with lace-edged silk—a portrait of affluence.

  "Walker Osborne," he introduced, catching her glance. "Securities."

  Naturally. Smells like new money.

  "Ives Monk, Royal University—classics." She feigned eager naivety.

  "Astrology? Thought undergrads preferred taverns to telescopes."

  Yvette noted the room’s demographics—mostly thirtysomething gents. Her boyish disguise made her conspicuous.

  "Astrology’s rational beneath the mystique," she parroted an editor’s line. "Kepler called it 'astronomy’s handmaiden.' The stars chart nature’s laws."

  "Wisdom beyond your years! Astrology’s a science—practical, unlike university fripperies." Osborne adjusted his glasses. "Today’s speaker, Master Dazzat—his essays transformed my trade. Fools brand me a gambler, but they’re tone-deaf to heaven’s tongue. Listen closely—this is alchemy for wealth."

  "Securities and... star signs?"

  Divine stock tips?

  "Zodiacal alignments steer markets. Master Dazzat deciphers the code." His eyes shone fanatically as a gangly youth stumbled onto the stage.

  "Master Dazzat’s young," Yvette muttered, probing for eldritch taints.

  "His lackey, James Webster. A social climber sucking Dazzat’s prestige."

  James’ announcement of Dazzat’s "sudden illness" drew groans. Wealthy attendees began gathering belongings until he blurted: "Master Dazzat seeks companions for a meteor watch on the 18th! Sign here—"

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  Osborne, halfway risen, thudded back into his seat.

  "At last! I’ll have my proofs reviewed by the master himself—"

  "Cant fortune buy a meeting?" Yvette asked. Nobility used titles; "Master" suggested Dazzat was approachable... for the right price.

  "He spurns gold. A true ascetic." Osborne grimaced as James unfurled a star-chart petition—radiating zodiac glyphs and elemental seals.

  Yvette’s instincts prickled. The sheet buzzed with latent magic.

  "Sign anywhere. The stars will guide Master Dazzat’s selection."

  Osborne scribbled his name in Leo’s quadrant. Yvette, noting overcrowding, scrawled "Ives Monk" by the chalice emblem—water’s symbol, sacred to feminine intuition.

  None noticed.

  In a backroom, Dazzat swung a meteoric-iron pendulum over the parchment. Days of stillness broke as the lodestone jerked toward a peripheral signature:

  Ives Monk—nestled by the chalice.

  Water. Femininity. Creation.

  "The Blessed One!" Dazzat trembled. Europa’s blind sexism hid the truth: his chosen catalyst was no gentleman.

  After the interminably dreary lecture—a performance so lackluster the master’s apprentice might’ve moonlighted as a circus jester—the hapless pupil slunk offstage, only to return bearing a list that hushed the murmuring crowd.

  “By Master Darzatt’s esteemed judgment,” he announced, “the following gentlemen are invited to his lunar observatory on the 18th: Taylor Raymond, Davies Martin…”

  Each name sparked muted celebrations—the chosen clasping hands in glee while the rejected leaned forward, breath held.

  Yvette studied the crowd. Despite the silk cravats and diamond stickpins denoting a third of attendees as thousand-pound-a-year men, every selectee wore the threadbare pride of clerks and tradesmen.

  “…and Yves Monc.”

  Her pseudonym hung in the air. Chosen? She blinked, feigning bewilderment.

  “How enviable, Mr. Monc!” A portly financier pressed a ￡100 check and scribbled queries into her palm. “Pose these to the master—triple the sum awaits his wisdom!”

  Yvette palmed the note but rejected the bribe. “If time permits, sir.”

  The man’s jowls quivered approvingly. “Principle before profit! Mark my words—you’ll go far, lad.”

  Farther than you know. Her current occupation—part occult detective, part vigilante—lacked the panache of penny dreadful heroes but shared their shadow-warrior ethos.

  Exiting into gaslit streets, she wove a paranoid path to shake imagined tails. Safely home, she encountered Altair—the Agency’s legendary tracker—muffled like a wintering bear.

  “Occult signature surfaced during the lecture,” he barked. “What transpired?”

  As they stealthily reentered the abandoned hall, Altair’s lockpicks danced. “Acquired these from Newgate’s finest,” he muttered, deflecting her amazement.

  Within, he daubed walls with a luminous tincture. “Reveals recent magic. Medieval witch-hunters’ brew.” The reagent bloomed ethereal green across a backroom desk.

  “Darzatt’s sanctum.” Yvette recalled the selection theatrics. “He secluded himself here—supposedly too frail to attend.”

  Altair reached for his revolver. “We’ll detain—”

  “Wait.” Her hand stayed his. “The purple star omen… If Darzatt’s linked, we need the stargazing event exposed. Let me play chosen disciple.”

  After hissed debate—a chess match of risks and revelations—Altair relented. “But at the first whiff of sorcery, you bolt. Understood?”

  She nodded, already mentally revising her hotel’s escape routes.