Pouring rumors collected from fellow reporters into Yvette's ears, the editor-in-chief then produced several yellowed newspaper clippings about Dr. John Lupton from his prodigious memory. Among them was a pictorial spread showing the doctor grinning boyishly alongside an Alpine Club lord, both clad in expedition gear before some snow-crowned peak—the very image of rugged masculinity.

  Europe's obsession with physical prowess dated back to ancient Greece. Though Albion had briefly succumbed to Frenchified decadence—that treasonous nation waving libertine banners while preaching fraternity—her sons now scorned such effeminate nonsense, reaffirming their reverence for manly vigor.

  In this epoch of exploration and empire, what demonstrated virility better than conquering nature's grandeur? The photograph's subject—with his impeccable sideburns, commanding presence, and aura of relentless ambition—personified Albion's aristocratic ideal: the archetype gentlemen aspired to emulate and ladies schemed to wed.

  Whereas pretty, smooth-cheeked French fops like Ulysses—or herself—might secure fleeting popularity as dashing paramours, nothing more.

  Accepting her social limitations, Yvette frowned at the photograph, puzzling over Alison's peculiar reaction.

  Undeniably prime matrimonial material by conventional standards, but such calculations reflected mere aggregate scores—like how gentlemen preferred demure wives yet invariably fantasized about sultry mistresses.

  Even discounting Alison's probable disinterest in pretty youths, both Ulysses and Randall were undeniably handsome grown men who'd never provoked such intense scrutiny.

  Unless... the household where Alison had previously served before being cast out after her master's violation had been... Dr. John Lupton's?

  At Covent Garden's bustling produce market, Alison stood examining artichokes with the precision of a jeweler appraising diamonds. These古怪的蔬菜—resembling lotus buds armored in green scales—required painstaking preparation: stripping away fibrous outer leaves to reveal the tender heart within, sweet and crisp as young bamboo shoots, commanding prices that rivaled meat in this era though dwarfed by their future Michelin-starred status.

  Having only encountered them in culinary documentaries before, Yvette had developed an instant addiction upon arriving in this world—a preference Alison accommodated with inventive preparations ranging from soups to salads.

  Settling her purchase, Alison froze at hearing her name called in a voice she'd never forgotten.

  "...Alison? Merciful heavens, it is you!"

  Spinning around, Alison barely recognized the wraithlike figure before her—Doreen, her former fellow housemaid and mentor during those dark days. The vibrant chestnut mane Alison remembered now clung in sparse, lifeless strands beneath the woman's cap, her face aged a decade since their parting eighteen months prior.

  "Sweet Providence... you're unchanged!" Doreen clasped her hands like a drowning woman. "We all assumed the worst—a pregnant woman cast onto London's merciless streets... but you've thrived!"

  Alison returned the desperate grip while studying her friend's ravaged features. "Doreen, you're ill!"

  "I misplaced the dosage," Doreen whispered cryptically, touching her hollowed cheeks. When comprehension dawned in Alison's eyes, she added, "The child went first. I nearly followed."

  Most abortion draughts being arsenic-laced poisons, survival often meant trading fertility for life. Doreen's depleted frame and yellowed skin testified to heavy metals' lingering kiss.

  "Come away with me!" Alison urged. "My current master is kindness itself—barely two servants for a spacious house—"

  "No." Doreen's voice acquired steel. "I'll witness their downfall first."

  Learning the household's subsequent tragedies—both children dead, the mistress gone mad, the master's lineage extinguished—Alison crossed herself. Some called it misfortune. Doreen called it divine justice.

  Alison and Doreen had only a brief moment to talk before parting ways—both had errands to run. As they said their goodbyes, Doreen’s gaze lingered on Alison’s attire, neat and clean, yet entirely unlike a maid’s uniform.

  Most households clothed their servants in deliberately mismatched garments, ensuring visitors could tell master from servant at a glance. Only a lady’s maid might receive decent hand-me-downs from her mistress. But Alison wore the same fashions as any modest woman—proof that her new employer was generous enough to buy her proper clothes.

  “Bless the Holy Spirit… I’m glad you’re well. I’ll let the others know—they’ll be so pleased.” Doreen squeezed her hands before stepping back with a wave.

  Alison watched her go before paying for her vegetables. Basket in hand, she walked home, lost in thought.

  The past two years felt surreal. Cast out for her pregnancy, she’d nearly starved before finding work—any work—to keep herself and her baby alive. Nothing could have prepared her for life under Master Yves’ roof.

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

  Her own room. A cradle for little Mary. Meals eaten from clean plates, not guests’ leftovers. Even fresh milk delivered for them. More startling was the kindness he showed her—not the performative charity of pious gentlewomen, but genuine regard, as if she were a person.

  Yet she knew the world would condemn his decency. Every household manual preached strict separation between master and servant. Treat them as equals, and they cease to be servants at all.

  That was why she dismissed Doreen’s talk of “divine punishment.” If cruelty to servants invited retribution, half of London would be in ruins. No, she suspected the Holy Spirit had punished Dr. Leptun for his many abortions—a sin even priests once deemed worse than murder.

  And now both his children were dead. How unpredictable fate could be…

  The thought weighed on her through dinner.

  “Alison,” Yvette said, noticing her distraction, “is something wrong?”

  “No, Master. Just… thinking.”

  “If there’s anything troubling you, you can tell me.”

  Alison merely nodded, saying nothing.

  Days passed quietly. Yvette was often out—fencing, shooting, managing the newspaper, or visiting the club. That afternoon, with Eddie studying upstairs, Alison was polishing the stove when the doorbell rang.

  She opened the door to find an unexpected visitor: Miss Karen, Mrs. Leptun’s lady’s maid.

  “May I come in?” Karen’s tone brooked no refusal. “This isn’t a conversation for the doorstep.”

  Old instincts made Alison step aside. As Karen entered, her sharp eyes assessed the furnishings—the polished hardwood, the matching set. This was no ordinary household.

  “Congratulations on your child,” Karen began smoothly. “I’ve come to discuss your future.”

  “I’m staying here,” Alison said.

  “And the girl?”

  Alison hesitated. Master Yves spoke of sending Mary to school someday, of women working beyond the home.

  Karen misinterpreted her silence. From her purse, she produced a document.

  “Madam offers you a cottage in the countryside—land, livestock sheds, everything. All you must do is leave London and never return. Sign this, and you’ll be free of service forever.”

  To Karen, the offer was absurdly generous. After the Enclosures, farmland was a treasure. Laborers displaced by machines now crowded cities, starving on factory wages. A self-sufficient life? Most could only dream of it.

  Yet Alison handed it back. “No.”

  “Have you lost your senses? Think of your child! No respectable—”

  A baby’s cry cut her off.

  Alison hurried to her room and returned with little Mary.

  Karen stared. “She lives here?”

  “The Master allows it.”

  “…He knows?”

  “Yes.”

  After a long pause, Karen stood. “I’ll inform Madam.”

  She left without another word. The offer had been refused.

  After Miss Karen departed, Alison lingered in disbelief.

  Madame Leptun was offering her a cottage and farmland—just to leave London. Why would the lady make such an offer?

  ["No bastard shall inherit in our father’s house"]—so decreed the Holy Codex.

  By Roman tradition, illegitimate children had no claim. Her daughter threatened no one’s inheritance, and Madame was still young enough to bear heirs. Was she truly so fearful of scandal undermining her husband’s reputation?

  The mystery plagued Alison until laundry chores demanded her attention, the mundane labor temporarily washing away her unease.

  That evening over tea, young Eddie whispered conspiratorially to Yvette: "A lady came today—wanted Sister Alison gone from London."

  "What? Explain."

  When Alison entered with the teapot, Yvette intercepted her. "Visitors? Were you threatened?"

  Only one scandal shadowed this quiet maid—her refusal to abandon the child forced upon her. Yvette’s mind conjured gothic tableaus of aristocratic vengeance.

  Alison’s hands fluttered like startled birds. "Madame’s maid came... with an offer. A cottage in the countryside."

  "You declined?"

  "Unless you dismiss me, sir, I wish to stay."

  "Any hidden motives?" The proposal reeked of absurdity. Under Albion’s inheritance laws, estates passed solely to legitimate male heirs. An illegitimate daughter couldn’t possibly—

  "No" pulsed in Alison’s throat.

  Yvette frowned. "Then take Karl when you go out. Extra caution won’t hurt."

  The brawny coachman would suffice—though truthfully, the unassuming Eddie was likely their best fighter, were it not for his unfinished tinted spectacles keeping the young werewolf housebound.

  Yet within days, the Leptuns dispatched another envoy—this time, their butler, undoubtedly conveying the doctor’s own stance.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Fisher." The butler’s polished shoes creaked as he bowed. "My master wishes to atone for... an incident two years past. His conscience burdens him deeply."

  "How touching," Yvette deadpanned. "A cottage hush-money absolves all guilt?"

  "That was the madame’s vulgar notion! My master knew nothing of it!" The butler dabbed his brow. "Grief clouds her judgment—having so recently lost two sons—"

  "She lost—?"

  "Indeed. Which is why the master proposes... proper recompense." Here the butler gestured toward Alison, now pale as bleached linen. "Not as servants, but as family. The child would want for nothing."

  "Absolutely not." Yvette recalled Alison’s tales of bruises and locked cupboards. "Your master’s ‘atonement’ comes far too late."

  Yet the butler pressed on, switching tactics: "Perhaps just the child, then? Presented as his late brother’s orphaned daughter—"

  Alison’s breath hitched.

  Yvette saw the bait’s cruel brilliance: legitimacy, a dowry, escape from service. The dilemma contorted her maid’s face—fear of her abuser versus a mother’s desperation to uplift her child.

  "—what future has she here?" The butler’s velvet gloves tightened. "Scrubbing floors? Or—with education—growing old as some family’s governess, praying her mistress dies so she—”

  "Enough." Yvette’s snarl sent the man stumbling back. "She’ll consider your offer. Now leave."

  But the seed was sown. That night, Alison wept into her apron: "What should I do, sir?"

  A question Yvette couldn’t answer. Two years in this world hadn’t dulled her disgust at its hierarchies. By society’s lights, a gentleman acknowledging his bastard was charity so saintly, Alison ought to kiss his boots in gratitude.

  "Sleep on it," was all she could offer.

  Yet the exchange left her unsettled. The proposal was rational—a childless father reclaiming his blood—yet something curdled in her gut. Like encountering a wax figure too lifelike—that eerie valley between human and almost-human triggering primal revulsion.

  Next morning found her in a newspaper архив, bribing the clerk for Leptun’s press coverage.

  [Surgeon Survives Alpine Tragedy... miraculous 14-day entombment during Mont Blanc ascent...]

  [Whispers of Unethical Experiments During Foreign Tenure... unnamed sources allege—]

  [Revolutionary 30-Second Tumor Extraction Performed at St. Bartholomew’s...]

  The clerk accepted her bonus with a wink: "You’re the second to ask after him lately. Last fellow smelled of carbolic—hospital chap. Seemed awful keen on those experiment rumors..."