After ensuring Eddie’s safety at the inn, Yvette slipped into St. Philip’s Church as dawn approached. Father Franz—the parish’s beloved priest and a pillar of the community—now lay dead. His daily public appearances meant his absence would soon raise alarms among the clergy. She had to act before his brethren grew suspicious.

  She’d left her messenger raven behind but knew Franz’s study housed one. Though Birmingham had telegraph lines, their lack of secrecy deterred her; even a coded message might spark dangerous gossip among local operators.

  Cloaked in fading darkness, she scaled the dormitory wall. A humble rose garden below made her wounded palm throb anew—blood seeped through its bandage.

  The priest’s chambers occupied a tranquil third-floor perch. Perched on the rooftop behind a chimney, Yvette watched friars shuffle into the dining hall below for morning prayers.

  “Where’s Father Franz?” someone asked. “Late again. I’ll rouse him.”

  She tracked the friar’s footsteps upward. At the third-floor door, three methodical knocks echoed. Activating her silence magic, Yvette shattered the window and rolled inside. By the final knock, she stood breathless behind the door.

  “Father? Are you ill?” The friar’s voice tightened. “I’m coming in on three.”

  Yvette twisted the White Rabbit’s pocketwatch. Memories rewound twelve seconds. When knocking resumed, she fed him fabricated sights: a crack in the door revealing Franz’s pockmarked face, his rasping voice declaring, “Contagion… handle services without me.”

  “Of course!” The friar retreated swiftly, oblivious to the empty room.

  A temporary fix. By tomorrow, worried colleagues might send physicians—a scenario her time-altering trinket couldn’t sustain.

  Albieon’s railways offered hope. Two hundred kilometers between Birmingham and London meant envoys could arrive by afternoon if her raven flew swiftly.

  Franz’s chambers—a serial killer’s den—surprised her with its banality. Beside theology tomes, a caged raven cocked its head as Yvette offered stolen grain. She drafted her report:

  First, instinct guided her pen to “Ulysses”—until practicality intervened. Franz’s bird didn’t know Hampstead Heath. Bureaucratic forwarding risked delays, and recent tensions within the Order made Ulysses’ involvement perilous. Better address headquarters directly.

  Her final letter omitted werewolves, framing events as a club investigation gone awry: midnight corpse discoveries, a damp-cloaked priest hurling “witch” slurs, self-defense necessitated. A postscript inquired about her mysteriously bleeding palm.

  Airborne wings faded as Yvette turned to Franz’s bookshelf. Malleus Maleficarum. Witches—Satan’s Lovers. Medieval witch-hunting manuals crowded alongside anatomical sketches depicting female anatomy as rosebuds. His diary oscillated violently:

  [...The Virgin’s grace remakes unworthy flesh...]

  [...Streetwalkers defile God’s image! May Hell consume them!]

  [...O perfect Mother! Your roses shame mortal gardens!]

  Recent entries fixated on horticulture:

  [...Rescued a plucked rose—divine fragility...]

  [...Scent of rusted iron intoxicates...]

  [...Moonlight pales the scarlet...]

  Yvette’s blood ran cold. These weren’t flowers—they were victims. Roses threaded through his madness: the Virgin’s emblem perverted into slaughter. Her stained fingers left crimson smudges across the pages.

  Yvette huddled in Father Franz’s chambers, maintaining her charade of sickness through a gauntlet of concerned monks delivering bland meals. At dusk, as she forced down another bite of flavorless sausage, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap startled her. Peering through the study’s gloom, she found a black silhouette on the windowsill—a feline figure sporting a checkered bowtie, rapping the glass with impatient swipes.

  Even through the tension, she noted the velvety pink pads beneath its paws. Charming, despite the circumstances.

  "Cease your blasphemous daydreaming, insolent child! Unlatch this portal!" The cat’s muzzle wrinkled in a most un-catlike snarl.

  Yvette obliged. Marcus—for it was he—streaked inside like shadow given momentum, alighting on the desk to primp his obsidian fur.

  "St. Philip’s problem has been... remedied?" The cat’s tone carried false nonchalance.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "Done." Recognition dawned: This fastidious creature was her designated liaison. The Order’s logistics truly scraped the barrel—sending a housecat as backup after that nightmare? Though admittedly, the soft purr radiating from the fluffball did calm her racing thoughts.

  Her fingers twitched toward those tempting ears.

  "Reign in your impertinence!" His tail lashed like a metronome gone rogue. "We’ve graver matters than your feeble human cravings. A psi-Oracle comes to dissect your motives."

  Her breath hitched. Psychics. The Tower’s most feared interrogators, rumored to extract secrets directly from synaptic sparks. During her initiation, Ulysses had exploited a relic’s malfunction to bypass deep scans—but now...

  "Take heart, mouse." Marcus’s rasp dropped conspiratorially. "Even mind-pluckers avoid psychic overreach. Your inquisitor will sniff for lies, not ransack memories. Answer crisply, plant plausible doubts, and..." A paw performed a magician’s vanish.

  The strategy crystallized: truth, but not the whole truth.

  Apprehension lingered. "What if—"

  "Fools who invite mental violation deserve their fractured sanity!" Marcus suddenly hissed, claws scoring the oak. The outburst felt... rehearsed. Yvette recalled his file: A scholar cursed into felinity by pharaonic guardians, sanity crumbling like ancient papyrus. How many psychic audits had he endured before being deemed "eccentric but harmless"?

  Tentatively, she scratched beneath his jaw. The rumbling purr that followed shook his entire frame. "My... associate nears. A puppeteer who’ll glide past witless gatekeepers."

  As if summoned, footsteps soon approached. Outside, honeyed words coaxed the attending priest into vacant-eyed compliance: "The confessional awaits, does it not?"

  Moments later, a knock. The man at her threshold wore threadbare tweed but exuded authority—a lion in a sheep’s shabby clothing. "Libra, I presume? They call me Mind Reader."

  His gaze lingered on Marcus, now ostentatiously poring over Father Franz’s journals. "My lord Marcus! To what do we owe your unprecedented alacrity?"

  The cat didn’t glance up. "The Dominicans’ stink clings to this carrion. 15th-century witch-burners, these zealots. Their ilk fixates on fallen women."

  Mirroring Marcus’s tactful misdirection, Yvette wove her testimony—emphasizing the priest’s sodden cassock, her aborted invitation, the ambush—all facts steering toward self-defense.

  Mind Reader’s lids lowered in scrutiny. When they lifted, verdict shone within: "No falsehood detected. Gardener’s fate was earned."

  Her marrow turned to warm butter.

  "Now, the wound." Marcus materialized on her knees, invasive as a surgeon. "Let’s see what poison our heretic brewed..."

  Through the window, Birmingham’s fog thickened—a veil hiding darker shadows yet unmasked.

  Yvette opened her palm as directed. The cut still glistened wetly, its blood unnerving—it refused to clot, retaining a lurid freshness even after leaving her veins.

  But that wasn’t all. The wound had changed. Radiating from its center were dusk-red crescents beneath the skin, forming a rose-shaped bruise.

  “This wasn’t here before…” She vividly remembered it being a mere pinprick earlier.

  Marcuse the black cat circled her hand, whiskers twitching. “Curious… most curious, meow…”

  “Because it looks unusual?”

  “This isn’t rot or a curse-mark,” he declared, tail swishing. “It bears the hallmarks of Stigmata—divine favor, meow.”

  “Stigmata?”

  “Indeed! Holy wounds that bleed perpetually. The Church has records: St. Francis’s crucifixion scars, St. Elizabeth’s bleeding crosses… Even the doubter’s darling, St. Teresa—when they cut her open, five wounds adorned her heart, meow. Some saints were born transcendents; others ascended after receiving these marks.”

  Yvette shifted uncomfortably. Divine favor? That seemed… improbable.

  “Alas, this strays beyond my expertise, meow~ Wait here, child. I’ll consult London’s archives!” The cat sprang onto the windowsill.

  “But London’s 200 kilometers! If the mind-reader’s busy with cleanup—”

  “Pah! Fares are for mortals, meow! I roam as freely as a spirit!” Marcuse chortled. “Besides, you must stay. The cleanup crew arrives soon—play nice, meow~”

  With a flick of his tail, he vanished into dusk.

  Alone, Yvette studied the rose-shaped mark seeping fresh blood.

  Stigmata. A god’s blessing…

  If this represented favor from an Elder God—Father Franz’s patron deity—why mark his killer? Elder Gods rarely intervened, but this? Unheard of.

  What did it want?

  Exhausted, she fell into feverish dreams.

  She wandered an ancient grove, drawn by phantom whispers and rose-scented breezes. The trees watched; the air hummed with secrets.

  Closer…

  Her palm throbbed. Blood dripped, fragrant as roses.

  Unhealed wounds are doors—gateways to revelation. To open them, you must first open yourself.

  The forest parted. A rose garden sprawled endlessly.

  A woman in blue satin stood there, face blurred yet familiar—a mirror merging her two lives’ features.

  “Who are you?”

  “You made me. Must you ask?” The voice ached with sorrow.

  Moonlight sharpened. The woman’s shadow loomed monstrously as she stepped closer.

  “Gods love their creations. You’re my deity—my architect. You brought me here weeping before machines and masked men… my first memory. Painful, yes, but yours. I exist because of you. Do you love what you’ve made? Even these wounds…”

  Lace sleeves fell back, revealing forearms scarred like pincushions.

  Wounds are portals. Once, tubes pierced your veins—pathways for monsters.

  As bony fingers neared Yvette’s face, a gale shredded the garden. Roses blackened; branches crumbled to mold.

  “Until next time.” The figure dissolved.

  Yvette awoke feverish, head pounding. Nightmares had devoured hours.

  Footsteps creaked upstairs—voices on the dormitory stairs.

  “…Father Franz’s room. Apologies—who visits at midnight?” A drowsy priest led the way. “…Mr. Fisher… Mr. Leslie said you’re London’s finest physician. His illness… contagious…?”

  Sir Ulysses’ voice ice-cut the gloom: “Unseen, but described symptoms suggest a virulent plague.”

  “Plague?!”

  “Quarantine the upper floors. Burn contaminated garments.”

  “At once!”

  The priest’s panicked footsteps retreated.

  Yvette sighed. He’s terrorizing clergy again.

  Steady footsteps climbed to her door.

  Her dizziness lifted. Moonlight framed Sir Ulysses—a figure too celestial for these dingy halls. How had the priest missed it?

  The illusion shattered as he spoke, suddenly every bit the overworked clerk:

  “Should’ve known. Since when does Birmingham fall under our purview?”

  A revered priest’s death required London’s touch—discreetly faking an illness, perhaps. Yet here she was, tangled in divine riddles.

  “It’s… complicated, Sir.”