That night, Julie failed to return home, sending only the bewildered coachman back with vague excuses about an impromptu celebration at the telegraph company hosted by prominent figures—including a certain Mr. Fisher, the professor’s former pupil and Julie’s acquaintance—which supposedly ensured her safety.

  Mr. Fisher? The professor’s stomach lurched. While he wouldn’t object to a match between the aristocratic youth and his daughter, this sudden development reeked of impropriety. Had the boy compromised Julie’s virtue? He wracked his memory for gossip about Fisher’s character, dreading evidence of rakish tendencies.

  A sleepless night left him haggard by dawn, too distracted for his usual ritual of breakfast and newspaper. He abandoned his morning mail untouched, downed bitter coffee, and trudged toward the university.

  At the campus gates, a colleague’s peculiar demeanor gave him pause. Professor Adkins practically vibrated with excitement, waving that morning’s Times like a victory flag.

  "Orwell! My dear fellow, who’d have imagined our staid faculty harbored such romantic revolutionaries? Upon my soul, I’m still aglow!"

  "Revolutionaries?" The professor blinked. Had the Crown secretly awarded him some undeserved medal?

  "Spare us the false humility! All London’s abuzz about Julie’s telegraph wedding!"

  Wedding? The professor’s knees buckled. Had Fisher been pressured into marriage by court scandal? But no priest would solemnize vows without parental consent unless— His vision blurred as the headline seared into his retinas:

  Historic “Electric Nuptials” Unite Sweethearts Across Borders

  Below, a photograph showed Julie in bridal lace, fingers flying over a telegraph key, flanked by Albion’s elite. The subheading named the groom: Eric Chatham.

  Chatham? Not Fisher?

  Scanning the column, his blood iced over at the words "reformed convict" and "notorious fraud." His daughter had married a charlatan.

  "My glasses..." he croaked, though his vision was sharp enough to parse every damning syllable. Frost licked at the winter air, yet his skin burned with humiliation.

  Adkins guided him to a bench and read aloud with gusto, oblivious to his colleague’s ashen complexion.

  The ceremony, it transpired, had been conducted across two kingdoms via Morse code. While Chatham and a Scottish minister exchanged vows in Gretna Green’s infamous anvil church—where runaway couples famously wed under Calvinist rites requiring neither banns nor parental consent—Julie transmitted her responses from London’s Central Telegraph Office before England’s most powerful witnesses.

  "Gretna Green!" the professor spat. "That den of vice where papist loopholes and Calvinist heresy conspire to defile decent English maidens!"

  Adkins continued detailing how Chatham had wooed Julie with wordplay about limbless beggars, making the professor shudder. Worse followed: a guest list dripping with titles that seared like branding irons—his family’s reputation was forfeit.

  Then came the aristocracy’s curated praise, led by the Duke of Lancaster’s rhapsodic endorsement :

  "Chatham exemplifies youthful genius—his intellect and honor promise greatness. His union with Miss Orwell seems ordained by Providence itself, eclipsing even our telegraph’s marvels..."

  The professor’s outrage faltered. Royal approbation was armor against gossip.

  Julie’s interview salvaged remaining dignity:

  "Father’s objections stemmed from concern—both for my future widowhood and for abusing company resources. But Mr. Wheatstone himself proclaimed telegraphs exist to spread happiness..."

  Relief unknotted the professor’s shoulders. "Still, causing colleagues extra work..." he demurred, inviting admiration for his "selflessness."

  Meanwhile, Julie departed a ladies’ boardinghouse, clasping Yvette’s hands.

  "You’re my fairy godmother," she whispered. "When I signaled ‘I do,’ the wires exploded with congratulations—like the whole empire toasted us!"

  Yvette smiled. "People cherish love stories. Why else does Shakespeare endure?"

  "But Father—"

  "—needed time. Morning tempers cooler than midnight storms."

  As Julie kissed her cheek, a carriage arrived bearing the professor homeward. Upon spotting Julie, his stern facade crumbled:

  "This... Chatham. Does he...?"

  Golden sunset gilded their reconciliation as they stepped inside.

  Julie and Chartem's telegraph wedding became the talk of London—a scandal sensational enough to draw the Church's notice.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  At Canterbury Cathedral, several bishops stormed into the archbishop's study, brandishing a newspaper. "Your Grace!" one exclaimed. "This outrage cannot stand! That vulgar contraption at the telegraph office has defied holy authority by uniting a lady of standing with some reprobate—without our sanction!"

  The archbishop cleared his throat. He'd received word of this beforehand—an upstanding organizational ally wished to marry the girl. "All unfolds by divine will," he said evenly. "If the telegraph exists, Providence ordained it. This is no cause for alarm."

  "But—"

  "'He decrees rain,'" the archbishop quoted, "'and paths for thunderstorms. Can you command lightning's journey? Their words ring to the world's ends.'" Scriptural passages shimmered with telegraphic foresight.

  Understanding dawned. Lightning carried God's voice; the telegraph merely channeled it. Better to claim this marvel as holy than fight its tide.

  "Still," the archbishop added, "while we allow this exception, we must curb libertines exploiting innocents. At Parliament, I'll propose requiring three weeks' residency for Scottish weddings."

  This later 19th-century reform addressed girls like Pride and Prejudice's Lydia Bennet—lured by rakes to Gretna Green. Jane Austen's inclusion of such ruinous elopements reflected grim reality. The cooling-off period let passion burn out; if couples still wed after three weeks, so be it.

  The bishops departed, satisfied.

  Alone, the archbishop sighed. Aristotle warned: revealing nature's secrets eroded divine mystery. Since the Enlightenment, scripture's miracles became mortal feats. How long could faith's veil hold?

  ...

  Randall's request for Chippendale furniture under Montagu's name drew eager dealers. Some pieces matched Yvette's clues—originating in Ascot.

  Via telegram, Yvette arranged to buy "shelf decorations" from the same dealer. There, she discovered the telegrapher's inspiration—a plain manuscript overlooked by wealthy collectors seeking gaudy, jeweled covers to feign aristocratic heritage.

  She also grabbed cheap antiquities for Mr. White, her finicky rabbit. Since accepting the handkerchief, it had snubbed all offerings. Maybe antiques would tempt it.

  That evening, she arrayed the trinkets before the rabbit. It remained stoic as a saint resisting bribes.

  "Starve then," Yvette huffed, reaching for a pendant.

  Suddenly, the rabbit lunged, snatching a half-sovereign from her purse and gulping it down.

  Zott had given her this coin from the stolen ring's pittance—she'd accepted to avoid suspicion.

  "Thrice-sworn silver," the rabbit intoned, its clock advancing one minute.

  Three frauds? Yvette traced its path: the fence swindling Zott about the ring's "flaws"; likely two prior scams. (Her own mild deception didn't count—she wasn't really a swindler.) She stuffed the rabbit away crossly.

  Now, the manuscript. Just a few pages to verify—returning the wrong book would humiliate her.

  Medieval mystics wrote in ciphers to avoid burning. These codes, unlike metaphors, revealed precise meanings once decoded—as Chartem had shown her.

  But as she reached for it, the book slid mysteriously off the table. Her physics intuition prickled—that shouldn't happen.

  Like finding those Lancaster books, something drew her in...

  The decrypted text pulsed with despair: deities doomed even beloved heroes. Zeus favored Hector, Achilles, Troy itself—all fell. Gods toyed with mortals like pieces on a board, granting fleeting glory before inevitable ruin.

  Yvette had pored over every myth about the Serpent God. In every tale, It was either an apocalyptic horror or the sworn enemy of some pantheon’s chief deity. Even the few tribes who worshipped It—like the near-exterminated natives of the New World—never received so much as a whisper in reply.

  After the conquest of the Americas, occult scholars studying looted relics found their power negligible, dismissing the Feathered Serpent as a dead god or a glorified minion. Even Marcus the Black Cat had remarked that Yvette might be the only living disciple left.

  Only Yvette knew the truth: The Serpent God was real, immeasurably vast—and It simply didn’t care.

  So why had It chosen her? Was Its goal truly to gift her fleeting glory before scripting some theatrical doom, as the texts hinted?

  Memories nested like drawers in a cabinet, and one held her deepest dread—locked in a casket, tucked in the darkest corner.

  She didn’t remember closing the book or drifting into uneasy sleep, but she dreamed of falling—plummeting into the abyssal pupil of a serpent’s eye, molten gold and burning.

  Beyond that impossible pupil, a mist-cloaked manor materialized. The entrance mirrored her current home’s, complete with the tasseled bell rope, polished brass handle, and plane tree leaves strewn about the steps. But the rest warped into something grotesque, towers and spires sprouting wildly from its silhouette like a stitched-town nightmare.

  Compelled, Yvette tugged the bell rope. A blurred yet familiar maid answered, smiling like vapor. "Welcome home, Master."

  Inside, the servants’ wing had mutated. Endless corridors displayed paintings—mostly hollow black frames, save for eerie portraits. One painting writhed with crescent-eyed, grinning silhouettes feasting at a banquet table. The centerpiece: a severed head, its face heartbreakingly familiar.

  The image dredged up something foul—like disturbing silt in clear water.

  "Doctor Leptun cherished this memory," the maid explained. "He hung it to commemorate his sins being forgiven."

  Leptun? Then what had happened after she’d handed him to the Duke—

  A bloodied surgeon emerged, tray in hand. "This area isn’t for you, Master," he chided gently.

  The maid sniffed. "About time. Mr. Redbreast’s screeching was unbearable."

  Yvette’s stomach lurched. The maid’s face clarified—Miss Moore, the monstrous maid she’d captured, who’d died in custody. Inside, a bisected red-haired man lay on an operating table, jaw and throat excised, glaring despite his wounds.

  She’d killed him during the Star-Seekers case.

  "You—you’re dead!" Her hand flew to absent weapons.

  "The soul’s a treasure in a worthless vessel," the surgeon said calmly. "You just stripped our rot away and clad us in eternity. You are the Gate, the Blade, the All-in-One who redeems."

  Madness.

  Yvette recoiled—straight into a woman descending the stairs. Herself.

  "I thought you were new," the other her sighed. "You shouldn’t be here. Not while sane."

  A gust slammed her outside as the double murmured, "Our minds can’t bear the truth yet."

  —

  Morning found Yvette unsteady, her nerves still raw.

  A letter arrived: Today, the Organization would retrieve the books. Though she’d barred Alison and Eddie from her room, the grimoire’s allure worried her.

  The stack seemed intact, but glimpsing it sent a mental jolt, like her brain rejecting poisonous knowledge. Thank hell I didn’t read it.

  The clerk arrived pre-breakfast. Eddie fled upstairs; Alison ushered him in.

  "Chartem cooperated—all suspect texts are here," Yvette said, nodding at the box.

  "Well done. Heard it’s hazardous material. About what?"

  "No clue. Didn’t peek."

  The clerk, a human lie detector, relaxed at her honesty. "Prudent," he praised before leaving.

  At London Tower, researchers pored over