"Bitter Road" visibly wavered. He quickly wiped his hands on the tablecloth and coughed with an awkward expression of feigned nonchalance. "Ahem... This... this substance appears somewhat suspicious. It's used in certain ancient rituals of heterodox beliefs or witch's potion recipes."

  Yvette didn't pursue the topic. They found several boxes of pills and ointments in the drawer beneath the workbench, with elegant handwriting on the labels clearly done by a woman. Most were labeled things like "Universal Wound Ointment" or "Cough Reliever Pills," except for half a bottle of black bean-sized tablets marked "For Benjamin."

  Who was this Benjamin? To have earned the privilege of customized medicine from Miss Hedges.

  After thoroughly searching the house and testing suspicious areas with potion that detected supernatural energy fluctuations—perhaps too much time had passed—they found no further clues. Collecting the ampoule containing indescribable blood samples, the pills, and that strange empty set of clothes, they prepared to leave.

  But as they locked the front door, a figure howled and lunged at them.

  "Who are you? Why are you here?! Where is she? Where is she?! Tell me!!!"

  Perhaps perceiving "Bitter Road" as the greater threat, the figure first attacked the priest who resembled a tall grown man. "Bitter Road" responded by grabbing his cane and delivering a merciless blow to the assailant's abdomen with the hilt. As the man doubled over like a shrimp, another strike landed on his back, finally dropping him to the ground, moaning in pain while regurgitating stomach contents.

  Yvette winced at the sight...

  The pungent alcohol smell in the air told her the man had only vomited watered-down liquor. His clothes, though wrinkled, were well-tailored from decent fabric—not the cheap industrial "one-size" rags or secondhand items worn by the lower class. His brown hair contained stray husks, and his wrists bore shackle marks...

  A drunkard fresh from the holding cell? Who went straight back to drinking upon release?

  Wait—brown hair, blue eyes.

  [The drunken disheveled man had blue eyes, brown curly hair, and a broad chin with a cleft...]

  Examining his features, though twisted in pain, Yvette recognized the troublemaker described by the apothecary.

  "Sir, forgive my friend's roughness, though you did attack first." She crouched, extending a hand with a peaceful smile. "You came for medicine too, didn't you? But believe me, we've no connection to that swindler—we're victims like you."

  "Lies!" The man's face flushed crimson as if insulted. "She'd never cheat anyone! She must be in danger—kidnapped... Yes! That's it! Otherwise why wouldn't she see me?!"

  "You knew Miss Hedges? Frankly, we placed medicine orders that she vanished with days ago. Only a con artist would abscond like this."

  "How much? I'll repay!" He frantically emptied his pockets, muttering, "Where's my money? Spent already? Or stolen at the damned station... No matter, I've more at home—"

  "Wait, sir. This isn't so simple. How do I know you're not her accomplice? Even friends don't repay swindled money unprompted. Suppose a critically ill patient died from delayed treatment? That's beyond compensation—it's a life lost, a family ruined." Yvette rebutted sternly. "The landlord confirmed the apothecary vanished a week ago, leaving belongings. This warrants court judgment—publicizing her crimes nationwide, then auctioning her possessions to compensate victims."

  "You can't! It'll ruin her! I'll pay extra—just give her time! She's not that kind of person!" He struggled up desperately.

  Precisely hitting his vulnerable spot, Yvette led him to a café where he divulged useful clues after collecting himself.

  The man introduced himself as Benjamin—a bestselling writer of trivial "guides" on living and cooking, who'd suffered hereditary asthma since childhood. When it flared last year, Miss Hedges' medicine helped immediately, so he became a regular client. Eventually, he fell hopelessly for the lone apothecary. After a nervous confession, they became lovers.

  Before her disappearance, he'd repeatedly proposed cohabitation, which she always refused.

  Here, Benjamin smiled bitterly: "Looking back, perhaps she didn't love me as I thought. Why refuse living together? Maybe I should reassess this relationship..."

  Exchanging cards, the exhausted Benjamin departed, leaving Yvette and "Bitter Road" over coffee.

  "His change was abrupt—from lovestruck to disillusioned in under thirty minutes. Was it the sobering pain and vomiting?" Yvette mused.

  "Another possibility." The priest produced Benjamin's pill bottle. "Answers may lie here."

  They visited a noted chemist's lab—an alchemist Yvette recognized from newspaper articles but never knew belonged to the supernatural world.

  "My 'inner circle' friend can test these," "Bitter Road" explained.

  The Germanic-featured foreigner replied in accented Albionese: "Fine, fine. After that cursed amber with insect eggs hatched unnoticed in my lab—had you not intervened promptly, destroying both my research and landing me in prison—I owe you this small favor."

  Dissolving pills in a crucible, adding reagents, then distilling over eerie green flames, he extracted lingering crimson vapor.

  "A witch's love potion, using hair or menstrual blood as medium. Makes the consumer obsess over the brewer temporarily."

  "Naturally." "Bitter Road" appeared unsurprised. "Classic witchcraft. The blood-filled ampoules I found confirmed suspicions."

  "London forbids supernatural powers used on commoners, no? That poor woman faces imprisonment," the alchemist remarked.

  "She vanished before we arrived—evaded us," said "Bitter Road," thanking him before explaining to Yvette: "Miss Hedges was a witch posing as an apothecary who fell for a mortal writer. Using infamous love potions disguised as medicine, she sought to bear his child. When her kin learned this would bring disaster and warned her, the stubborn witch tried exposing them to mortal scrutiny to stop interference—hence your club's plea letters. But they saw through her, confronted her, and took her away, then canceled the pleas impersonating her.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Both Miss Hedges and the impostor share the 'vanishing within clothes' ability—proof of shared bloodline. Their acquaintance explains the hasty departure without struggle."

  Lacking contradictory evidence, Yvette conceded this plausible theory.

  "...I'll monitor this area. Should Miss Hedges reappear, I'll arrest her immediately. Thank you for your assistance. For any future troubles, find me at St. Thomas' Church in my parish."

  As the incident caused no public uproar and Benjamin would recover post-withdrawal—though losing his fiancée and happy marriage—it was fortunate compared to most supernatural encounters. Finding no fault with this resolution, Yvette agreed.

  Yet that night, a strange dream visited her—a revelation of moonlit paths leading to an ancient, tranquil mountain village.

  The world in the dream was shrouded in a dark canopy. The bright full moon hung high in the night sky as Yvette walked alone along a narrow path, surrounded by dense woods and meadows. Perhaps the foliage was too thick—it tangled and devoured the moonlight like the very essence of darkness itself, leaving only a pale path that extended endlessly, its origin and destination unknown.

  From the thickets behind her, the hooting of an owl echoed through the trees like fragmented whispers. Rational thought insisted she had no business lingering in such a dubious place, yet like all dreams, her actions followed an inexplicable logic. As if compelled by some unseen force, she moved forward without hesitation.

  The path seemed endless. After what felt like an eternity, she arrived at a quiet village. Ancient houses nestled among shrubs and green grass, their stone fences half-hidden by ivy. At the center of the cottages stood a small church, its pointed spire adorned with lattice windows and a cross, piercing the sky.

  “Come closer.”

  It was a voice she heard as if in a half-dream—familiar, yet maddeningly elusive. A thin film of forgotten memory stretched like a bubble, easily burst, yet she made no effort to break it.

  The voice called from somewhere far ahead, beyond the village. As though entranced, she obeyed, moving toward it. Strangely, the closer she got to the village, the more the path decayed. Twigs and vines like spindly arms stretched from the surrounding trees, tangling around her ankles, hindering her steps.

  Thorny brambles scratched her feet and calves, drawing blood that trickled down her skin, soaking her stockings and shoes.

  She staggered forward with difficulty, the path now completely obscured by dense undergrowth. The branches twisted like spiderwebs, rejecting her as fiercely as they did the moonlight.

  “Just a little further,” the voice urged.

  If her limbs were obstacles, then—

  She felt her arms and legs begin to melt. Her spine stretched, elongated, while her skin hardened into scales. Her body slithered like a supple whip. She remembered her waking form—one that walked upright, distanced from danger—yet now, she yielded to an ineffable call, winding her serpentine body through the labyrinth of branches.

  Her new form allowed her to pass unscathed, her gemlike scales gleaming, impervious to the feeble thorns. Her amber, slit-pupiled eyes swept over the village—over the low cottages, the modest hedgerows, the moss-eaten stone walls, the abandoned dresses strewn upon the ground. As she passed a well, she glimpsed inside: hundreds of nameless worms floated in its depths, pale and bloated like drowned corpses.

  Almost there...

  Beyond the village, beneath the silver moonlight, a dark lake rested in a hollow below the hill where she now perched. A girl in a dress stood at its shore. Hearing the sound of Yvette’s approach, the girl turned slowly, revealing a face eerily similar to her own.

  “It’s been a while… Though you never knew I existed. Have you been well?”

  Yvette flicked her tongue—she could not answer in this form, but it hardly mattered. She understood.

  “Yes… Compared to before, things here are much better. I’ve always been with you. Since you came to this world, most days have been bright. He called you. You followed His will, walked this world, drank the blood of His enemies, tasted ripe souls, letting sinners find refuge in your stomach. That’s what you did. And through you, I savored it all.”

  “I know you love this world, despite its flaws. But now, you must come here—for a seed that should never have been planted. It is nearly ripe, and neither you nor I wish for it to bear fruit.”

  “Come. But let no one know.”

  Her diminished mind struggled to grasp the meaning, but before she could, the tranquil lake seethed. Icy waters surged past the girl’s skirts, silencing her voice.

  In the next instant, the girl burst into scattered petals, her empty dress swallowed by the waters. The village, as though repulsed, had cast out what it despised.

  Yet Yvette knew—the girl had always been with her.

  At the last flicker of consciousness, she raised her head, hissing, twisting her sinuous body to glance back at the village hidden in the trees.

  I know... Soon, I will return.

  Morning.

  Yvette sat up in the soft cotton blankets. The bedding, freshly sun-dried in the countryside and delivered weekly, carried the scent of sunlight—yet beneath it, she caught the faintest whiff of flowers.

  …Roses?

  Rubbing her eyes, she found a delicate petal in her palm—fresh and fragrant, as though plucked from a garden and slipped to her, dew still clinging to it.

  I had a dream about roses… Something was calling me.

  “Alison—have the recent flower deliveries included roses?” she asked as her maid’s familiar footsteps approached outside.

  As was customary for the era, her household subscribed to a florist, ensuring fresh bouquets daily for the vases in the family’s quarters. Floral scents were believed to be beneficial for health, especially in London’s foul air.

  “Recently? No, I don’t think so. The past few days, we’ve had seasonal blooms—narcissus, calla lilies, orchids, marigolds. Would you like me to request roses?” Alison replied.

  “No, just wondering.”

  At breakfast, she let Eddie—the young werewolf with keen senses—sniff the petal, testing whether a rogue rose might have slipped into the household amidst the florist’s goods. Though given its freshness, the possibility was slim.

  Eddie sniffed around and shook his head. Nothing.

  So, the dream wasn’t ordinary…

  After breakfast, Yvette sat at her desk, inhaling the rose’s scent, and the dream’s details sharpened. Dipping her pen in ink, she began sketching—a path half-buried in foliage, a deserted village, dense woods everywhere.

  Though merely black and white, the drawing resurrected her memory. Her gaze traced the moonlit path into the village, and she started a second sketch: cottages, hedges, a stone wall, and an old well. Drawing the well stirred an inexplicable revulsion. Almost absently, she added empty dresses strewn about, their lifeless forms reminiscent of what she’d seen in the apothecary’s rented rooms.

  After that, she seemed to have traversed the village.

  Lifting the second sketch, Yvette nearly set it aside to make room for the next when something felt… off.

  While drawing, she hadn’t noticed. Now, seeing the full composition, the perspective was disorienting—as though she’d been crouched low, peering up at the towering cottages.

  Unsettled, she started her third sketch: a lakeshore, broad and open, where a girl in a long dress stood with her back turned.

  Gazing at that silhouette sent a dull pain humming in her skull—like an overloaded fuse, or a canary warning of toxic gas in a mine. Don’t look. Don’t think.

  Then why did something irresistibly draw her to find that village?

  And those scattered clothes—what link did they have to Miss Hedges’ disappearance? Had yesterday’s events triggered this strange dream, offering her some hidden insight?

  Unanswerable.

  Regardless, the apothecary’s case was more peculiar than she’d thought. A dream like this was unprecedented—Yvette knew she had to tread carefully.

  She revisited the pharmacy where Miss Hedges had worked, asking the proprietor about her hometown. The answer was vague: a place in Cumberland, perhaps called Furness or Foulness? To confirm, she slipped into Hedges’ rented rooms, sifting through the letters in her desk box. Most were from London customers—orders or thank-you notes—with nothing from Cumberland.

  Strange. If that was truly her home, why had she never written to family in all her London years?

  Then Yvette noticed: none of the envelopes bore stamps. Where they’d been affixed, faint water stains lingered—as though someone had soaked them off carefully.

  Following the clue, she searched the shelves and found an album of collected stamps.

  Here, flipping through, she spotted several from a Cumberland postmark: Furness.

  Miss Hedges’ letter box was large, holding correspondence from three or four years prior—yet not a single family letter. And though newer Cumberland stamps existed, none were preserved.

  She must have burned them.