The dream shattered like soap bubbles. Yvette gagged, clutching her chest, but only a few drops of spittle dripped from her lips.

  Something slippery had slithered up her throat—so why was there nothing to see?

  The phantom that had lunged at her flashed in her memory. The candle on the table hadn’t burned any lower, yet time itself had stretched unnaturally.

  Then, inexplicably, the nightmare realm had dissolved. The manor stood ordinary once more, and the country squires—who’d been frozen like mannequins in the dream—now blinked in confusion, as though roused from deep sleep.

  "Did something just…?"

  "Why did the next course take so blasted long? The clock hasn’t moved!"

  Before they could deliberate further, the vagabond in the paper crown vaulted onto the table. Shrieking with idiot laughter, he began hurling bone-china dishes like a court jester gone berserk.

  "Preposterous!"

  "Restrain that lunatic!"

  Wine and sauces splattered as gentlemen ducked for cover.

  Amid the commotion, Yvette studied the raving madman. The vengeful fury in his eyes had died—along with all trace of reason. Only the slack-jawed vacancy of an asylum inmate remained.

  This wasn’t the real threat.

  She was certain. In the dream, she had faced the true specter. Something had transpired between them—though the memory slipped like a bird through her fingers, leaving only a fleeting impression.

  Then where was it now? Hiding inside her?

  Ignoring protocol, she lunged forward and wrestled the man down as Oleander gawked. "Yves? What’s the meaning of this?"

  With a flick of the White Rabbit’s pocket watch, she tweaked a servant’s recollection. "Gentlemen," the footman announced smoothly, "this gentleman brings urgent tidings that require interrupting your meal."

  "Given this disaster, I daresay it’s beyond salvaging," a squire huffed. "The blackguard must answer for this."

  "Gentlemen," Yvette interjected, binding the captive with torn fabric, "I am acquainted with a Chief Superintendent at Scotland Yard. This wretch matches the description of a fugitive—a madman who slashed a woman in a prior episode. I intervened just in time."

  (Never mind the warrant; Alto could forge one later.)

  "I knew there was something off about him!" her lawyer friend barked. "My gamekeeper caught him filching a lamb, but the proof was scant. And now this!"

  "Shall we summon the constables?"

  "The Metropolitan Police handle his sort. For now, lock him up. I’ll notify my Chief Superintendent—he’ll commend your civic duty in apprehending a violent criminal."

  But before her letter could be sent, two officers in Metropolitan blue arrived.

  "Mr. Fisher?"

  In private, they revealed their true purpose. "Marcus suspects supernatural involvement here—graver than initially reported. Have further anomalies occurred?"

  "An evil spirit possessed this man," Yvette admitted. "His soul is… damaged. I’ve passed him off as an insane fugitive to the locals."

  A psychic among them confirmed her honesty with a nod.

  In the cellar, the hogtied vagabond drooled in stupor.

  "He’s hollow," the specter-specialist murmured, eerie blue eyes gleaming. "This shell barely clings to the invading spirit. A stumble could shake it loose."

  True resurrection was fiendishly complex. Even Winslow’s sorcerer-ancestors—attempting to possess kin for better compatibility—had failed repeatedly. Lorenzo’s possession had been crude, unstable.

  "So this is Lorenzo? A three-century-old ghost?!"

  "Worse—his soul is fraying. One breath from dissipating."

  "Centuries without a body will do that. A naked soul can’t withstand the world’s madness."

  The specialist stayed silent. If Lorenzo was this feeble, how did he seize a host at all?

  Unnoticed, he signaled his partner.

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  "Mr. Fisher," the psychic entreated, gently nudging Yvette’s trust, "we’d appreciate your further input. Accompany us, won’t you?"

  (Mere emotional nudge—not control. But enough to ease compliance.)

  Already trusting them as colleagues, Yvette felt no alarm. "Of course. Happy to assist."

  Relieved, the psychic hid his real concern: Had Lorenzo split his soul, embedding a fragment in her? Safer to take her to the Tower for deeper scrutiny.

  But soul-scars were no trifle. Field agents already resented these examinations—especially since so many, steeped in eldritch horrors, developed… unsanctioned fascinations. The foam-melting customs officer incident had only deepened the rift between field ops and desk jockeys.

  Let the Tower decide.

  Thus, unsuspecting, Yvette rode to the Tower. She was housed comfortably—questioned daily, though after the first session, her interrogators seemed disinterested. Upon asking when she’d be released, they demurred: "A few more details…"

  ...

  "Meow?! Over my dead body!" Marcus’s tail bristled like a chimney brush as he smacked the table.

  "Necessary precautions," a bishop countered. "Lorenzo was a Cardinal, dabbling in the forbidden. We cannot risk even a shred of his essence surviving. This agent’s safety is our priority—minor soul-wounds heal, but corruption does not."

  The Conclave—an echo of the Church’s old hierarchy, now blending clergy and MPs—voted without Marcus’s input. The Pontifex observed, silent.

  "Do not let personal bonds impair judgment," a bishop chided as they dispersed.

  Grumbling, Marcus stalked to his carriage. His apprentice read his mood instantly. "You’re livid, Master Marcus?"

  "Imbeciles. Hmph. I’ll fix this…" His tail lashed. "To Hampstead Heath! Now, meow!"

  “I understand,” Ulysses replied calmly, after the black cat Marcus had finished his explanation.

  “Listen, mon ami—you haven’t the faintest idea what Albion’s deepest mental interrogations entail,” Marcus purred, tail twitching. “The Holy Penitentiary isn’t some polite confessional. Some of those bastards have vile dispositions. Consider yourself warned.”

  The Holy Penitentiary…

  An ancient institution, secretly operating since the days of the Roman Papacy. A tribunal for sins too monstrous for public trial—or for sins committed by those too powerful to prosecute openly. It dealt in confessions, in whispered penance.

  And beneath that veneer, something darker lurked: a shadow court for the supernatural. If the surface-level Penitentiary sought truth through secrecy, its hidden counterpart dug—clawing through the psyche for buried transgressions.

  Marcus himself had been its guest once, after his curse transformed him into a cat. The unprecedented nature of his condition had demanded examination. Fortunately, feline minds processed trauma differently—what would’ve shattered a man left only dull scars on him. Still, even a creature as jaded as Marcus found the experience… unpleasant.

  “Noted. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Tch.” With a disdainful flick of his tail, Marcus vanished out the window, landing neatly atop his apprentice’s waiting carriage.

  When he was gone, Winslow turned to Ulysses, his unease palpable. “Sir… I’ve been to that place.” He didn’t wait for acknowledgment before continuing, voice low. “Centuries ago, an ancestor of mine—a sorcerer—sought immortality by binding his soul to a painting. He meant to possess a descendant with strong potential… and in the end, he chose me.” A shudder. “Even now, it’s a nightmare to remember. I don’t know how I kept my mind intact.”

  Winslow had won, but the haunting drew the Inquisition’s eye. Suspecting lingering possession, they’d sent him to the Penitentiary. “They delighted in breaking me. Dug through every shame—asked if I lusted for my own sister, my mother, demanded details of my first…” He swallowed. “They’d show no mercy to a lady. She cannot go there.”

  Ulysses needed no warning. He knew precisely why the Penitentiary’s psychics were so twisted. Reading minds wasn’t like reading books—it was living another’s torment. To avoid losing themselves, they lashed out—humiliating their subjects, reinforcing their own superiority.

  The Church turned a blind eye. Psychics were rare; without an outlet, the strain of their work would drive them mad.

  Besides, the supernatural world’s cohesion hinged on compromise. Like Sparta, like Venice, like Parliament’s victory over the Stuarts—power was a balancing act. The Holy See led, yet the College of Bishops decided policy, delegating execution by bloodline. (The Rosicrucian investigations, for instance, always fell to Dame Char’s lineage—disrupt that, and Albion’s ties to Europe’s occult would fray.)

  Ulysses understood all this better than Winslow. And he had other reasons—far graver—to keep Yvette from their grasp.

  But his solution wasn’t one he could share.

  “My automaton prepared an unmarked carriage,” Winslow murmured later. “Behind the largest plane tree in the side garden.”

  Ulysses raised a brow. “I never asked for one.”

  “You’ll need it.” A weary smile. “Call it intuition.”

  Too damn perceptive.

  By the time Winslow returned with the mail, both Ulysses and the carriage were gone.

  ……

  “She won’t enter the Holy Penitentiary.”

  The Pontiff startled at Ulysses’ uncharacteristic bluntness.

  “The College voted unanimously. They fear Lorenzo’s influence lingers—and my attendants will ensure her dignity.”

  “Irrelevant,” Ulysses countered. “If Lorenzo is hiding within her, your psychics might uncover forbidden knowledge. Their faith wouldn’t survive it.”

  The Pontiff stilled. “His research involves… core secrets?”

  Ulysses gave a terse nod. (Among the Trinity sects, even the Eucharist’s form—leavened or unleavened—masked deeper schisms. The why of ancient taboos had been lost… perhaps deliberately.)

  “But the edict stands. What do you propose?”

  “Override it. Have Spindle examine her instead—if Lorenzo’s threads bind her, they’ll show.”

  “The College demands concessions,” the Pontiff admitted. Some feared Lorenzo’s ghost; others simply coveted his secrets. Even if Spindle—his own kin—volunteered, the College would refuse, citing her fragile health.

  But Ulysses had anticipated this.

  “A secret, then.” His tone was casual. “One they’ve long sought.”

  The Pontiff’s breath hitched. “…If you’re willing.”

  A passing cloud dimmed the stained-glass light, its radiance darkening to aged gemstone hues.

  “Reincarnation.” Ulysses’ voice was quiet. “The doctrine is half-truth. When we die, it’s as pouring a cup’s water into a well. No scoop thereafter—ever—will hold the same.”

  The Trinity faith had once accepted rebirth. (Scriptures spoke of souls perfecting themselves across lifetimes—later purged, though Egypt and India’s traditions still whispered of it.) Most supernaturals believed they’d return, embracing mortality over corruption’s oblivion.

  Now, Ulysses sundered that hope.

  The Pontiff closed his eyes. “…So we are merely mortal after all.”

  “Will this suffice?”

  “It must. But I’ll offer another secret—one from my family’s vaults—instead.” His jaw tightened. Ulysses’ truth was too devastating to reveal.