The nobles of Albion all liked to boast that their ancestors were knights. As inheritors of chivalry, their love for horses naturally came first. Many nobles, even when traveling more than ten miles by carriage, would switch to renting a carriage to avoid overworking their own horses.

  Yvette was currently riding in a rented carriage, with the coachman driving while muttering, "It's a good thing no one noticed us."

  "Those people... do they attack passersby?" Yvette asked, seeing how the crowd was worked up into a frenzy, with the speaker's extremist rhetoric finding fervent agreement in their collective hysteria.

  "I haven’t heard of any gentlemen getting hurt yet, but it’s always better to be careful. Another coachman told me about a passenger who got stopped by them in the middle of the road for a solid hour, unable to leave until they forced him to 'give them an explanation'—only dispersing when the police arrived."

  "Why are there so many street gatherings this year?" Yvette remembered there were far fewer last year; clearly, something had changed.

  "Last year, the Queen ascended to the throne and granted amnesty to some prisoners—many of them were key figures among the laborers, arrested for inciting unrest. Now they’re just picking up where they left off... Plus, there’s been some other trouble..."

  "Other trouble?"

  "During last year’s parliamentary session, a petition with over two hundred thousand signatures was submitted, demanding the repeal of the Poor Law Amendment Act. Two powdered and bewigged gentlemen very politely took the petition... and then nothing ever came of it. I imagine those workers felt they’d been made fools of."

  The Poor Law Amendment Act was recently passed legislation in Albion, based on the belief that aiding the poor only encouraged idleness, so outdoor relief was abolished. If the poor needed help, they had to be confined in workhouses like prisons—families forcibly separated, given just enough food to stave off starvation, and subjected to grueling labor that would slowly sap their vitality.

  The amendment had an immediate effect: only the desperate would now seek help, while the government eagerly rounded up vagrants and threw them into workhouses.

  Yvette had the carriage stop outside the Labyrinth of Thoughts Club, then went upstairs to her usual spot. Clubs were practically the entirety of Albion’s male social life, and prominent members often claimed a personal seat—whether to join in conversation or retreat into solitude.

  This time, Yvette joined the general gathering, listening to idle chatter.

  Though it was a reasoning enthusiasts’ club, topics ranged from polo and politics to gossip about high society or even bawdy discussions of women. With the recent surge in street protests, the subject inevitably came up.

  From their conversations, Yvette glimpsed the true face of Albion’s aristocracy—stubborn, rigid, and unyielding to the point of stupidity.

  Many had relatives (or were themselves) in government or Parliament, yet the recent labor unrest barely registered as a mild inconvenience—nothing could disrupt their tranquil, privileged lives. In short: not my problem.

  In contrast, newspapers were ablaze with denunciations. Unlike the nobility, media was largely controlled by capitalists, who panicked and demanded immediate government action to ban street gatherings—for "public safety."

  "I believe the people have the right to assemble. Banning protests will make it seem we’re losing freedom of speech."

  "It’s gotten out of hand. These disturbances could erode the very fabric of our society."

  "That’s just newspaper fearmongering. Let me see what lies they’re peddling today—" This came from a sharp-tongued gentleman, currently his uncle’s private secretary in Parliament (a prestigious political apprenticeship). He unfolded a paper and mockingly read aloud: "The government weakly permits lawless mobs to endanger society—an utter crime! They should be afraid, for marauding rabble will drench their hatred in blood..." He snorted. "Lying scoundrels spewing garbage from what they call brains. If they want to stop street politics, they should repent first. I haven’t forgotten how they clawed their way into power six years ago."

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  This referred to 1832, when capitalists manipulated workers' demonstrations to force electoral reform, winning parliamentary seats—only to turn on their former allies. Naturally, the aristocracy despised such tactics.

  As Yvette had heard workers sing in the streets: "They preached liberty for all mankind—now they shackle even thought."

  Most nobles simply watched the feud between these two despised groups, mildly concerned about disruptions to commerce (and thus their rents). But business was beneath them—they knew trade greased society’s wheels, yet deemed it unfit for their class. Soon, conversation veered to gossip: an eighty-year-old dowager, blind and frail, still insisted on fox hunting—strapped to her saddle with an assistant shouting "Mind the hedge, madam!"

  No wonder they’d be ousted from power within a century. They were simply too idle.

  Yvette suddenly wondered: if this world mirrored her own, would the Great War happen eighty years hence? The bourgeoisie, now a lapdog at the nobles’ table, was growing fangs—learning deceit as if born to it. History books read: "War brings profit to monopolists, suffering to nations."

  By then, the aristocracy would be hollowed out, clinging to romantic chivalry. "If I had twenty sons and any shirked battle, I’d disown him!" one lord had declared. But chivalry was dead. Capitalists draped in "patriotism" fed an entire generation into the meat grinder—nobles dying at higher rates than commoners, ancient lineages wiped out.

  To Yvette, aristocrats were parasites—yet their successors were bloodthirsty ghouls. Left unchecked, this world could repeat history’s mistakes.

  Perhaps... she ought to act?

  Just then, Antiaris approached her: "Datura, are you free this afternoon?"

  "What’s the matter?" Yvette noticed his unease.

  "My sister and her friends are shopping on Regent Street. With the unrest—a friend of my father was mobbed for an hour—she wants male escort. I’m... not good with such things. Would you come?"

  Clearly, his sister Veronica’s friends were young ladies. For a socially awkward writer, this was torture.

  "You look pale—are you unwell?"

  "Just the wind. I’m fine." (Two sleepless nights would exhaust anyone.) But she’d manage—and probe Antiaris on her questions.

  "My brother is utterly hopeless. If this keeps up, I’ll start doubting he’ll ever get engaged..." Veronica sighed, lounging in a tailor’s shop with the exasperation of a mother despairing over her wayward son.

  Yvette chuckled faintly. Initially, she and Yew Wood had stood silently as chaperones before retreating to flip through newspapers they’d bought outside.

  But soon Veronica—who moved like a spring gale—had nudged her tongue-tied brother toward her friend, stealing his spot next to Yvette.

  The girl’s starry-eyed gaze betrayed her admiration for Yew Wood. Defying Albion’s norms of feminine reserve, she kept initiating conversation, only for him to derail each attempt with masterful awkwardness.

  "Honestly!" Veronica groaned, shielding her eyes. "Where’s the wit he pours into his novels? Every reply is ‘Quite nice’—he’ll mortify her at this rate. If he hasn’t already."

  Turning to Yew Wood’s stoic colleague, she pressed, "Mr. Fisher, be frank—what topics do hold his interest? Books like this?" She nodded at the volume Yvette held, its cover stamped with Leviathan.

  "A monster story?"

  "Metaphorical. In scripture, Leviathan is the primordial sea beast, sovereign of the proud—‘none so fearless on earth.’ The author wields it as metaphor for the state."

  Veronica blinked. "A political theory?"

  "On power’s essence. It argues humans, born equal yet war-prone, rationally yield some freedoms to a sovereign via social contract, forging collective security. That concentration of authority—their ‘Leviathan’—prevents anarchy."

  "Bold! Given the year"—she squinted at the cover’s 1651 imprint—"did the Church brand him a heretic?"

  "Oddly, no. The king protected him. Albion was feuding with Rome then, and while the book refuted divine right, its advocacy for iron-fisted rule pleased the crown."

  "You read such heavy tomes daily?" Veronica sighed. "They steer us toward light literature—claiming women’s minds are too fragile for philosophy."

  "Rubbish," Yvette scoffed. "Her Majesty keeps this very book."

  "No arguing with that," Veronica laughed.

  Their lunch venue—an exotic eatery—catered mainly to colonial traders craving spices absent in Albion’s bland fare. Traditionalists deemed even French cuisine decadent; South Asian dishes were beyond the pale.

  Booked discreetly (no chaperones would condone this), the group had secured the top floor. Waiters scurried under the manager’s watchful eye, ferrying curries aromatic with turmeric and cinnamon.

  "—Spicy," gasped Veronica’s friend, gulping water.

  "I warned you to ask for the mild version!" Veronica, retreating to desserts, eyed Yvette’s composure as she ate. "Yves, you handle this like a seasoned colonial."

  "Perks of dining at Windsor."

  "The queen favors curry?"

  "Hardly. But as Empress of India, she mandates its daily presence—though she won’t touch it."

  Understanding dawned. Regular Windsor meals? Her Majesty’s regard was no rumor.

  Post-meal, while Yvette read, Veronica snacked on winter cherries—likely温室-grown or shipped at great cost—each nestled in velvet paper like jewels.

  Bored, she pitched leftovers at street sparrows. Below, urchins scrabbled for the bounty. January’s chill made fruit a luxury; most survived on gruel and crusts.

  A scuffle erupted—a smaller boy, his prize snatched, stumbled away crying.

  Appalled, Veronica dumped the tray downward. As children surged, she turned guiltily to Yvette, who summoned a waiter:

  "Shoes and a meal for the lad there. Keep the surplus."

  Unseen, a grimy figure in the alley glared upward, committing the scene to memory before melting into shadows.