Thus, Lord Spencer welcomed the junior sent by the Queen without the slightest reservation and received Yvette in his small parlor adorned with many oil paintings.

  The small parlor where they met was one of the more private rooms in Lord Spencer's residence, located next to the master bedroom and traditionally open only to close political allies or relatives. Yvette noticed that the room was decorated with portraits of family members. Above the fireplace hung a painting of Lord and Lady Spencer with their three children leisurely passing the time under the shade of trees in a field. Lady Spencer possessed the youthful and graceful figure of a beauty, showing no signs of having raised a boy nearly Yvette's age.

  "My eldest son is currently traveling in France for his studies. When he returns, I hope he will also be willing to assist me in my parliamentary work. It would greatly benefit his development into an upright and noble gentleman," Lord Spencer remarked casually, having noticed Yvette's gaze. "However, I doubt he can match your natural talent and ability to navigate Parliament as effortlessly as you seem to, Mr. Fisher."

  Lord Spencer had initially assumed this young Frenchman would be like most of his countrymen—fond of grand, flowery speeches while remaining idle in debate, basking in the attention of ladies yet lacking any substance in his mind. To his surprise, though the young man was clearly unfamiliar with many aspects of parliamentary procedure and recent topics under discussion, he was quick to deduce and offer his own insights from unique angles. Lord Spencer had never encountered anyone, much less a young man, with such talent. Moreover, the children of Albion's nobility grew up absorbing knowledge about Parliament from their fathers, effectively undergoing long-term "preparatory training"—an advantage impossible in the imperialist society of France.

  "You flatter me. In truth, I have frequently sought out news about Parliament beforehand, given that my uncle has invested in several newspapers," Yvette replied. Political news was a popular subject for newspapers during the social season. At this time, however, the law prohibited journalists from bringing paper, pens, or cameras into Parliament, nor was recording proceedings in any form allowed. To write reports, journalists relied solely on their formidable memory to reconstruct events later at home. Yvette’s editorial department boasted one or two ace reporters capable of such feats.

  "That is still remarkable. I have met too many who, despite knowing everything that happens, lack your ability to analyze and derive meaningful insights." Lord Spencer’s admiration was sincere.

  Since the young man was not only not an ignorant fool but unexpectedly revealed himself to be a meticulous genius, tutoring him would require far less time and effort. Beyond instructing Yvette on parliamentary etiquette, however, Lord Spencer also subtly reminded her to maintain appropriate boundaries in her interactions with Her Majesty the Queen. Under no circumstances was any tangible outcome permissible before the Queen’s marriage, lest it deal a severe blow to the royal family's reputation.

  Understanding his implication, Yvette could not help but feel both embarrassed and exasperated. Getting the Queen pregnant before marriage… even if she wanted to, it would be impossible.

  Lord Spencer’s admonition was merely a precaution. He assumed that neither the Queen nor young Mr. Fisher were fools likely to commit the lowest of blunders. Such was the unspoken consensus among the aristocracy of the era: noble maidens tasting forbidden fruit before marriage was hardly uncommon, and even those preserving their chastity might well have enjoyed intimacy with men through alternative means. One former Queen of Albion had once insisted, to the point of absurdity, that her bridesmaids must be strictly untainted virgins, forcing her prime minister to reduce the retinue from thirty-two to a mere four.

  Apart from this mildly awkward topic, the host and guest conversed pleasantly enough. As this was her first visit, however, Yvette felt it impolite to overstay and soon made to leave.

  Just as she stepped toward the staircase, she encountered a beautiful woman clad in traveling attire. This lady bore a striking resemblance to the painted image of Lady Spencer—yet despite having a son of nearly Yvette’s age, she carried herself with the elegant poise of a Raphaelite angel. Her immaculate white skin bore not a single wrinkle, while long, silky lashes trembled like resting butterflies upon moist blue eyes.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Good afternoon, fair lady," Yvette greeted her.

  Lady Spencer brushed a loose strand behind her ear and returned the greeting with effortless grace. The faint surprise in her expression lent her a youthful air. To have married such a woman—one whose beauty straddled the line between girlhood and womanhood even at her age—Lord Spencer was undoubtedly blessed...

  Yvette recalled one of the portraits in the parlor, depicting Lady Spencer knitting in an armchair—simple, dignified, pure, nothing like the decadent nobility. She was, in essence, the era’s idealized model of feminine virtue in the public conscience.

  "Has my wayward lady finally returned?" Lord Spencer sighed with the mock exasperation of a man hopelessly besotted with his wife, then pulled her close.

  "I ventured somewhat farther this time. I gathered lovely fern specimens." She smiled. "Forgive me for worrying you, my dear."

  After exchanging a few more pleasantries with the couple, Yvette departed that saccharine abode. Even as she stepped into her carriage, the lingering image of the two entwined like young lovers refused to fade.

  Perhaps this was happiness? To live as an ordinary person, free from financial strife, unburdened by omnipresent horrors—would that not be nice?

  Yet as she contemplated this, the paragon of marital bliss inside the mansion had already parted, the flames of adoration in their eyes extinguished.

  "What a charming young man. When will you invite him again?" Lady Spencer lit a slender cigar, exhaled a smoke ring, then inquired with practiced feigned innocence.

  "Has your new salon poet so quickly lost his charm? He is the Queen's close friend. Keep your distance, lest we jeopardize Her Majesty’s goodwill toward me," Lord Spencer replied as though discussing dinner plans.

  His wife affected a girlish look of astonishment. "I said no such thing."

  "I saw you tuck your hair behind your ear—you always do that when marking a new conquest."

  "Very well, you’ve caught me." She batted her eyelashes. "I shan’t pursue him. But should the Queen tire of him, do let me know at once."

  "Naturally."

  Theirs was an alliance between two ancient and noble houses. No matter how handsome or comely, decades together bred inevitable ennui. Yet so long as the unbreakable bonds of matrimony held, they would follow their script: the earl feigned ignorance of his wife’s dalliances, just as she had once smoothed over his scandal with an actress by inviting the paramour to tea, shopping excursions, and fawning over her as an admirer.

  Though Yvette had lived in this world for some time, she remained oblivious to what lay behind the ruling class’s pristine fa?ade of dignity and honor.

  "Apologies, sir, but we cannot offer this service to the public at present," the telegraph company manager replied, shaking his head.

  "Why not?" asked Edwin, seated opposite him in scholarly attire.

  "New equipment requires testing. For our clients’ sake, we intend to roll out services gradually once the devices are perfected," came the rehearsed, professional response.

  Using his stolen ability, Edwin sensed deception. With the accompanying power of mental suggestion—also pilfered—he seized control of the manager’s will.

  As cousin to the redheaded Radbert (whom Yvette had slain), Edwin shared similar lineage and gifts. He too could appropriate others’ powers. The original owners of his telepathy and hypnosis languished in the Infinite Corridor where the Benevolent Father dwelled—so long as they lived, or unless Edwin transferred the stolen gifts elsewhere, these foreign abilities remained his. He had to admit: for moving unseen among mortals, psychic arts eclipsed most combat-oriented talents.

  Under his sway, the manager’s eyes glazed over.

  "That was a lie. Undersea cables have unresolved flaws."

  "But your papers printed exchanges with Paris. The continental telegraph service even congratulated Britain’s connection to Europe."

  "Connected, yes—but failed. The cable snapped for unknown reasons. Our operators here heard only gibberish, like drunken babble, from the other end. That ‘congratulatory message’ was fabricated to buoy public and investor confidence. Without it, our company stood to suffer tremendous losses," the manager confessed.

  No help, then. Letters would have to suffice—except Dr. Walter Monis, the neuroscientist and famed phrenologist Edwin wished to consult, was perpetually touring Europe. Previous correspondence had taken half a year. Edwin couldn’t wait that long now.

  He suspected Dr. Monis had ties to esoteric societies like the Rosicrucians—or was perhaps a member. In his writings on dreams, Monis described them as gateways to the subconscious, passages that resonated deeply with Edwin’s spiritual experiences. Only firsthand exploration of hidden realms could yield such profound insight.

  Lately, Edwin had dreamed repeatedly of Radbert—alive but shackled in a corner, weeping bitterly. Yet each time Edwin drew near, his brother lifted his head, his familiar features warping grotesquely, as if oil had been poured upon water.

  The Benevolent Father had confirmed Radbert’s death. Still the dreams haunted him. Were they manifestations of Edwin’s subconscious or prophetic visions? He hoped Dr. Monis might know.