Unaware of the discussion that had transpired after her departure, Yvette returned to her circle of friends. Concern for the Duke of Lancaster’s condition rippled through the crowd, drawing even casual acquaintances to press for details. She offered carefully curated reassurances—minor injuries, swift recovery—and as the group crossed themselves in murmured prayers of “Divine protection,” their curiosity sated, they dispersed.
Only Oleander remained visibly crestfallen. His dismay stemmed not from malice toward the Duke, but from dashed calculations: with the Duke’s injured “Nutcracker” withdrawing, Oleander’s predicted runner-up “Tempest” had seized victory in the speed race.
“Gambling’s fickle by nature,” Yvette offered sympathetically, only then recalling she’d missed the later races while tending to the Duke. Her own impulsive wager on a horse—she’d forgotten its name—remained a mystery.
“Let me check…” She fished a betting slip from her purse. “‘Southern Cross’? How did it fare?”
Oleander’s shoulders sagged further.
“Blind luck triumphs over meticulous study… Is this the detective’s famed intuition?” he grumbled.
How does carelessly tossing 300 pounds keep turning profit?
“Join me at The Mitre tonight. Dinner’s on me,” Yvette proposed.
“Only a Clos de Vougeot can salve this wound…”
“Very well. La Tache, if you insist.”
By nightfall, the day’s disappointments had faded. During their outing, a prominent banker near The Mitre had leapt to his death. The group devoured every newspaper account: a suicide note, corroborated financial strife, and solitary rooftop contemplation by witnesses painted a clear picture. The papers yawned.
Even the Labyrinth of Thought club meandered from the incident into debates over fictional crimes.
…
In subsequent days, Yvette established her presence across charities—women’s hospitals, reform schools, child welfare societies, slum renewal projects—donating ￡1,000. Nineteenth-century philanthropy lacked modern sanctimony; industrialists sparred publicly with reformers, even over child labor.
“Idle hands breed vice,” factory lords declared. “Ten-year-olds must learn tradecraft early, lest they starve as unskilled adults.”
Philanthropy itself faced attacks: critics claimed it nurtured poverty. Finite jobs and resources doomed the masses. Starvation, they argued, was nature’s solution.
Yvette noted the pervasive Malthusian and Social Darwinist rhetoric among capitalists. Thankfully, nobles—whether sincere or status-conscious—championed charity. She even crossed paths with her dance partner from the Queen Charlotte Ball, now aiding seamstresses. A tentative correspondence resumed.
Next destination: Muskine’s workshop.
Her shadow-realm battle against an eldritch horror at Berelund Asylum had cost four specialized bullets—anti-spectral rounds now dwindling to one. Her talents sufficed against physical foes, but ethereal threats demanded preparation. Muskine, supplier of the original five, might replenish her stock.
“Ivis! My savior!” Muskine roared, enthusiasm eclipsing their last meeting.
She sidestepped his lunging hug. The tinker’s bulk rattled a tool rack; he scrambled to stabilize it, catastrophe narrowly averted.
“Too close!”
“Your craftsmanship served me well, Mr. Muskine, but I’ve spent four crystal-silver rounds. Have you more?”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“For my rescuer? Gladly—if not for a missing ingredient. Secure ‘Salt,’ and I’ll forge you a lifetime supply.”
“Salt?”
His brow furrowed. “You’ve clearance for this? Consult ‘The Doctor’ or ‘Clockwork.’”
Cryptic as ever.
“But first—a token of gratitude!” He produced a lacquered box. “Finished yesterday!”
Inside gleamed a monocle—gold-framed lens on a delicate chain. The material, neither glass nor quartz, flexed faintly.
“Repurposed from that accursed camera’s core—the kraken’s crystallized eye! Wear this, and phantoms can’t hide!”
“And they’ll sense me in turn? Like the ghost drawn to the camera?”
“Precisely! Brilliant deduction!”
She snapped the lid shut.
“...My thanks.”
“Wear it sparingly—visions may seep through. Weekly seawater rinses prevent fogging...”
Charming.
Departing with the dubious gift, Yvette sought answers about “Salt.”
…
“Salt?” Winslow nodded. “May Eve approaches—the witches’ gathering. ‘Funeral Mistress’ or ‘Oak Sage’ will guide you.”
“A journey?”
“Their enclave shifts yearly—never far. Secure some for me? I’ll reimburse you.”
“Witches—doesn’t the Bureau monitor them?”
“They’re reclusive, not hostile,” Winslow explained. “Many collaborate with us. Their nature-based traditions—druidism, shamanism—stabilize them. Scholars believe their patron deities perished long ago. A god’s death isn’t swift—like a whalefall nourishing the deep for ages.”
Yvette imagined the Creator’s slumbering vastness—how might a dying deity’s essence linger?
Yvette had written to Miss Sharr about attending the May Eve coven, only to receive twin raven-borne replies the following dawn. The occult scholar regretted being summoned to a mystic symposium in the German states – that patchwork realm soon destined to become Earth's Deutschland – but promised to enlist an acquaintance as guide: one Mr. Keegan, known among the circles as the Oak Sage.
German intellects, it seemed, pursued esoterica as doggedly as earthly sciences. Their penchant for alchemical formulae and resurrecting forgotten heresies explained the seminar's location. Miss Sharr's business there was, doubtless, as much tradecraft as scholarship.
The Oak Sage's letter arrived posthaste. Yvette, seeking initiation into witch-meet customs, queried him on gold conversions and disguises. His reply spoke of sylvan recluses spurning coin, their markets trading in "manna" – milky seed-pearls prizing philter-brewing and medicinal grubs. Those bearing Aberrant relics might strike deals, though alchemists would exchange manna for vulgar gold at usurious rates.
Aberrant remains...
Her thumb absently traced the rose ring forged from Dulan's fang – too precious to barter. Yet among her oddments lay a tin of petrified shards from that formless horror's carcass. Maskin had deemed them too fractured for artifice, though apothecaries might find use.
The Devon-bound train carried uneasy thoughts. Beyond grimy windows unfurled a land of tin mines and fishnets. At journey's end, corseted London refinement jarred against oilskin smocks and miners' muttonchops. Eyes tracked Yvette's lace-gowned passage through the village before she retreated to her inn.
Twilight brought the expected rap. Keegan's weathered visage creased in greeting. "No trouble at all. That Blytheram business..." He let the sentiment hang, proffering disguise: hooded cloak, vulpine mask, paper sachets. "Sprinkle this mooncalf powder. Twists sight and sound."
Nightshade rituals commenced at forest's edge. Keegan murmured oaks awake, circled broken menhirs thrice, led her thrice across a totem-carved bridge – backward through its shadow each time. Mist rose, thickening with every eldritch observance until their lantern flame sickened. Fern-cloaked trees hunched like arthritic titans through the haze.
"Tread carefully." The druid's warning proved apt. Centuries of leaf-mold pillowed each step, moss devouring every stone.
They breached the gloaming at the fire's edge. Powder-dusted forms wavered – shapes seen through heat-haze, voices echoing down stone tunnels. Antlered silhouettes moved among the crowd – the Stag King's votaries. Flower-crowned women embodied the May Queen, petal-veils obscuring faces. Wildlings went unmasked, ritual scars proclaiming their divorce from man's world.
"Camouflage matters little when your address reads 'Trackless Wood'." Keegan nodded at unhooded traders.
Market stalls clustered bonfire-ward. Yvette puzzled over sigil-carved boards until Keegan deciphered the glyphs: claw-like Ogham for hedge-mages, angular runes for northern craft. "Stick to root and herb-mongers," he advised. "Alchemical contraptions lie beyond my ken."
The azure shards met polite refusals from bone-gnawers and wortcunners before a moss-bearded witch offered twenty-four manna-pearls. Keegan's eye then lit upon a lean-to scrawled with Sanskrit. "Ascetics! Their 'salt's' half-price."
The stallkeeper's pierced flesh spoke of Ganges-side rigors. Haggling transpired in fractured lingua franca until three ounces of grey powder changed hands – the yogi's last stock. Among his wares, Yvette spied fingerbone amulets. Understanding dawned.
"Funerary ash." The druid read her revulsion. "Hindus render it cheaper than our grave-dug salts. Death feeds life's wheel – no sacrilege if used in good faith."
Soul-rattled, Yvette pocketed the tin. Keegan steered her toward cauldron-scented booths where mandrake roots danced in vitriol. Her first witch-market demanded thorough exploration.
