"You may take some time to freshen up, and since I had nothing better to do, I borrowed the landlady’s stove to make a little midnight snack."

  The house had been remodeled into a typical boardinghouse. Even middle-class residences, when first designed, rarely had budgets for fireplaces in every room. Thus, during later renovations, storage spaces and the like were converted into single-occupancy bedrooms, with cast-iron coal stoves installed in each for warmth. These stoves were essentially flat-topped iron boxes, connected at the back to a metal pipe serving as a flue. The iron plate on top could be used for simple cooking—somewhat like the heating stove in the film Little Forest that Yvette had seen in her past life, the one the protagonist used to bake bread.

  When Yvette asked the landlady for some food, the widowed old woman, polite to her well-dressed guest, could only offer stale leftover bread, cold milk, and butter for spreading. Estimating that Miss Bentley’s elaborate attire would take a while to change out of, and finding idleness tedious, Yvette borrowed two raw eggs from the landlady, beat them with half a bowl of milk, soaked the dry bread in the mixture, then melted butter in a frying pan over the coal stove to fry the soaked bread slices until golden brown on both sides.

  The result was warm, soft, and far more palatable than the original hard bread. French toast—crispy outside, tender inside—was something she had often made for herself as a midnight snack in her past life. After all, on chilly nights, who wouldn’t prefer freshly cooked warmth over cold leftovers?

  Yet that carefree little joy of anticipating a meal by the stove now felt both unfamiliar and distant, as if separated from her present self by an entire century.

  "Sir, you seem quite skilled at cooking? How extraordinary..." The landlady inhaled the rich aroma of butter in the air. Men in Albion rarely cooked, let alone those of status—many a gentleman couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces.

  The old woman’s small talk snapped Yvette out of her reverie. The orange glow of the stove flickered across her face, where a shadow—barely perceptible—flitted and vanished, leaving behind her usual calm expression.

  "I’m foreign. Where I’m from, it’s normal for men to know their way around a kitchen. Would you like a piece? Drizzled with maple syrup or honey, it makes a simple dessert."

  "How delightful!" The landlady fetched a jar of honey, chattering as she went. "You seem like a young scholar visiting London? Not to speak ill, but the lady you’ve taken a liking to isn’t what you’d call respectable. I’ve seen her bring different men home more than once. Do be careful not to be deceived."

  Yvette neither agreed nor disagreed, brushing off the comments with vague replies. She carried a plate of the finished toast upstairs and knocked on Miss Bentley’s door. After a long pause, slow, heavy footsteps approached.

  The door opened. Miss Bentley looked much as before, though drowsy-eyed—until her gaze locked onto the plate.

  "Eating this at night will make me fat."

  "You made this? That old hag couldn’t cook like this."

  "...A man who cooks lacks masculinity..."

  The disheveled actress sniffled, tears dripping even as she spoke disdainfully, yet she shoveled the food into her mouth with unladylike gusto.

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  When she finished, she set the plate aside wordlessly, then rubbed her face vigorously. After a long silence, she muttered, "You’re strange. What are you thinking?"

  Like seeing a scrawny stray cat and feeling compelled to warm a saucer of milk for it, Yvette thought—though she’d never say it aloud. Instead, she answered seriously, "I was reminded of someone a friend asked me to look into. You resemble her."

  "Who?"

  "Do you know Sorrel Gosling? A classmate of mine wanted her whereabouts. He’s a shopkeeper’s son who found solace in her performance during his lowest moment. Now that he’s back on his feet, he can’t find her."

  "...Sorrel? We look nothing alike. Last year, she was sent away for... mental treatment."

  "Mental treatment..." Yvette frowned. "How did that happen?"

  "Seems inevitable to me. Sorrel was odd—hardly ever indulged. Stay that tense, and anyone’d go mad."

  "You mean she was like a wound-up clock, working nonstop?"

  "Not work. I meant indulgences—the kind actresses enjoy." Miss Bentley gestured. "Look at my damned life: coming home at this hour daily, too exhausted to wash before collapsing into bed. Morning’s for letters, lines, and ironing costumes, then another round of work. Worse, I must smile through it all, flawless as a doll. Hell itself couldn’t be crueler. Without some release, I’d have snapped."

  "Most of us have our ways. Me? Shopping. Bad mood? Off to Regent Street, spending my savings or a patron’s money. That moment of acquisition—bliss. Some sisters rely on laudanum. ‘Best friend,’ they call it—melts all troubles. But it’s a short-lived cure; addiction wastes them to ghouls, ruining looks and careers. Others dally with handsome grooms or waiters—smooth-talking swindlers, those. Me? Shopping’s safer. Feels like revenge on my starved childhood. But Sorrel? None of it. No clue where her money went."

  "Where is she now?"

  "Last I heard, her final patron sent her to Ticehurst Private Asylum. Never saw her again." Miss Bentley’s tone held envy, as if it were a spa retreat.

  And in a way, it was. Ticehurst catered to wealthy bourgeoisie and aristocracy, nestled near a Sussex spa town. Unlike most asylums of the era—prisonlike—this one resembled a holiday villa, with gardens, woods, and luxuries like wine and tobacco for patients.

  First-class amenities came at first-class prices: over a pound weekly, over half a middle-class family’s annual income.

  No wonder Mrs. Gosling complained of the expense.

  "She could’ve had a better path. Turned it down," Miss Bentley added suddenly. "Two—no, three years back, a squire’s son offered marriage. His parents would object, so he planned a secret ceremony. No inheritance to lose—he had a promising army post, India-bound. For our lot, it’s the dream exit. Yet she refused."

  In Albion, climbing social tiers took generations—usually via husbands, as few avenues existed for women’s talents. Beyond "respectable" roles like telegraphists or governesses (shielded by male reputations), most work was deemed indecent.

  Wives ceased to exist as individuals: property became their husbands’, even jewelry thefts were logged under the man’s name. Society only valued women as homemakers. Thus, an actress’s ideal path was saving for a dowry, then wedding an "indulgent" bourgeois to start anew elsewhere.

  Yet as Miss Bentley noted, the trade’s pressures and poor self-control made this rare. Most faded into penniless obscurity.

  "...Not that I judge. I meant to save, but... spending’s too tempting. To your sort, I’m the vain, frivolous stereotype, no?"

  True, public adoration went to thrifty, docile women. Even Lady Spencer, nobility incarnate, posed for a portrait in humble cotton—though she’d never live it.

  "The ‘is’ of our society isn’t the ‘ought to be,’" Yvette said. "Tradition once called forks Satan’s work; pre-Reformation, only priests could interpret Scripture. Were they right? When planning your future, ask what you want—not the world’s chorus. I oppose overspending not for virtue’s sake, but because it serves you poorly."

  Yvette didn’t stay long after learning Sorrel’s fate. The exchange with the actress was but a fleeting interlude.

  Yet Miss Bentley’s lamp burned all night—the first time she truly pondered her "ought to be," and how to reach it.