A few days later, Yvette arrived at the Ticehurst Private Asylum. Originally, this place was the estate of a friend of Lord Spencer’s. After the discovery of hot springs here, it ceased to be used as ordinary farmland. Instead, a series of hydrotherapy hotels and resorts were developed, catering to wealthy patients. The Ticehurst Private Asylum, targeting affluent families, used the tranquil rural scenery and hot spring treatments as major selling points, gradually establishing itself as the nation’s most high-end psychiatric care facility.

  Nobles engaging in business themselves were ridiculed, yet land remained Albion’s most profitable means of production. The asylum’s operator was a Member of Parliament in the House of Commons, who leased a large plot of former farmland from the landowner at a reasonable price. The trade-off, however, was that his influence in Parliament was somewhat controlled by the lord. In fact, many merchants-turned-MPs in the House of Commons sought the patronage of a noble. Thus, holding a letter of introduction from her benefactor, Yvette naturally received considerable courtesy, and there was no reason for this capitalist to deceive her.

  However, at Ticehurst Private Asylum, Yvette could not find Miss Thorell.

  "Could there be a mistake somewhere? I received reliable information that she was indeed undergoing treatment here."

  "Mr. Fisher, perhaps she was previously here or has been cured and discharged. Allow me to check the records," the asylum director replied apologetically.

  Just then, the sound of a cello playing Mozart’s Requiem floated up from a room downstairs.

  In Yvette’s understanding, the cello was a dignified, restrained, and somber instrument. Yet the melody she now heard was mournful and plaintive, nearly out of tune at times, punctuated by discordantly sharp, screeching notes.

  Was it a resident patient playing?

  When Mozart composed Requiem, he suffered from several illnesses—syphilis, rheumatic fever, bacterial infections, trichinosis from undercooked pork, and even possible poisoning. Afflicted by disease, he passed away before finishing the piece, and the incomplete portions were later filled in by his student.

  Yvette had heard this intensely religious piece before in concert halls and churches, where its solemn orchestration evoked peace and symbolized eternal rest. Considering its backstory, it gave the impression of a suffering soul finally redeemed, freed from worldly pain and led into divine light.

  But now…

  The frequently off-key melody and jarring dissonance only brought unease and an inexplicable gloom, like the helpless groans of the dying.

  It was a poorly performed piece, yet Yvette couldn’t shake the feeling that it better suited its origins. Perhaps Mozart’s final work was not what the world believed—his student likely altered or excised parts deemed unsuitable for church doctrine when completing it.

  "Mr. Fisher?" The asylum director asked nervously when she remained silent for too long.

  "Nothing… that music just now?"

  "Oh, that’s one of our patients. He served as a naval officer before retirement. Even troubled by illness, he carries himself with more dignity and refinement than others. Listen closely—he still remembers much of the melody, though slightly off-key, it’s far better than most amateurs," the director said with pride. "We provide the utmost care for afflicted gentlemen and ladies, treating them with the respect they enjoyed in health. We have barbers, tailors, and carefully selected provisions: Bordeaux wine, Somerset cheddar. They may read newspapers, play instruments, or engage in embroidery and painting…"

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  Indeed, upon entering, Yvette had seen several patients strolling in the garden under attendants’ watch, dressed in crisp shirts and black morning coats. Were it not for their childlike mutterings, they might have passed for ordinary folk.

  Yet the unsettling music stirred dark associations. Even the arabesque wallpaper patterns seemed to twist like whirlpools, making her restless the longer she stayed.

  "May I wait at the café across the street? You may inform me when your staff finds the records."

  "My apologies—our oversight. We’ve grown accustomed to it, but for someone accustomed to high art, it must be unbearable. Since I’m free, I’d be happy to accompany you."

  He instructed staff to check the archives and led Yvette out. Passing through a corridor defaced by graffiti, she noticed two workers scrubbing the walls with sandpaper and plaster.

  The bizarre sketches depicted half-human, half-beast figures—reminiscent of mythical hybrids like sphinxes, Medusa, and Chiron—blurring reality and fantasy, embodying both nightmares and fertile dreams.

  Earlier, she’d felt nothing amiss, but amid the warped Requiem, the murals now seemed laden with cryptic meaning. The sandpaper’s abrasions rendered them fragmentary, like a noseless sphinx, their obscured smiles eerier than before.

  Best not linger here... Yvette thought.

  Not due to supernatural forces, but because the patients’ creations resonated with her own encroaching madness.

  In medieval times, the mentally ill were deemed possessed and killed or banished. Post-Renaissance, public opinion shifted toward humane treatment, and nations began establishing asylums.

  Why did ruling classes, indifferent to poverty, universally endorse confining the insane?

  Perhaps she wasn’t the first supernatural being unsettled by their works.

  Reason shackles the mind; without it, reality and fantasy blur and bleed together. The patients’ eerie expressions might stem from perceiving an inherently unstable material world.

  They pierced the veil of lies, glimpsing the chaos beyond.

  At the café, Yvette uncharacteristically ordered a potent, bitter Byzantine-style copper-pot coffee, surprising the director.

  "Quite the unusual taste—I’d have guessed French café au lait."

  Normally, she’d prefer the milky, sweet au lait, but now she needed caffeine to sharpen her scattered thoughts and dispel the madness’s remnants.

  In the coffee’s rich aroma and bracing bitterness, the solid world embraced her again, mooring her drifting mind like an anchored boat. Fleeting comfort, but enough for now.

  "Long time no see, Mr. Fisher. Fancy meeting you here," a voice interrupted.

  Turning, Yvette recognized Darnic, an astrologer she’d encountered before.

  During the "Stargazers’ Society" incident, this mortal had unwittingly obtained occult texts, rallying fellow enthusiasts to summon a celestial emissary through collective wishing. The forbidden materials traced back to forces behind Leadbeater—who’d orchestrated the ritual to harvest the emissary’s essence.

  After killing Leadbeater (now imprisoned in her dream realm), Yvette had Darnic’s memory erased, leaving him monitored but oblivious. With no further anomalies, surveillance likely waned—just a name on some agent’s watchlist now.

  "Master Darnic, what a coincidence."

  "The hot springs soothe the nerves. Doctors recommended frequent visits—supposedly curative for my condition."

  "You’re unwell?"

  "Since before we met, I’ve had inexplicable palpitations and nightmares—nonexistent visions disrupting my sleep," he fretted.

  Having forgotten Yvette’s prior identity (his student, via memory-wiping or his own sensitivity), Darnic later dreamed of her during "consultations." Déjà vu prompted their reintroduction, making this their second acquaintance.

  As Yvette and Darnic chatted, the asylum director brightened upon spotting his companion—a revered figure.

  "Dr. Monro! You honor us again. Three years since your last visit, yet your advice remains invaluable. Providing art supplies and instruments markedly reduced agitation in some patients. Restraint alternatives are limited, given their status..."

  Dr. Monro, distinguished in top hat and tailcoat, his white beard trim, nodded benignly—yet his gaze lingered on Yvette.

  "That gentleman is...?"

  "Mr. Yves de Fisher, seeking an acquaintance here. Do you know him?"

  "Merely curious—he seems engrossed with my patient. ‘Yves de Fisher’... A surname I associate with an epidemiology expert, perhaps residing in Albion now?"

  "You mean Sir Ulysses? Young Mr. Fisher is his nephew, recently prominent in London society. If you’d like an introduction, I’d be delighted to arrange it."

  Scholars often sought noble patronage, and the director, indebted to Dr. Monro’s guidance, eagerly offered to bridge the gap.