During that afternoon tea, Yvette and Margaret IV took less than an hour to finalize the trial plan she proposed. All this would be carried out under the name of the queen’s personal charity activities, with the required expenses covered by Margaret IV’s private funds.

  However, this was merely a drop in the bucket for the queen. The Albion Treasury allocated nearly ￡400,000 annually to the royal family as stipends, and in the 19th century, one pound was roughly equivalent to over a hundred pounds in her previous life. Margaret IV, having no husband or children, could enjoy a substantial portion of these funds—not to mention the income from her personal estates and properties. As the largest landowner in Albion, her annual returns from real estate might even surpass those of the Duke of Lancaster’s family. Moreover, all her routine expenditures—such as security, servants, palace maintenance, travel, and grand social events—were covered by the state. Other miscellaneous incomes, like gifts, royal stables, or garden cultivation, were even harder to quantify.

  And this was how every generation of Albion’s monarchs had lived. The accumulated wealth, aside from money and real estate, included an extensive collection of artworks. These world-famous treasures had long appreciated to remarkable values and were now inherited by her. Yvette speculated that this 25-year-old young queen might well be the world’s wealthiest individual.

  With just her personal influence, the queen could directly advance reforms—even if only on a trial scale. Yet Margaret IV’s attitude seemed utterly nonchalant, as if telling Yvette to play freely, undeterred by failure—an almost excessively indulgent feeling.

  Was this the privilege of the ruling class? Even a constitutional monarch could steer the nation’s course by will alone. No wonder some became obsessed with power. For a fleeting moment, even Yvette felt a giddy elation—not due to the queen’s courtesy or any other reason, but simply because things were unfolding as she’d hoped, bringing a sense of gratifying delight.

  But she quickly regained her composure, inwardly wary.

  Was this the same psychology that drove ancient demigod monarchs to cling to their thrones? Power was called a poison, perhaps because this illusion of absolute control offered them security and fleeting solace...

  ...

  “Dr. Moniz, this way, please. This is our institution’s original ‘torrent therapy.’ We immerse patients in a barrel of cold water and restrain them. If they still refuse to improve their behavior, we pull this lever, and a jet of water sprays onto their face from the nozzle above. It helps even the most stubborn patients regain clarity.”

  Inside a London psychiatric facility, the director eagerly escorted the industry expert, Dr. Walter Moniz, through their facilities.

  His enthusiastic demonstration resembled a bathtub from a later era, except it had a lid with a hole precisely fitted for trapping a person’s neck. A man with vacant, shifty eyes was confined inside like an animal, his head protruding absurdly—like a magician in a circus escape act.

  At the sight of strangers, he reacted with terror, akin to an abused stray dog.

  “Watch this.” The director activated the mechanism. Pressurized water shot onto the patient’s face, stopping only after half a minute. The man convulsed violently, choking and coughing, thrashing against the barrel with dull thuds.

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  “If this proves ineffective, we’ve also procured a repurposed centrifugal machine—originally used in sugar refineries to separate crystallized sugar. We modified it into a therapeutic device: strap the patient into the central chair, and then—spin, keep spinning.”

  “A most imaginative innovation. How effective is it?” Dr. Moniz inquired amiably.

  “Thank you for the praise. Of course, none of this compares to the immediate results of your ice pick surgery...” The director fawned, only to round a corner and spot one of their doctors negotiating with a man resembling a patient’s relative.

  “...Once this procedure is done, she’ll stay quiet, right? I can’t have her ranting and ruining my reputation.” A well-dressed man with a pristine collar murmured, slipping a stack of banknotes from his wallet.

  “Absolutely. I guarantee perfection. After today, she’ll be as docile as a pet...” The doctor pocketed the cash cheerfully before noticing the director and a distinguished stranger approaching.

  “Ahem. Such matters are best discussed in your office next time,” the director muttered in displeasure.

  This asylum had a covert service: helping husbands rid themselves of unwanted wives. For the right price, the hospital would fabricate diagnoses, certifying these unfortunate women as mentally unsound.

  More effective than any slander, this method erased individuals from society without trial. The asylum also sold tickets to thrill-seeking spectators. The director recalled a recent female patient—uncooperative and defiant, screaming at visitors that she wasn’t insane, begging for rescue. Of course, no one believed a madwoman.

  Yet her disruptions must have worked; her husband had promptly arrived with more hush money. A new revenue stream.

  If only Dr. Moniz hadn’t witnessed it.

  Though many asylums engaged in such practices, they remained unspoken taboos. Moreover, Dr. Moniz seemed genuinely compassionate toward patients. Earlier, they’d passed a room housing an ice pick lobotomy recipient—a peculiar case. The patient bore calluses from prolonged writing, suggesting education, yet arrived already deranged and violent, having bitten off an orderly’s ear on arrival.

  Deeming him a prime test subject and lacking family contacts, the director greenlit a free lobotomy to assess its efficacy on aggressive patients.

  The results didn’t disappoint. After days of fever from infection, the patient—now with a destroyed prefrontal cortex—emerged placid and tractable, never again lashing out.

  Yet the “cured” man sat muttering in tongues—Old Albionic, Latin, Spanish... and unrecognizable dialects. Unlike other incoherent patients, his fragmented speech held an uncanny power, warping listeners’ minds the longer they heard it, as if an invisible ice pick bored into their skulls.

  The director instinctively avoided him, as did staff, even the earless orderly—a former thug. The man was a plague vessel, universally shunned.

  Yet Dr. Moniz had lingered by his cell, listening intently for half an hour until the madman dozed off. Only saintly patience could explain such dedication.

  Hopefully, this good Samaritan wouldn’t connect the dots about the bribery—or interfere if he did.

  He’d better not.

  The director’s thoughts darkened.

  But misfortune struck. Just then, two burly orderlies dragged a disheveled woman toward the lobotomy chamber. Her screams pierced the halls.

  “I’m not insane! Believe me! Kind sir, help! I’m Susanna from Gloucestershire—I’m NOT mad—”

  Her pleas faded, cut short by a slammed door. Muffled sobs seeped through the walls, more haunting than outright screams.

  “Well...” The director forced a chuckle. “Patients often deny their madness... One grows accustomed.”

  He eyed Dr. Moniz nervously, already contemplating alleyway ambushes and Thames-dumped corpses—contingent on the doctor not blowing the whistle immediately.

  Yet the expected outrage never came.

  “In such cases,” Dr. Moniz said calmly, as if they hadn’t just condemned a living soul, “I recommend morphine sedation. A Sacred Roman Empire apothecary’s latest invention—opium distilled to purity. Intravenous injection offers rapid, potent effects. Use a syringe; if resistance persists, a lancet for smallpox inoculation will suffice.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Moniz!”

  Though the asylum was chilly, the director’s back grew clammy with sweat.

  For an instant, Dr. Moniz had seemed terrifying—his detached rationality bordering on brutality. Facing him felt like confronting an alien monstrosity.