This is an interesting person, and very ill.

  Dr. Monis was like a circling vulture, adept at detecting the stench of decay, except that his favored rot was the scabies festering upon the soul. Just as ordinary people would cover their noses in the presence of a corpse, carrion creatures would salivate as if savoring a rare delicacy. So while Yvette's current state might unsettle those with sensitive dispositions and emotional intelligence, Dr. Monis was utterly enthralled by the madness radiating from her.

  He had seen her before.

  Before the collapse of the Berillon Hospital, he had once been invited to observe a procedure involving an ice pick. As the inventor of the surgery, his role was to offer suggestions and guidance afterward—should the incision be made through the left or right eye socket? Did the choice affect treatment efficacy for different symptoms? At what angle and with what degree of rotation should the ice pick be hammered into the frontal lobe? Such were the technical refinements he pondered.

  That day, the patient lying on the operating table had been her. Though she now wore masculine attire and carried herself differently, Dr. Monis had spent an extended period studying the patient’s head. He retained a clear impression of her facial structure and cranial shape. Had Yvette’s mental state been stable, he might have overlooked her. But the intoxicating aura of psychosis she now exuded made her impossible to ignore. It drew his attention, compelling him to observe her with keen interest.

  In the end, he was certain—she was the same girl who had lain on that operating table three years prior in the center of the amphitheater.

  Dr. Monis had not always been like this. The higher his essence ascended, the more he perceived. The web of lies woven by this world disintegrated before his true gaze, revealing beneath the surface something both terrifying and mesmerizing. He began searching for the meaning of madness within the veneer of mundane existence. During his travels across Europe, he gradually came to understand that while humanity extolled virtue in universal values, they could not suppress their soul’s yearning for and worship of insanity.

  In The Birth of Venus, the goddess rises from the sea with her head bowed in a pose of self-regard, symbolizing narcissism. The Tipsy Bacchus flushes with drunken haze, his gaze dazed and vacant—a symbol of folly. The Magdalene with the Smoking Flame rests her chin in contemplation, embodying sloth. In Sunset, Apollo eagerly throws himself into the embrace of Clytie, daughter of the sea god, surrounded by extravagant silks and porcelain-fine nudity—a bacchanal of vanity. The Three Graces, plump and white as lard, personify gluttony and indolence…

  If art could glorify such depictions of stupor and indulgence, why should humanity resist madness?

  Yet persuading the masses to cast off the shackles of reason was no easy feat. Like uncut gemstones, they lacked luster until polished. However, not everyone possessed the quality of diamonds. Not all, even when honed, could attain the dazzling brilliance of the king of gems.

  Dr. Monis remembered that surgery well. Typically, post-operation, patients would remain unconscious for about ten minutes, sometimes longer. But that day, the subject had been declared unlucky—dead on the table.

  Such incidents were unavoidable. Just as flawed gemstones might fracture during shaping, perhaps the original material had been defective.

  A pebble ill-equipped to bear the force of transformation.

  Now, against all odds, she stood before him whole, in a guise entirely unlike her past self. Beneath an impeccable exterior festered a splintered psyche, tempting him to speculate on the precise nature of its fragmentation—what hues might seep from its suppurating wounds?

  Clearly, the doctors at Berillon Hospital had been fools. Even shock could elude their diagnosis…

  The earlier Frenchman had been Dr. Monis' puppet, maneuvered via mental suggestion. To eliminate even the remotest coincidence, he had employed a stranger—an unfamiliar tourist—to test her. Yvette’s first reaction had been a moment’s hesitation.

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  How could a normal person fail to recognize their own father? Evidently, the surgery had erased her memories. Nothing else could account for such a drastic shift in her temperament and expression.

  Dr. Monis did not doubt that the real Yvette was dead. There were, after all, well-documented cases of individuals pronounced dead who were merely comatose—awakening in their coffins, rapping for rescue. Fear of premature burial had even birthed specialized alarm devices, fastened to the deceased's finger with a cord leading to an exterior bell, allowing the "resurrected" to signal their revival.

  Yet he conceded his earlier misjudgment. The pebble he had dismissed had, in fact, transformed into a pearl. In just three years, she had cloaked herself in a lustrous nacre, glowing with an enigmatic allure.

  It was an unexpected delight. In Dr. Monis’ twisted worldview, Yvette had become the avatar of Venus—his muse of inspiration.

  Thus, the task entrusted by his friend Valendan—to investigate the deaths of the Edwyn brothers—was relegated to obscurity. Though he was now convinced that Yvette was likely a covert agent, and undoubtedly instrumental in both fatalities—if not the perpetrator, then certainly an accomplice. The astrologer’s inexplicable impression of her alone warranted suspicion. Moreover, for a discarded daughter of a madhouse to assume a man’s identity and construct a seemingly credible social facade—this reeked of the Church’s handiwork.

  Ostensibly, Dr. Monis ought to report his findings to Valendan immediately, securing the promised rewards from the secret society his friend represented. But now, he could not bear to surrender such a masterpiece to another’s hands.

  If anyone could unlock the island’s secrets, it was her—in this current incarnation.

  With that thought, Dr. Monis offered a cordial smile.

  "This vessel sails only to Anglesey. Might I ask how Mr. Fisher deduced my final destination? Is it my profession that gave it away? Indeed, I’ve been invited to St. Quentin’s Asylum on Daffodil Island. Your perceptiveness is commendable." As he spoke, he unfurled his intangible tendrils, latching onto the miasma of pathology in the air, syncing with its resonance.

  Through empathy, he sampled a fragment of Yvette’s anguish, tasting the self-destructive impulses churning beneath her thoughts. A mere sip.

  It was akin to selecting fruit—an experienced housewife might sniff for ripeness. This gesture, too, subtly alleviated her current state. Dr. Monis longed for her complete unraveling—but not yet.

  Thus, Yvette felt the weight gripping her mind lessen slightly, clarity returning from her daze.

  Before her stood Dr. Monis, his pupils reflecting her face, still etched with that lingering, unearthly smile.

  Strange—had she been smiling just now?

  Seeing she might not recall, Dr. Monis did not press the matter. Instead, he launched into an animated discourse on their approaching destination—Anglesey.

  "Mr. Fisher, as a Frenchman, you may be unfamiliar with this island. It is the largest in Wales, dotted with smaller isles and tidal outcrops. Strewn with ancient ruins, it’s hailed as the ‘Mother of Wales,’ the ‘Isle of Druids.’ Do you know why?"

  "I truly don’t," she replied, her mind still foggy from the earlier lapse.

  "Anglesey was a sacred site for the Celts, who worshipped nature deities. Their most revered spaces were those bestowed by the natural world—sacred groves, caves, lakes. Its beauty stirs the soul. Some believe the mythical Avalon, that mist-veiled isle of legend surrounded by lakes and forests, lies among these very isles."

  "In the first century AD, the Romans invaded Albion. Anglesey, the Celts’ last stronghold, resisted fiercely under their Druid priests. Emperor Nero dispatched his general Suetonius as governor, commanding him to raze the island and annihilate the Druidic faith."

  "Roman troops crossed the strait, clashing with the Celts on the shores. Records speak of the Druids’ fanatical defiance—men, women, and children took up arms. Women with wild, unbound hair, like Furies clad in mourning, and priests with arms raised, shrieking curses so potent even Rome’s battle-hardened legionnaires faltered, weapons trembling in their grip."

  "Victory, as ever, favored Rome. A failed general faced a fate worse than any pagan curse—Nero’s wrath. The governor obeyed: all—warriors, civilians, even children—fell beneath Roman blades. Bodies, living and dead, were heaped upon pyres of sacred oak. Temples and altars were torn asunder. Today’s ruins are largely Roman fortifications, built to subdue Wales. Yet to nature’s faithful, Anglesey remains their Jerusalem."

  Though Yvette knew the Holy Trinity’s faith had ridden Rome’s war-machine to supplant Europe’s pagan creeds, twisting worship of the Old Gods into veneration of a man-made deity, hearing this casual recount still chilled her with its blood-soaked undertones.

  "Though the Celts were nearly exterminated, their taboos endured. During my travels, I collected a few." Dr. Monis smiled cryptically. "Never circle a capital city sunwise. Never chase sacred beasts. Never take treasure from wetlands. Never leave the capital on the ninth night. Never lodge at sunset in homes where firelight lingers past dark... Fascinating folklore, no?"

  Ancient prohibitions, steeped in enigma—what tales lay behind them?

  "The deck’s winds grow harsh. I shall retire below. Until then, pleasant travels, Mr. Fisher." With a courteous nod, Dr. Monis took his leave.