Known as the "Mother of Wales," the druidic island of Anglesey gave Yvette a sense of peace and reverence the first time she saw its magnificent scenery.

  No wonder it was considered a sacred land. Not only was it revered by ancient nature-worshippers as beautiful and holy, but anyone who came here would naturally feel the same.

  The island's coastline rarely featured gentle beaches. Most of its dramatic, jagged shores were steep cliffs rising abruptly from the waves, only to level out suddenly at the top. The island itself was lush with green grass and dense vegetation. Towering white lighthouses stood at every corner, while flocks of seabirds soared through the skies, making it feel like a fragment of heaven—reminiscent of floating continents from fantasy games of a past life.

  The ferry Yvette was on traveled a long distance around the island before finding a harbor nestled in a shallow stretch of rocky shore where it could dock.

  As she disembarked, she saw Dr. Monis wave farewell before disappearing into the crowd of passengers. Around her, excited chatter from tourists filled the air—a young couple was even planning to hold their wedding here.

  "I saw it as we came into port! What a shame you were resting in the cabin. That ‘Ocean Church’ on the tidal island looked like it stood right on the emerald waves. Exchanging rings there would make for the most thrilling wedding!"

  "Can’t we visit it now?"

  "No, the tidal island is only accessible during low tide, when it connects to the mainland. Otherwise, the sea swallows it whole, turning it into an isolated piece of land…"

  Leaving the noisy crowd behind, Yvette approached an old sailor to ask where she might find a boat to Duffield Island. To her surprise, she was told that only a single merchant ship serviced that route. It delivered grain and supplies to St. Quentin’s Mental Hospital on Duffield Island once a week, returning with the island’s local specialties to sell.

  "A mental hospital produces local specialties?" Yvette was puzzled.

  "It was originally a monastery. Back in the day, people would cast the mad and deranged adrift on the sea. The monastery took some in and taught the less severe ones to do simple manual labor. Over time, it became a mental asylum—admission fees are still low—but the tradition stuck. Here on Anglesey, you’ll find porter stout brewed by St. Quentin’s hermits in most taverns. Don’t worry—the patients only gather hops or crush malt. The real brewing is done by the hermits. Their salt-cured cheese, made with sea salt, is also excellent, along with little things like pipes and leather crafts. The merchant ship just left this morning, so while you’re on the island, be sure to try them!"

  Since the ship had only departed that morning, the odd Frenchman must have already reached the island. Yvette decided it was best to wait near the harbor. Though she could charter a boat herself, it would draw attention—and if the Frenchman happened to return on the merchant ship, they could miss each other entirely, making him all the harder to find.

  Sure enough, two days later, the merchant ship returned to harbor laden with the famed monastery beer and handmade crafts. Most sales were made on populous Anglesey, so the ship would stay awhile to restock, undergo maintenance, and prepare new cargo. From a well-positioned bar along the harbor, Yvette watched the disembarking passengers and sailors—none bore the Frenchman’s face.

  St. Quentin’s dark beer was indeed delicious. Even she, who rarely drank, had ordered a few glasses. The brew was coffee-brown, with a mellow sweetness reminiscent of caramel and toffee. Behind the bar stood an orchard of apple trees, bearing Anglesey’s unique "Pig’s Snout" apples. Spring was in full bloom, with white apple blossoms blooming like clouds. Her plate held the tavern’s specialty apple-seafood salad—last autumn’s apples, crisp and sweet even after winter, paired with freshly caught lobster and octopus, topped with garden-picked lettuce and a dressing of black pepper and apple vinegar. Though the price was modest, it was a delicacy even London struggled to offer.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  If only life could always be this peaceful. Chewing on the tangy-sweet seafood salad, Yvette caught an apple blossom petal drifting in through the window.

  ……

  The merchant ship servicing Duffield Island wasn’t exactly built for passengers. It mainly carried cargo, with a few people tagging along—hardly anyone went to such a remote place anyway. Comfort wasn’t guaranteed, but Yvette was unwilling to endure discomfort. After a quick negotiation with the boatswain—who happily relinquished his private cabin in exchange for a few small gold coins—she secured a decent place to rest while he bedded down among the swaying grain sacks and barrels of lamp oil in the cargo hold.

  As she boarded, the first mate warned all passengers to stay clear of the deck railings during the voyage—the rough sea was always eager to toss the careless overboard.

  "I ain’t joking! Last trip, some reckless fool died in the water. I threw him a rope, but he was too panicked to grab it. Not long after, sharks tore his belly open!"

  "Do you compensate for accidents like that?" a nosy traveler asked.

  The first mate scowled. "That depends on how good your lawyer is. But that poor sod wouldn’t stand a chance—he was French. Even if his kin came knocking, no jury would side with a Frenchie over their own. They’d call it treason!"

  A Frenchman… dead?

  "Wait, this Frenchman—was he—?" Yvette cut in.

  "Tall, gaunt face. Only one Frenchman we’ve had aboard in years."

  "How did he fall?"

  "Who knows? The guy was always daydreaming on deck. Gave him a fair warning more than once, but he ignored me. Was bound to happen sooner or later. Daft fellow." The first mate huffed. Sailors were deeply superstitious, and death aboard was never a welcome omen.

  To think he’d actually died…

  Shock gave way to relief—and then guilt at her own selfishness.

  "Pay no mind to the first mate’s tone, sir. He holds no grudge against the French," a young, dark-skinned deckhand said cheerfully after the mate walked off.

  This sailor, Geoffrey, was sharp and opportunistic. Noticing Yvette’s free spending, he’d made a habit of hovering nearby, ready to offer his services in exchange for the customary European tip.

  Frankly, Yvette didn’t mind the convenience—but sailors like Geoffrey teetered on the edge of lawlessness. Though outwardly respectful, she sensed he viewed her as a naive young lord, ripe for the fleecing.

  Not keen on inviting trouble—petty theft, or worse—she decided to make an example of herself. On deck, she took a few showy shots with her pistol, dropping low-flying seabirds with unerring accuracy.

  "Blimey, you’re a sharpshooter!" Geoffrey gasped.

  "Needs must, in France. A gentleman must learn to defend himself—or be helpless in a duel. Back in Paris, nobles die by the dozens in duels each year." She smiled pleasantly.

  The sailors were suitably impressed—not that Yvette was lying. France had hundreds of thousands of nobles, and even the women dueled occasionally. A body count in the low hundreds was statistically inevitable.

  Either way, Geoffrey grew noticeably more deferential after her display.

  "Mr. Fisher, what brings you to the island?"

  "I heard the monastery sits on old Roman ruins. I travel often, and I’ve a fondness for ancient sites." She borrowed Dr. Monis’s explanation.

  "Need a guide? Just a shilling—no, half! I’ll show you around. Know the place like the back of my hand. Don’t think I’m after your coin, though—the hermits live in silence, praying their lives away. You’ll get two words out of them a day if you’re lucky. The rest are lunatics. Not a soul on that rock knows it better than me!"

  Something felt off. Geoffrey wasn’t one to undercharge—he’d squeeze an extra penny if he could. Why so cheap now?

  Still, if the island was as he described, paying for information wouldn’t hurt. She agreed.

  The journey passed without incident—until the eve of their arrival at Duffield. While wandering the ship, Yvette overheard a hushed exchange near the stern.

  "Boss, can I skip unloading? Mr. Fisher’s hired me as a guide," Geoffrey’s voice pleaded.

  "No. Rules are rules. The hermits pay us to haul goods to the storeroom. You think this cozy gig—four days at sea, three ashore—spreads itself? Lately, you’ve been cozying up to that French brat a bit too much. If everyone slacked, who’d do the work? Unload every last sack before you even think of running off!"

  "Come on! They wouldn’t know how to treat a gentleman. Here—split my tip with you, fifty-fifty! Now can I take him touring?"

  "Fine. But only ‘cause of the ‘Lion Crown.’ Don’t push it." The boatswain grunted.

  The jingle of silver was unmistakable.

  "Lion Crown"—the Albion shilling she’d promised Geoffrey.

  Why would he bribe away his earnings just to guide her? Unless… was he planning to lead her somewhere quiet to rob and murder her?

  Yvette smirked. If so, it’d be the last bad idea he ever had.