"Yvette, I actually wonder, what kind of world do people behind the real veil see?" The Duke of Lancaster suddenly said.

  "...Just an ordinary world, occasionally seeing some illusions, nothing more. And usually it's not a pleasant experience." Even for Yvette, aside from bizarre fantasies, she didn't often see strange things in the waking world. The material surface of all things in this world serves as protection. But just as butterflies can distinguish over a dozen colors while humans can only see three, what butterflies see differs from humans. Usually, supernatural visions occur when humans with unstable rationality, like kinfolk, observe their surroundings with spiritual vision under accidental circumstances. However, this doesn't happen often. If visions constantly appeared in reality, one would likely be on the brink of total madness.

  It's no wonder the Duke of Lancaster was somewhat twisted - being an ordinary man yet facing the world's most terrifying truths. At least as a supernatural being, Yvette could somewhat fight monsters, a psychological advantage the Duke lacked. Even so, she was gradually being eroded into a monster herself, making her unfit to judge the Duke's mental distortion.

  Days ago, Martha had written her a letter with ink the color of withered roses. If human blood dried, it might yield a deeper rust color, but Martha's peculiar light-colored hemolymph might turn even paler when coagulated. Yvette tried not to think about what Martha used to write. The letter read like that of a lovesick maiden, passionately describing how she longed daily to rush to her beloved and stay with him forever.

  But Martha wrote "for the sake of her soul's savior, she would endure with all her might."

  Yvette knew things weren't as simple as the words suggested. It troubled her. From a waking perspective, she didn't want the girl who once cared for her to be consumed by dreamspace, even if Martha was just a half-kin hybrid. Yet this ran counter to Martha's own wishes.

  Objectively speaking, Yvette herself deserved more wariness than the Duke.

  This realization made even delicious ice cream seem tasteless. She just kept poking the remaining cream with her spoon.

  "Are they really illusions?" The Duke placed his hand on the chairback, seemingly making casual conversation while exchanging glances with others on the field. The aristocratic men who noticed his gaze lightly touched their hat brims in elegant greeting.

  The Duke smiled, but his words chilled: "Those man-shaped and woman-shaped things, and those without human form - I enjoy observing them. They always harbor many secrets. Humans in hardship and desire, driven by fear or helplessness, seize, plunder, and torture each other to death... We keep this secret, walking on two legs to distinguish ourselves from beasts. But deep down, we all know we aren't truly human - not the rational, pious, kind souls proclaimed by mainstream values. The beast within never sleeps - it can only be temporarily satisfied. We cover it with a thin veneer of education and humanity, then try to provide what it needs to keep it mostly docile.

  Yvette, how do you pacify and satisfy yours?"

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I...

  A peculiar appetite that can only be satisfied by devouring. It grows slowly, perhaps destined to consume even herself...

  She unconsciously gripped the silver spoon so tightly its handle bent slightly.

  The Duke plucked a fresh strawberry decoration from her ice cream cup, crushing it between his teeth in a manner unbefitting the fragile fruit.

  "I like strawberries - soft and juicy, each squeeze releasing crimson liquid. But this is too sweet. I prefer ones with a faint saltiness." His strange words seemingly critiqued the strawberry, yet not quite. Rising to leave for the fields, he intentionally or not added, "I look forward to you introducing more 'delicious friends'."

  What he truly meant, Yvette neither understood nor wished to.

  She needed to forget this conversation, lest memories of fine dining rekindle longing for certain sumptuous feasts.

  ...

  Lord Thornton's invitation marked Yvette's most indescribable social event yet, primarily due to her secret exchange with the Duke.

  She knew the Duke's cursed condition granted him vision sensitivity nearing high-level supernaturals. During the fishman corpse incident that aroused cannibalistic urges, he'd demonstrated his vision's accuracy by identifying the sandwich filling as human flesh rather than venison as claimed.

  He'd seen small ram-like creatures nibbling accusatory arms emerging from shadows - phenomena unique to Earl Grey, blood evidence of each Grey heir's dispossession of peasants during the Enclosure Movement.

  If Earl Grey manifested sheep-devouring-humans visions from making tenants homeless, what did she appear as under the Duke's sight?

  For the first time, Yvette felt both curiosity and fear.

  Would she be blood-drenched? Or bear monstrous jaws and fangs? What criminal marks had her victims left upon her?

  She both wanted and dreaded to know.

  This conflict prevented normal interactions with the Duke, who remained obliviously cheerful whenever they met.

  Departing Oxford at noon, she returned home after nightfall to find a familiar figure lingering under her streetlamp.

  "Carol? What brings you here?" She called from the carriage.

  "Yvette! You're back! I came several times but you were away. The maid said you might return tonight, so I waited." His expression mixed surprise and delight.

  Previously, she'd considered this classmate somewhat introverted but dependable, academically strong among peers, having helped translate ancient texts. She never expected such behavior as staking out her home - he must have urgent business.

  Carol knew visiting tomorrow would be more proper, especially since nights permitted little action. But unease drove him to seek Yvette's counsel.

  Unrecognized by Yvette's servants, Alison naturally wouldn't admit an unvetted young man, only revealing Yvette's possible return upon seeing his long wait.

  "Care to come inside? Or if urgent, join me in the carriage?" Yvette offered.

  "That's...very kind. Apologies for troubling you so late..." Carol stammered, his bold decision now tempered by ingrained British hierarchy awareness. Poorest among classmates, even wearing the humiliating "reduced-fee student" badge at school, entering the wool-carpeted, chandeliered foyer left him utterly disoriented.

  The unprecedented opulence awakened Carol's inferiority complex. Disturbing a noble with trivial matters at this hour might cost Yvette's friendship.

  But for Miss Soleil, his guiding light, he had to try.

  "What troubles you? How may I help?" Yvette asked after they sat.

  "This is...embarrassing. There's a delicate matter I must ask..."

  Britain's rigid class structure persisted even as continental kings ennobled courtesans and flaunted lovers socially. Here, estranged noble couples still couldn't substitute wives with mistresses.

  This custom maintained aristocratic aloofness, particularly toward performers deemed "low." Queen Elizabeth I once snubbed a premier dancer who performed privately then invited her to his show: "I'll watch no performance of yours, being but a player."

  Carol feared Yvette might share such prejudice, having heard of her visiting exhibitions but rarely theaters.