"Um... Sir Ulysses, I commissioned a firearm from Mr. Maskelyne today. During the test firing, he criticized my posture and suggested I find an instructor. Could you recommend someone?" Though Maskelyne had referred to "that French duel maniac"—likely Ulysses himself—Yvette hesitated to impose given his busy schedule.

"Why recommend others? Do you doubt my marksmanship? Or does Albion even have qualified shooting instructors?" The Frenchman scoffed. "Their so-called hunting is a farce—aristocrats accepting pre-loaded guns from servants to shoot caged animals. Why not fire at the cages directly? Save the servants the trouble..." He trailed off, then brightened. "Ah, but since I used a sword that night, you might misunderstand. Rest assured, my pistol skills rival my blade. No need for outsiders—I’ll teach you myself. And as your dear uncle, I’ll dedicate these days to imparting practical combat skills. Winslow can handle the newspaper affairs."

His cheerful tone betrayed relief at delegating work.

"Stance dictates accuracy—balance, sight alignment, breath control," Ulysses lectured, adjusting Yvette’s grip. "The Weaver stance balances stability and defense, but since recoil doesn’t faze you, the duelist’s single-handed pose suits best—minimal exposure, maximum flair."

True to his boasts, Ulysses demonstrated flawless marksmanship, even shooting coins mid-air to pierce bullseyes. As he guided her posture, he muttered, "Thank Providence Winslow’s absent. He’d quarantine me three feet away like a plague bacillus..."

Albion’s prudish norms forbade even engaged couples from close contact. For now, Ulysses exploited the liberty, his hands steadying hers without censure.

"Albionites think waltzes are indecent—hypocrites," he sneered before approving her stance. "Drill this into muscle memory. In combat, instinct trumps aim. When actions flow without thought, you’ll be a true shooter."

"Understood. Thank you."

"You’ll also learn swordsmanship. A French heir ignorant of blades? Unthinkable. In crowded cities, steel whispers where guns shout." Ulysses outlined her crash course: "One month to master arms, etiquette, and public appearances. Thereafter, you’ll reside near Covent Garden—a property of mine—to patrol an unsupervised district."

"Alone?"

"Precisely. Challenging for a 'recovering invalid,' but necessary. Tomorrow’s Sunday—we’ll attend Anglican communion to cement your identity. Albion’s universities demand unmarried Anglican males. You fulfill one criterion, but we’ll... improvise the rest, dear nephew." His smirk promised mischief.

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The next day, a begrudging Ulysses—clad in uncharacteristic somber attire—escorted Yvette to church. Amidst murmured liturgy, a venomous whisper cut through:

"Behold! The illustrious Sir Ulysses graces us. Even the Holy Trinity must kneel in gratitude."

A hawk-eyed man in his thirties glared from the pews—Chief Superintendent Artaud of Scotland Yard, hatred simmering beneath his stern demeanor.

"Ignore him. Wait," Ulysses murmured.

Post-service, the trio converged outside. Artaud erupted: "Saturday’s headlines vilified my precinct! Two dozen complaints about negligence—letting grave-robbers slaughter eleven! Slander!"

"Facts, not slander," Ulysses purred. "My papers uphold journalistic integrity."

"Where were you that night? Keep this up, and I’ll haul you in for 'questioning'!"

Yvette arrived as Artaud threatened, her pulse quickening. Ulysses remained unflappable: "Ah, perfect timing! Meet my 'nephew,' Yves de Fishe. Yves, this is Chief Superintendent Artaud—our beloved 'public servant.' Call upon him anytime."

"Damned Frenchie—"

"Pleased to meet you, Superintendent." Yvette offered her hand.

Artaud’s brief grip froze him. "...A woman?"

"Superintendent Artaud’s ability—'Bloodhound'—detects truths through touch," Ulysses explained, unfazed. "As you see, she’ll soon operate independently. Do watch over my 'frail foreign niece,' won’t you?"

Artaud stiffened, thrusting a card at Yvette. "Contact me... if needed." His glare softened. "But curb your uncle’s antics! That Red Mill case—"

"—Is under control, thanks to Yves’ inspired fabrication." Ulysses outlined the "drunken acquaintance" cover story.

Artaud’s fury dissolved into reluctant gratitude. Ulysses pressed his advantage: "Yet our noble superintendent repays her aid by snarling 'damned Frenchie'—shocking ingratitude!"

"I— That wasn’t—" Flustered, Artaud fled.

Weeks of grueling study followed—sword drills, target practice, etiquette lessons. By month’s end, Yvette earned her mentors’ approval.

On moving day, Winslow presented her carriage: "A prudent hire—Sir Ulysses prepaid a year. Your driver, Carl."

The coachman eyed his effete new master—Yvette’s androgynous beauty and French flair fitting Albion’s stereotype. Yet her warmth disarmed him: "No need for aliases. To Covent Garden, please."

townhouse—a four-story gem in London’s heart—gleamed under Winslow’s meticulous preparation. "Staffing is essential," he cautioned. "My automatons can’t serve here. Hide your nature from mortal servants."

As they toured the rooms, Yvette ventured: "Winslow... why remain a steward? A transcendent of your rank could claim higher status."

"Service anchors my humanity," he replied, gaze distant. "Knighthood requires a liege. Sir Ulysses... never wavers."

Yvette blinked. "I just want to survive—be a proper bounty hunter."

"An admirable start." Winslow’s smile held melancholy. "We transcendents walk apart from mortal tides. But purpose steadies us."

After final instructions—allowances, raven post, weekly visits—Winslow departed. Alone, Yvette collapsed onto featherbed musings: Two months... healthy at last. Time to fight as I always have.

At two o’clock, a knock heralded her guide—a nondescript clerk in dated attire. "At your service for staffing and errands," he droned, name already forgotten.

As they rode forth, Yvette breathed deep. Her new life—fraught with secrets and steel—had truly begun.