Though Winslow had prepared nearly all household necessities, Yvette browsed Charing Cross Road—London’s famed bookstore district—to stock up on modern novels absent from Ulysses’ antique-laden library. At a newsstand, she also purchased newspapers the Francophile aristocrat disdained.

“Apologies for the wait—I lost track of time,” Yvette said to her guide, who stood patiently.

“No urgency. My task is to assist your errands,” he replied. “Though I prefer observing people to reading.”

Yvette skimmed The Court Weekly, its pages filled with aristocratic gossip, then a more serious broadsheet. A politician’s interview dominated the front page, arguing workhouses should reduce rations to deter “lazy parasites.” Society’s cruel logic deemed poverty self-inflicted; the unemployed clung to respectability to avoid being branded permanent paupers.

The second page detailed crimes—theft, abandonment, rape—with lurid specificity. A divorce trial aired intimate bedroom details, while a rape victim’s full name blared in print.

“The content displeases you?” the guide noted.

“Victims aren’t criminals. Publishing their names… it’s a second violation.” She folded the paper sharply.

London’s servant economy thrived on necessity. Without staff, daily life collapsed under chores: chopping sugar loaves, molding candles, laundering finicky fabrics. Yvette needed competent help—hence the guide’s presence.

As they approached the hiring hall, chaos erupted. A runaway carriage hurtled toward them, horses frenzied. Yvette lunged, gripping the cargo rail. Her power reversed the vehicle’s inertia, forcing the steeds to strain backward. To bystanders, it appeared the slim youth single-handedly halted the chaos.

“Thank you, young sir!” The driver bowed, mistaking her guide for the brawn.

Whispers followed: “Did you see? That boy stopped it alone!”

Yvette adjusted her tricorn hat, muttering, “I’ve trained in martial arts.” The guide said nothing.

Inside the hiring hall, a tearful woman pleaded with a clerk. “Please list me! My child can’t sleep on streets!”

“No reference letter, no registration,” the clerk snapped. Formerly well-dressed, her frayed cuffs hinted fallen status.

“A dismissed maid,” the guide murmured. “Likely caught in a scandal—theft or affair.”

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

When the woman mentioned her child, the clerk coldly advised: “Try the workhouse. Or the Foundling Hospital—if they’ll take a bastard.”

“What’s the Foundling Hospital?” Yvette asked.

“An orphanage, oversubscribed. Unwed mothers… rarely survive respectably.” The guide’s smile chilled. “They vanish into Thames fog or brothels.”

Yvette approached the trembling woman.

In this era, servants were less human than talking furniture. "Refined" households taught children to belittle or bully staff—a practice believed to nurture character by reserving compassion for one’s peers, not "inferiors." Abuse and harassment went unchallenged; judges and juries, being gentlemen themselves, dismissed servants’ grievances. To torment "furniture" was no crime.

Alison Lynch had served such a "gentleman’s" household. The master spent hours fondling maids and thrashing footmen—sometimes "disobedient" maids too, using canes, birch rods, hemp ropes… whatever lay handy. The mistress, paragon of virtue, ignored her husband’s exploits. Alison’s dismissal came not for yielding to him (as all young maids did), but for conceiving. Though abortion was illegal, London’s apothecaries sold "menstrual regulators" laced with arsenic and mercury—potently effective. The mistress deemed expulsion proper punishment for such "ingratitude."

Penniless, Alison survived on meager savings until childbirth drained her reserves. Now, as despair crested, a figure emerged through her tears.

"Mrs. Lynch," spoke the angelic youth, "having newly arrived from France, I require an experienced maid for my Covent Garden residence. Might you accept?"

Alison blinked. "Y-Yes! Thank you, sir!"

Grace incarnate! Had the Holy Spirit sent this ethereal boy?

"You may bring your child. My home has ample space."

Alison froze. Unheard of—a bastard under a master’s roof? Yet the youth’s French accent excused eccentricity. "I… don’t know how to repay you."

"Here’s my address. Come promptly—I’m hopeless alone."

That night, as Alison settled into 24 Langley Street, a visitor arrived at Ulysses’ West Hampstead manor.

"Mr. Ordinary," Winslow greeted, serving tea to a man of forgettable features—the afternoon guide.

"Thank you, Clockwork. The Doctor’s protégé passed inspection. Her psyche remains untainted."

Ordinary’s ability rendered him imperceptible—a ghost blending into any crowd. Yet prolonged exposure to depravity in the Americas had exacted a toll. Removing his hat, he revealed a third eye nestled in his scalp, lid half-shut. "New World cultists… their rot seeped into me. But observing her today soothed it back to dormancy."

Ulysses leaned forward. "Your verdict?"

Ordinary’s third eye slithered to replace his right, its murky iris staring blindly as his hand scrawled diagnoses. The note chilled Ulysses:

"Her empathy is primal, untainted by moral posturing. Yet such purity draws hungers beyond our realm…"

Exhausted, Ordinary departed. "Prolonged contact risks contamination. Even healed, we carriers… linger."

Meanwhile, Yvette jolted awake. Moonlight revealed an open book she didn’t recall purchasing. The pages fluttered to Leviticus:

"You must not eat meat with blood, for blood is life…"

Then John:

"The bread I give is my flesh for the life of the world…"

The text blurred except one passage, scrawled in her hand yet unwritten:

"Our life feeds on others’ deaths. In corpses, dormant life awaits—to merge with living flesh and awaken."

Her tongue slithered, forked like the cultist’s. A shadow loomed—hooded, ravenous.