That afternoon, Yvette arrived at the Royal University to meet her academic advisor. The professor warmly received her and insisted she join his family for tea. Through their conversation, Yvette learned that the university operated on a remarkably lax system: no fixed curriculum, self-directed studies, and only requiring her presence once every week or two. Though initially concerned about exams, the professor assured her she’d graduate with honors in two years without sitting for a single test.

The advisor’s true fascination, however, lay with the names on her recommendation letter. He lavished praise on Sir Ulysse’s medical achievements—odd enthusiasm from a classics professor—and hinted heavily at desires to visit the nobleman’s residence or encounter the Duke of Lancaster. Yvette deftly sidestepped these probes by emphasizing her limited familiarity with her “uncle’s” social circle.

Undeterred, the professor pivoted to extolling his daughter’s embroidery skills and piano virtuosity. Yvette endured the awkward tea session with polite nods before making her escape.

“Your intellect has made this afternoon truly delightful, Mr. de Fische! I do hope we might share tea again,” the professor effused at parting.

“Certainly,” Yvette replied, fleeing the suffocating hospitality.

Rounding a garden wall, she nearly collided with a red-faced student. Though her enhanced reflexes allowed her to steady herself, the young man staggered before freezing mid-glare. His anger melted into slack-jawed awe as he took in Yvette’s androgynous beauty—ivory skin, luminous eyes framed by cascading hair—before fleeing in flustered panic.

“Odd fellow,” Yvette murmured, brushing off the encounter.

Meanwhile, across campus, lovestruck Gary returned to his friends in a daze. “His complexion… like sculpted alabaster… his gaze pierces the soul…” he rhapsodized, igniting alarmed suspicions about his sudden appreciation for male beauty.

Returning home, Yvette found Sir Ulysse awaiting her. “Your mental evaluation cleared you for fieldwork,” he announced, handing her a philosophical fragment from “Mr. Mundane”—an enigmatic observer who’d determined her ideal path:

“Why fear our inner selves? Our terror stems from clinging to identity. Release attachment to self, and what remains to dread?”

The accompanying document revealed calligraphy painstakingly recreated through gridded illustrations—Sir Ulysse’s own handiwork.

“This passage’s true meaning is lost in multiple translations,” Ulysse cautioned.

“Not to me,” Yvette grinned.

Their meeting concluded with a new assignment: infiltrate the Labyrinth of Thought club—a group of amateur sleuths obsessed with unsolved crimes. “They’re privileged meddlers,” Ulysse sneered. “Guide their curiosity away from… sensitive matters.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

As Yvette accepted the mission, Ulysse dropped darker news: the asylum surgeon who’d sold her corpse-to-be now faced hanging for grave robbery. When offered prime seats at the execution, Yvette declined—the era’s macabre fascination with public hangings held no appeal.

Thus began her dual life: university dilettante by day, undercover club infiltrator by night, all while navigating a world where Enlightenment ideals clashed with supernatural secrets—and where a single misstep could unravel both her mission and carefully constructed identity.

Adopting the "Unicorn Stance"—body angled sideways, rapier extended toward an imaginary opponent’s face—she demonstrated why the slender blade was more than a thrusting weapon. A flick of her wrist sent the blade slicing through a forearm-thick tree branch with a whoosh of parted air. A reverse cut halved the remaining stump, both strikes executed as mezzotagli (half-cuts)—lightning-fast slashes meant to disable limbs rather than deliver killing blows.

Most swordsmen relied on height and reach for advantage, but Yvette’s supernatural agility compensated. She visualized an opponent lunging overhead, then bent backward at an impossible angle—a move that would topple any ordinary fighter—before counterthrusting upward.

“Fencing exhausts the mind more than the body,” she mused, collapsing onto the grass. Her training under Sir Ulysse had revealed swordsmanship as a cerebral art. The treatises he assigned resembled geometry texts, filled with concentric circles and intersecting curves mapping optimal footwork and blade trajectories—part of La Verdadera Destreza, the "True Skill" system pioneered by mathematician-duelists.

To think 16th-century fencing masters debated hyperbolic geometry while crossing blades… Yvette chuckled, recalling Ulysse’s quip: “If you can’t bisect a parabola, don’t bother bisecting a man.”

Sunlight streamed through the Palladian windows of the St. James Street townhouse, gilding the mahogany-paneled reading room where three gentlemen sipped Darjeeling amidst crime gazettes.

“Burglary homicides… drunken brawl killings… yawn.” Twirling his waxed mustache, the man codenamed Oleander tossed aside The Times. “Where’s the artistry? A proper English murder requires a vicar or barrister—someone civilized enough to devise clever stratagems before tripping on a minuscule oversight!”

“Hear, hear!” agreed Strychnine, an silver-templed aesthete. “These modern brutes lack the decency to stage a proper locked-room mystery.”

Upas (named for the mythical poison tree) interrupted their lamentations with a sigh. “A Mr. de Fische seeks membership. Nephew to that insufferable Sir Ulysse.”

“Another Frog?” Strychnine harrumphed. “Out with him!”

“On the contrary,” Oleander smirked. “Imagine Sir Ulysse’s face if his kin joins our ‘childish detective games.’ Let’s test the pup.”

Yvette entered to find three pairs of eyes dissecting her like a cadaver at Bart’s Hospital.

“Your uncle,” Oleander began silkily, “holds our club in contempt. Why should we welcome his blood?”

“I share no confidences with Sir Ulysse,” Yvette countered. “My passion lies in criminological puzzles—particularly the intellectual elegance of poisoners.”

“Elegance?” Strychnine snorted. “Stabbing takes guts. Poison’s a coward’s tool!”

“On the contrary.” Yvette leaned forward, eyes glinting. “A knife murder risks one moment of detection. Poisoning demands threefold genius: procuring toxins unseen, ensuring lethal dosage, and masking motive. It’s a chess match versus a bar brawl.”

Oleander applauded. “Bravo! My vote’s secured.”

Strychnine grudgingly conceded, “Were your name not de Fische… but no. I dissent.”

All eyes turned to Upas, who shuffled tarot cards with practiced flair. “Let fate decide.” The Death card flipped upward. He chuckled. “Apt. Welcome to the Labyrinth, Mr. de Fische.”

Thus began Yvette’s infiltration—a dance between aristocratic pretense and occult duty, where every tea-soaked conversation might unravel supernatural secrets… or expose her own.