"London's social season begins in April," Upas drawled. "Prove your character before we risk admitting a... questionable foreigner." His finger spun The Magician card—its imagery of sleight-of-hand suddenly igniting her insight.

Six months... midnight...

Her eyes lit up. "Your 'six months' isn't temporal—it's astrological. August 22nd marks Leo ceding to Virgo. The real key..." She tapped The Magician, "...lies in the card you hid—Strength."

Upas froze as she continued: "Strength depicts a virgin taming a lion—Virgo overcoming Leo. Show us the eleventh card."

Reluctantly, he revealed Strength—"I Consent" scribbled on its back.

"Magnificent!" Oleander cheered while Strychnine grumbled, "Should've known a de Fische'd ruin a perfectly good plot twist."

"Call me Mandrake," Yvette declared, claiming her club codename.

Candelabras bathed the private dining room in honeyed light as footmen served foie gras en croûte and salmon mousseline. Between bites of Strasbourg delicacies, the conversation turned macabre.

"Tomorrow's expedition should delight," Strychnine announced. "The Ickenham Red Mill murders—five victims, rumors of vampirism. Police bungled it, as usual."

Yvette's fork hesitated over her tarte tatin. The very case she'd helped obscure with counter-rumors.

"Capital!" Upas leaned forward. "An open-air crime scene, occult whispers... perfect for our talents."

"Count me in," Yvette smiled tightly. Time to play double agent.

As they plotted their investigation, she noted the cruel irony: these aristocratic sleuths sought to unravel a mystery whose truth could unleash supernatural catastrophe. Her mission? Ensure they found only fiction in the facts.

Outside, fog swallowed the gaslit streets—a fitting shroud for the game afoot. Tomorrow, the Labyrinth of Thought would stalk a killer... while the real predator sat among them, sipping Burgundy wine with guileless charm.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

When Yvette descended the stairs after freshening up, she spotted a small basket on the dining table alongside breakfast. Alison, arranging a stack of ironed newspapers, greeted her warmly: “Good morning, Master Yves.”

“What’s this?” Yvette eyed the basket draped with a floral cloth.

“You mentioned an outing with your companions today. I bought fresh venison and tuna at the market this morning and prepared two types of sandwiches. They’ll keep you nourished on your journey.”

“Venison? That must have been quite the effort. Thank you, Alison. But please don’t trouble yourself next time. The potato salad you made last week was delightful even as a cold dish.”

In this era, venison, swan, and peacock were considered noble fare—game reserved for the aristocracy, as commoners risked gunfire from gamekeepers or prosecution for poaching. Potatoes, meanwhile, were viewed as “unseemly” fare, lower in status than oats fed to horses.

“Master Yves,” Alison chided gently, “potatoes are not food for a gentleman of standing. You ought to eat what benefits your health—meat, for instance.”

“Why? Are potato purée or beef stew not delicious?”

“…I admit your recipes make them palatable, but they grow underground, unlike proper crops that rise nobly toward the sun.”

Yvette nodded politely, privately dismissing the bias. If root vegetables are unworthy, then onions and carrots must be villains too. She understood Alison’s concern: in London, social validation hinged on appearances.

The group boarded a train to Ickenham, the rhythmic clatter of wheels and billowing steam punctuating their lively debate about urban legends.

“—Upas, you can’t seriously believe in supernatural twaddle!” Oleander scoffed. “The ‘Golden Flash’ sightings in Midshire were mass hysteria!”

“Or ergot-infected bread,” Yvette added. “History proves fungal toxins cause delusions—like the Dancing Plague of 1518.”

Outvoted, Upas relented: “Fine, have your science. I’ll keep my theories.”

Arriving at the isolated mill, they found two carriages parked outside. A government official handed a check to a well-dressed man—Mr. Durand—who now claimed ownership of the property.

“Gentlemen,” Durand’s servant barked, “this is private land!”

“A check requires bank clearance to take effect,” Strychnine retorted, puffing his meerschaum pipe. “Legally, this remains public until then.”

As they pressed forward, Yvette froze. The path felt eerily familiar—she’d walked it in a dream, through the eyes of “Hydra.” Durand’s voice confirmed it: he was the unseen “Lord of the Boiling Lake” from her vision.

“How invested you are, Mr. Durand,” Oleander drawled. “Repairing the mill before ownership? Almost as if… you anticipated its vacancy.”

Durand’s smile turned icy. “Billgate and I had discussed selling this derelict mill. Tragically, thieves murdered him before we finalized terms. As for alibis—” He spread his hands, “—eight servants attest I never left my estate that night. The police agree: four drunk farmers overpowered by a stranger. Now, unless you wish to face libel charges, I suggest you leave.”