Ulysses returned home under the veil of twilight, moments before supper.

“Settled?” Winslow asked.

“Naturally.” Removing his plumed tricorn, Ulysses noticed Yvette. “Ah, perfect timing. I’ve a gift for you.”

From his coat emerged a lacquered box housing a luminous violet prism.

“[Foundation] essence distilled? Remarkably expedient,” Winslow observed.

“The Committee provided it with the assignment. Given my Durham report, they assured additional vials if needed.”

Lost in their arcane exchange, Yvette frowned. “What are you two discussing?”

“Master Yves, congratulations loom—your second Essence, [Foundation], nears awakening.”

Second what?!

“Correct,” Ulysses said, placing the crystal in her palm. “Our bureau’s transcendents rely on these against ancient-god-empowered fiends. Without such sanctioned ascension, enforcing bans on profane rites would’ve doomed us to medieval extinction. Dreams are gateways; this crystal shall ferry you to higher truths. Clutch it in slumber, and paradise awaits.”

“Sleep while holding this… and I ascend? It seems too simple.”

“Simplicity deceives. Essence awakening demands personal revelation of cosmic Truth. The crystal merely… guides—offering visions to shatter mental barriers. Three vials typically suffice per ascension, assuming sanity holds.

You linger at [Kingdom], the first Essence—a fledgling toehold in reality’s fabric. The Tree of Life segments into four realms: lone [Kingdom] anchors [Assiah], our mortal realm, governed by the Cherub Sandalphon. Reaching [Foundation], the second Essence, marks your true pilgrimage—symbolized by Gabriel, divine herald. Essences 2-4 weave [Yetzirah], the emotive realm; 5-7 compose [Beriah], where intellect reigns; 8-10 ascend to [Atziluth], domain of Eternal Ones—a sphere whispered to bestow immortality, hosting angels and demons of lore.”

“What’s the highest attained Essence?”

“Our archives note a Seventh Essence [Mercy] adept—still mortal. Each ascension risks sanity: chasms between Essences seethe with Old Gods’ corruptive screams and cosmic abominations—a creeping blight upon flesh and soul…”

“Sir, spare your ghoulish flair. Tonight’s black pudding and eel aspic may temper your theatrics.”

Sir Winslow—bastion of knightly probity—materialized.

“By Beelzebub’s cleft hoof—is that a demon before me?” Ulysses hissed.

“Pay no heed. The path to [Foundation] is safe,” Winslow countered. “Bureau crystals are purified—only Truth persists. Higher Essences court madness, but your trials now involve mere phantasmal whispers. Should fear grip you, I shall keep vigil.”

“…Even my Gallic tongue balks at such courtliness. Winslow, you surprise.”

“Serving noblewomen tempers knightly pride to compassion. Alas, you embody neither grace nor virtue, Chevalier—a poor muse for chivalric refinement.”

Charming… Yvette marveled at Anglo-French animosity’s creative potency.

Opting for home over haunted vigils (a silently judging Winslow seemed eerier than phantoms), she dined through Winslow’s culinary interrogation of Ulysses. Departing at eight-thirty, she dismissed her carriage early to stroll toward Langley Street.

No maidservant greeted her arrival—Albion’s gentry, notoriously inept at self-reliance, seldom carried keys. Tabloids mocked a lord who, upon his bisected footman’s demise, cried: “Send me the half with my key!”

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

Yvette, however, often self-tended—a habit that once troubled Alison until reassurance mended misunderstandings. Retrieving her key, she entered soundlessly.

In Albion homes, “unclean” servant quarters occupied ground floors, segregated from aristocratic upper sanctums. Respecting tradition, Yvette rarely trespassed—Alison stiffened like a startled hare whenever she did.

Tonight, drawn downstairs, she glimpsed Alison feeding her infant from a slender brown vial—instantly recognizable. Laudanum.

Yvette seized the bottle. “What is this?”

“Forgive me, Master Yves, I’ll—”

“The bottle. What is it?”

“…A quieting tonic. For infants.” Alison blanched.

Opium tinctures numbing squalling babies were commoner staples. Working couples (30 shillings weekly) faced destitution upon childbirth—mothers rushed back to work, relying on chemists’ poisons. Laudanum bottles sported cherubic motifs, selling lies of healthy slumber while infants turned wan and frail.

“Never again. Not for Mary. Not for anyone.” Yvette’s voice chilled. “Tend her needs—I won’t perish if supper’s late.”

“But her cries—”

“I’d host a banshee’s chorus before this filth.” Uncorking the vial, she spilled its contents into the scullery drain.

[…Today’s reprimand carried divine wrath. Though masters’ scoldings once shamed me, tonight’s sternness kindled awe. An angel dwells in Master Yves’ breast—I revere him as I revere Christ.]

—Alison Lynch’s diary

……

Falling…

She drifted downward, slow and inexorable.

Where am I?

Her eyes opened to an azure gloom above, an yawning void below—a weightless limbo between sea and womb, neither cold nor suffocating.

Am I swimming through the heavens… or drowning in starlight?

Uncertainty vanished; only the fall remained. What awaited in the abyss’ maw?

As she wondered, the darkness beneath her split—a slender rent hundreds of meters long, blazing with primordial ochre light thick as molten blood. The atmosphere congealed around her, heavy as Lethe’s currents, yet her gaze pierced the murk, locked onto the fissure’s solar inferno.

Her heart drummed—compelled by a voiceless siren call! There, in that silent incandescent tomb, slumbered the god who’d gifted her power. No mortal knew its face or name, yet its antiquity dwarfed humanity’s brief flicker.

Primordial Architect. Alpha and Omega.

The radiant abyss swelled, subsuming her in a sea of light—until salvation: a gateway yawned above the fissure. She crossed, spared the abyssal plunge.

Darkness lifted. A new vista: cosmos unmasked. Stars were gears, planets their cogs, orbits interlocked brass rings—celestial clockwork.

A nude Apollo-esque figure braced the mechanism atop a plinth, arms upraised.

Clarity returned. She understood: this mechanized firmament was Yesod (Foundation)—Second Emanation of the Sephiroth, gateway to enlightenment.

Ascension.

Yvette awoke. The sephirah crystal in her palm disintegrated, spent.

But her transformed vision twisted reality—edges undulated like Van Gogh brushstrokes, faint giggles whispered from shadows. Post-breakthrough hallucinations; unsettling without preparation.

She breathed through the chaos until silence prevailed.

New powers emerged: sound mastery joined heat and mechanics.

At 4 a.m., carriages clattered as London’s elite partied. Yvette muffled the noise—perfect quiet. Unnerved by sensory deprivation, she bided time until dawn, then raced to test skills in wilderness.

"Silenced Bullet": firing a pistol, she canceled both recoil and bang—a stealth assassin’s trick. Tempting for mischief, but heroes call the police.

Duel energy channels—left-brain/right-brain coordination needed work.

Next: Reverse engineering. Could kinetic energy become sound?

High frequencies scattered birds; bass rumbles blurred vision. Aiming at a glass: shatters at inches, harmless at meters. Pointless?

But 19 Hz infrasound—untargeted, messing with eyeball resonance—briefly blurred sight. "Hymn of Obscuration." Range: 5 meters. Boombox potential in echo chambers.

Now swordfights get interesting. Catch: don’t deafen yourself mid-fight.

Social season loomed. Dance drills intensified—no room for error among gossipy aristocrats. Waltzes were taboo; polkas and minuets ruled. Her partner? Ulysses, begrudgingly leading the "lady’s" steps.

That morning, she arrived early. Ulysses drafted a medical expose:

"Emerald Green—arsenic-laced poison. Factory girls’ hands ulcerate; wallpapered rooms induce migraines..."

His quill danced in precise Carolingian script.

Yvette reflected: This caustic dandy had saved countless lives at 18, proving cholera spread through tainted water—knighthood earned. "Doctor" suited his codename.

"Ascension achieved," she announced. "Yesod."

"One crystal? Rare talent," he conceded.

"A prodigy, then?"

"Gifted adepts often court madness. Tread carefully."

She edged toward forbidden topics: "Ever wonder about our power’s source? The… god behind it?"

"Fatal curiosity. Some truths hunt us." He warned of Alba’s lineage—incubus blood tracing to Lilith, not a temptress but a cosmic void dubbed "Black Moon." Gazing upon such entities invited insanity.

Membership formalities arose. With endorsements, Yvette’s initiation neared. Ulysses feigned indifference: "Scotland Yard might suit you."

"Rather stay. If… acceptable."

Relief ghosted his features. "Surprising. I’m hardly… congenial."

"To me, you’re kindness itself. You sheltered me—a stranger."

"Kindness…" Ulysses chuckled wryly. "Sanitarium life warped your benchmarks. But no complaints."