Beyond Yvette's awareness, shockwaves from her actions rippled through London's sunless underworld.

In the maritime-themed Humpback Whale tavern near Canary Wharf, seasoned sailors nursed rum while swapping tales. A burly drunk regaled the eyepatched barkeep with storm survival yarns. "Ghosts o' sixty-foot waves still chase me!" he slurred, rattling empty tankards.

The barkeep's chuckle held Arctic chill. "Storms? Child's play. Let me tell of the Stillness." His voice dropped to a kraken's rumble. "Ship frozen in glassy seas. Sun bleaching bones as mates butchered each other for brackish dregs... When only I floated on salt-cracked planks, tentacles rose. Not death - baptism."

The drunk's face purpled, fingers scrabbling at an invisible noose. Gamblers circled, placing wagers on his seizure. "Two shillings says he croaks!" Coins clinked as the man's boots drummed finality on ale-sticky floorboards.

Later, the barkeep conversed with a cloaked newcomer. "Our King claims what's his," he said, polishing glasses. "Your associates?"

"Dead. Secret Police snuffing embers."

"Let them. Each crackdown fans rebellion's flames." The barkeep's eye gleamed. "While fools play hero, we'll resurrect the Drowned Lord's dominion."

Meanwhile, Yvette earned her "Libra" codename during society's pinnacle event preparations. As valets cinched her into ball garments, a grisly gift arrived - an ivory rose ring pulsing with captured nightmares. "Seven uses," Ulysses warned. "Forged from your prey's teeth."

"Monster parts?" She paled.

"Heroes wear Hydra-skin cloaks," he countered. "Decline it, half of London's shadows would kill for this trinket."

Elsewhere, ancient powers stirred. Secret Police raids sent paranormal denizens deeper underground... or sharpened long-festering ambitions. In gambling dens and opium parlors, forbidden oaths were sworn. The drowned god's disciples bided time with oceanic patience, ready to drag civilization into crushing depths.

No wonder Muskin had been so irritable when Yvette made her request earlier—he’d looked ready to throw her out on the spot.

“What about the piercing rapier?” Yvette mused, thinking back to her fight with Duran. Ordinary bullets had barely scratched the Nightmare-spawn’s mutated hide. Even hardened steel rounds only punched through a hand’s width of bone and muscle before stopping. But that rune-etched blade had ripped its chest open. Guns worked on ordinary supernaturals, it seemed, but mutations demanded cold steel.

“So now I owe him,” Ulysses said dismissively.

“What?” She stared at the weapon—perfectly suited to her, lifesaving in battle—unsure how to respond.

“Relax. He blunders often enough. I’ll repay the debt eventually—I’ve covered his slips since before you were even Awakened. Earn it by not embarrassing me tonight. You’ve done well… aside from shattering that relic dagger. Consider this your bonus.” He tossed her a slip of paper crowded with feminine names. “Memorize these. One misstep, and the Fishers become the joke of the season.”

“Dance partners?” She grimaced. Balls here ran on strict schedules—every waltz, every partner prearranged. Breaking a “sacred” dance promise was social suicide.

“Each a jewel of Albion’s aristocracy. Charm them thoroughly, nephew, or I’ll deny you’re kin.”

Absolutely unreasonable! Why must I play the suitor?!

“Veronica Faulkner?” The last name jolted her.

Faulkner—Poisonwood’s surname. The “Mind Labyrinth” member was heir to Baron Kilgreenwich. This had to be his sister.

“She volunteered,” Ulysses said. “Unheard of for a debutante. The rest were family negotiations.”

“She didn’t approach you directly, did she?” Yvette paled. If Poisonwood thought Ulysses had schemed a rendezvous… given Albion’s obsession with propriety (even betrothed couples needed chaperones) and Frenchmen’s scandalous reputation, he might soon taste a uniquely British poison.

“Don’t be absurd. A married intermediary conveyed her interest.”

Ah, of course—matrons could mingle freely, making them ideal messengers.

“Princess Margaret hosts tonight in the king’s stead. Ladies are presented at St. James’s first; men observe. When the attendants call them, note your partners. Invite them in order when the dancing starts. No mistakes.”

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Yvette nodded. Forgetting a lady would doom her to humiliation.

The palace allowed only families—no servants. Winslow had polished them to perfection before staying behind.

Their carriage joined a parade of vehicles emblazoned with heraldry. Inside, women glowed in gem-encrusted gowns, men stiff in antiquated court dress: long French coats, breeches, white hose, and ceremonial swords. No modern tailcoats here—tradition ruled this centuries-old event.

Then again… swords and coattails would clash.

She glanced at Ulysses, resplendent as a storybook prince. “You’re dancing too?” She’d assumed he was just her chaperone.

“I’m an eligible bachelor, am I not?”

In Albion’s circles, men routinely wed in their thirties. At twenty-four, he was comfortably “young.”

“Can’t wait to see you lead for once. Try not to trample anyone.” She smirked, recalling his grudging but precise rehearsal.

“Forget you saw that,” he muttered, scowling at the window.

They arrived mid-stream. Chandeliers blazed, mirrors multiplying their light. Debutantes glided in three-meter trains, feathered headdresses bobbing, heirlooms glittering at throats and wrists. The hall gleamed—satin, gems, and gilt.

The “Queen Charlotte’s Ball” was a debutante’s debut. With strict gender parity, seating charts married titles to titles—never spouses. Yvette took her place among the wallflowers, leaving the floor to the ladies.

A liveried footman had presented claret earlier, though Ulysses—never fond of Bordeaux vintages—merely cradled his goblet without drinking.

Yvette observed as a statuesque blond gentleman disentangled himself from admirers and strode toward them.

“Ulysses! Aeons since last we met,” the newcomer hailed, golden features warm as summer mead.

“Your Grace.” Ulysses’ acknowledgment chilled like January frost.

The Duke of Lancaster himself! The name sparked recognition—it graced her academy admission papers. Oleander’s tales resurfaced: Ulysses fleeing that fateful banquet astride the Duke’s champion courser, dress-cloak billowing behind him.

“Now, now—I know your humor runs glacial, but today’s frigidity exceeds habit.” The Duke’s smile held mirthful reproach. “Do troubles nip at your heels?”

“A kitchen calamity. Some gremlin‘s hexed our meat-mincer to spawn accursed blood puddings—each dawn unveils fresh gastronomic treason.”

Ever since Wenslow caught wind of Ulysses’ aborted scheme to drink Yvette’s punch, the long-suffering butler had retaliated via culinary warfare. Not that ‘meat-mincer’ was entirely fair to Wenslow…

The Duke guffawed. “Ha! What fresh hell did you unleash upon that saintly soul?”

He names Wenslow outright? Proof of intimacy, Yvette surmised—the kind permitting borrowed stallions and unguarded jests.

Both men possessed gilded locks, yet diverged like sun and moon. Lancaster radiated solar vitality—amber tresses framing Hercules’ build, every gesture warm and expansive. Ulysses exuded lunar austerity: ash-blond hair silvered as ghosts’ breath, his Gaunt elegance better suited to brooding over grimoires than attending balls. Pose them together, and one might stage a Renaissance allegory of Day and Night.

Narcissus would drown himself anew, mused Yves de Ferrière, amused.

Noticing the youth during their exchange, Lancaster arched a querying brow.

“My nephew, Yves de Ferrière,” Ulysses performed the obligatory courtesies. “Yves, His Grace the Duke of Lancaster.”

“Ulysses.” The Duke’s tone sobered abruptly.

“Your Grace?”

“I must recant past blindness.”

“Save your breath—I discerned your nature at first acquaintance. Fear not; state secrets remain safe with me. Gallows hold no allure.”

Yvette tensed. Does he jest with treason?!

“My error lay in scope,” the Duke pressed. “Having asked for sisters in vain, I overlooked… Nieges? Any comely nieces tucked in your ancestral crypts?”

Ulysses’ marble veneer didn’t crack. “None extant.” Turning to Yvette, he murmured just loudly enough: “Mark this libertine. His vices spread as miasmas. Should he leer your way, scream for the Yeomen Warders.”

“You malign me!” Lancaster clutched pearl-less cravat. “Our bond frays by the syllable!”

Fanfare severed further debate.

A woman entered, black hair glossier than ravens’ wings scraped into chaste chignon. Brocades weighted her slight frame regally—Princess Margaret, acting monarch in her father’s stead. Albion’s crown bypassed sons for firstborns, regardless of sex. History texts revealed half their rulers in recent centuries had been queens. With the current king reportedly bedridden, that ratio seemed set to tip again.

Debutantes processed forward, trains cascading over arms like frozen waterfalls. Princess Margaret’s lips brushed each bowed forehead—blessings bestowed. Efficient gestures betrayed years of rehearsal. The king’s madness had barred him from public life since her majority.

“Unusual times,” Lancaster murmured as dances formed.

Ulysses snorted. “Same mothballed pageantry—monarchist rigidity ossifies innovation.”

“Ah, but this year His Majesty’s flesh fails,” the Duke countered. “Imagine—expiring whilst nobles caper below! Charon pauses his oar-strokes to laugh.”

“Few would mourn the passing.”

Yvette suppressed a gasp. Such casual regicide! Yet none could deny the king’s lunacy—his whims tormented courtiers even as Parliament ignored them. This ball might double as a wake.

When partnering commenced, Yvette approached her assigned debutante. Conversation followed Ulysses’ formula: flattery of gown and complexion, then lighter fare. Albion’s education segregated sexes brutally—maidens learned embroidery and silence, youths classical languages and arrogance. Thus Yvette’s attention to feminine topics—gothic novels, garden design—proved disarming.

To Albion’s ballroom doves, this Gallic youth seemed a unicorn—attentive sans lechery, cultured sans condescension. Better yet, his blushes matched theirs. By evening’s third allemande, clusters of young ladies were fanning flushed cheeks, giggling behind gloves.

“Adequate,” Ulysses remarked post-dance, observing admirers’giggles. “‘Blushing’ quota met. Though your footwork retains provincial clumsiness.“

Yvette groaned. Between labored gallantries and tripping over skirt-trains (others’), survival seemed triumph enough.

Peeking at gossiping debutantes, she recognized a universal choreography—whispers, stolen glances, bashful smiles. Schoolyard infatuation transcended eras. One thought sustained her:

At least I’m not wearing heels.