“Oh, look! That one’s exquisite! What’s the story here?” Julie, their professor’s daughter, pressed closer to the glass, where a delicate bracelet teemed with miniature creatures.

“Noah’s Ark, I’d wager—though I’ve never seen Bible tales rendered so whimsically,” Carol remarked.

Though Albion’s moralists deemed society a peril for women, the social season’s grand events—art exhibitions, flower shows, opera galas—were permissible rebellions. Today, Yvette joined Julie, her sisters, and classmates Gary and Carol at the Royal Academy’s glittering halls.

The jewelry wing, per the ladies’ request, came first. Gold serpents coiled around ivory cameos; mother-of-pearl unicorns reared atop rings. Serpent motifs ruled—symbols of eternal life, fashionable for their talismanic allure.

Yvette puzzled over myths her friends fluently dissected: “Sirens sing sailors to doom; mermaids just drown them.” “No—griffins have lion hindquarters; harpies are all bird!”

Then—Yvette halted.

A lily brooch glowed under glass. Not the usual抽象stylized blooms, but lifelike petals—filigree tracery cradling translucent enamel, as if plucked from a meadow.

“Plique-à-jour,” the artist declared, French accent sharp. “Sunlight through stained glass—no backing, just enamel suspended. A master’s work.”

“Price?” Yvette switched to French.

“£20. A patriot’s discount.”

“Twenty pounds?!” Julie echoed in clumsy French. Nearby, a padparadscha sapphire necklace glittered at £18.

The artist sniffed. “Albion values rocks over art.” Plique-à-jour was Paris’s latest rage, but here, nobles craved carats, not craftsmanship. Months of labor? Unmentioned. Pride choked explanations.

“I’ll take it.” Yvette handed over crisp notes. To her modern sensibilities, artistry trumped gemstones. The brooch—convertible to a pendant—would suit Alison, her housekeeper: understated, wearable without galas.

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“Wasteful…” Julie muttered.

“True jewels belong in safes. This—light, elegant—can be worn daily.”

The girls flushed. Such intimacy! A gift begging to linger near someone’s heart. What lucky lady inspired such tenderness?

Yves is smitten… Gary’s chest ached. Yet watching him cradle the brooch, smile faint as dawn—it was poetry.

Art exhibitions featured diverse mediums, yet paintings still dominated. Cultural circles harbored unspoken hierarchies: writers reigned supreme, followed by composers — both deemed refined and aristocratic. Painters trailed behind, then sculptors and others. Thus, the grandest accolades at these events invariably went to canvas works.

Beneath the surface, however, two factions vied for supremacy. The Industrial Revolution’s upheavals had replaced pastoral idylls with factories and smokestacks, eroding religious certainties. Academic traditionalists mourned this loss, retreating into medieval and classical motifs as spiritual refuge. Meanwhile, renegade artists defied establishment norms, branding academic obsessions with “lofty themes” and “balanced formalism” as stifling relics. Their radical styles demanded revolution — yet to gain recognition, they had to appease the very traditionalists they scorned.

Evette’s peers at the Classical Academy overwhelmingly favored academic art, its mythological and epic subjects mirroring their studies.

“The raw power of The Desperate Philistines! When the Ark crushes Dagon’s idol, the priests’ horrified faces — pure apocalyptic dread!”

Dagon… some forgotten pagan god, wasn’t it? Their conquerors imposed the Trinity. Legends linger where faith dies. Evette noted silently.

“Give me The Shepherd and the Nymph! Sunlit haze, that ethereal creature whispering secrets — pure enchantment!”

Amid their chatter, Evette froze before an unconventional masterpiece. The canvas spanned over four feet, its execution flawless, its composition taut with controlled energy. Though its theme might have offended academic sensibilities, its brilliance had earned a place among “nobler” works.

The asylum scene radiated light. Madwomen in shadowed corners glowed with preternatural calm. Central to it all lay a dead girl on a surgical slab, flaxen hair splayed, a scar marring her left eye socket. Her pallor spoke of death, yet heavenly light embraced her — a soul released from torment. Here, mortality became sacred, sorrowful poetry.

Beauty aside, the girl’s resemblance to Evette chilled her: the hair, the healed eye wound (courtesy of Ulysses), the asylum setting…

That’s me. It has to be.

“‘The Maiden’s Release’? Avant-garde leanings, Evette?” Gary observed. “Academics would shun these colors — too emotional. They prize meticulous lines over passion. Still, a shame if this wins nothing.”

He doesn’t recognize her. Thank God.

Evette’s current self bore no resemblance to the painting’s frail specter. Sword at her hip, posture honed by Ulysses’ tutelage, she exuded crisp authority — a far cry from that wraith.

Regardless, the painting must be removed. She’d buy it, then hunt down the artist. What secrets did he know…?