And so, Yvette found herself following these mysterious figures—who had just threatened her with swords—out of the underground ossuary. The scattered corpses along the way chilled her. After ascending a long stone staircase to the surface, they traversed a desolate graveyard and reached a carriage hidden in the shadowy woods outside the church. A pale, middle-aged man in servant’s livery stood silently nearby.

“I know you must have questions, but please board first. We’ll explain once we’re safe,” Winslow said, opening the carriage door.

The enclosed coach had two facing benches. Winslow gestured for her to take the rear seat facing forward—the more comfortable position.

Peering through the curtain, she watched the two men retrieve fresh clothes from saddlebags. Winslow donned a crisper black coat and matching top hat, resembling a uniform, while Ulysses slipped into an embroidered rococo-style coat and a feathered tricorn hat, evoking Tom Cruise’s Lestat from Interview with the Vampire.

“Write to Scotland Yard. No other witnesses—they’ll handle it,” Ulysses said, retrieving a dark-draped birdcage from the carriage. Inside perched a glossy black raven.

Winslow nodded, scribbled a note, and secured it in a metal tube on the raven’s leg. The bird vanished into the night with a flap of wings.

The men boarded, sitting opposite Yvette, and removed their masks.

Both appeared in their mid-twenties—at least superficially. Winslow had neat black hair, a stern demeanor, and wore a charcoal waistcoat under a black wool coat, his starched white shirt collar peeking through a tightly knotted cravat.

Ulysses cut a far more flamboyant figure: lazy blue eyes, golden hair tied with a black ribbon, and a lavish coat dripping with lace ruffles at the cuffs and collar—a dandy straight from Versailles.

Winslow sat rigidly upright; Ulysses lounged against the cushioned seat, gazing out the window. When Winslow’s eyes met Yvette’s, he flushed and looked away abruptly.

Awkward.

As an Albion native raised in conservative mores—where women’s attire covered neck to toe, gloves included—Winslow now struggled with propriety. Earlier, urgency had overridden decorum, but potential future collaboration made their current situation untenable.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Noticing his discomfort, Yvette tightened the borrowed coat around herself.

“Typical Albion prudery. A true gentleman would pretend nothing happened,” Ulysses drawled, still watching the night. “And you, miss—a proper lady would’ve fainted to spare everyone this tedium. No one would dare revive you with smelling salts.”

Yvette ignored him, focusing on the window. Midnight London sprawled beneath a shroud of factory smoke. Gas lamps glowed faintly through the haze—the city asleep, save for distant aristocratic revelry. Light and shadow, wisdom and ignorance, faith and doubt—this was 1836 Albion, the best and worst of ages.

...

The carriage rolled northwest through fog-drenched streets, past grim Georgian townhouses, until reaching Hampstead Heath—a leafy suburb favored by Albion’s nouveaux riches and foreign elites seeking cleaner air.

A lane of plane trees led to a red-brick villa asymmetrical in design, its gardens wild rather than manicured. French-inspired mansard roofs and sculpted bay windows contrasted with modern wrought-iron railings.

Servants opened wrought-iron gates, and the carriage halted at a carved walnut door.

“Prepare a bath for the lady,” Winslow instructed upon arrival.

Led upstairs, Yvette noted the era’s technological limits: even a wealthy home like Ulysses’ lacked plumbing. Servants hauled heated water from a basement boiler.

A maid arrived with a bucket—her waist cinched unnaturally small by a corset. Horrified, Yvette declined more hot water despite the cooling bath. Comparing her own slender frame to the maid’s waspish figure, she thanked modern fashion for sparing her such torture.

After bathing, she donned a loose linen chemise and voluminous house robe—acceptable attire for receiving guests. Following a servant to the drawing room, she sank into plush carpets before a crackling fire.

“May I offer you tea?” Winslow handed her a cup sweetened with milk and sugar. The warmth seeped into her bones.

“You must have questions,” he said. “But first—what do you recall of this world? Given your… circumstances, I suspect gaps in common knowledge.”

“I… remember little before the surgery. Not my family, nor my home. Where are we? What year is it?”

“Today is October 14, 1836. You’re in Sir Ulysses’ estate in West Hampstead.”

“1836? Anno Domini 1836?”

“Naturally.”

“Is Hampstead the country’s name?”

Ulysses chuckled. “Ask that publicly, and Albion’s patriots will take offense. Hampstead is a London district. Best avoid such errors—especially with your French name stoking their ire.”

“Sir, I take no offense,” Winslow countered. “While some compatriots are… passionately nationalistic, they’re not as narrow-minded as implied.”

“If you say so.” Ulysses spun a globe beside him. “Here lies Albion—an island adrift in blue seas. That nearby continent is Europe, though ‘nearby’ means little to Albioners. They fancy France near the Azores, Byzantium in some equatorial desert, and the New World no farther than Ireland…”