On the morning of the exhibition, Ulysses appeared uncharacteristically understated in a plain black frock coat and trousers—so devoid of his usual French opulence that Yvette nearly mistook him for the valet.

The Industrial Age had democratized fashion through mass production, leaving tailoring as the last bastion of aristocratic distinction. No more ancestral sable robes; Albion’s gentlemen now vied discreetly through Savile Row precision rather than gaudy gems. Yet even in simplicity, Ulysses’ lithe frame and tapered waist provoked Yvette’s sartorial envy—her own narrow shoulders drowned in borrowed tailcoats.

“Avoiding spectacle, Sir?” she ventured. “Wise, given the macabre exhibits. I’ll change.”

“Stay. You’ll monopolize attention regardless.” He donned a face mask, suspicious as a highwayman.

“Whatever for?”

“Evading* tiresome acquaintances*.”

Ah—Richard Fowler, the curator. Ulysses’ unspoken vendetta amused her. Three years prior, the collector had dismissed his forgery accusations as “jealous calumny.” Now here he was, preemptively masked.

Her VIP pass granted early entry. Fowler’s greeting faltered at Ulysses’ presence—the two-family ticket presumed a wife, not this inscrutable companion—but propriety prevailed.

The exhibition paraded medical grotesqueries: desiccated limbs, celebrity cadavers (a shriveled Lord-Mayor resembling a smoked ham), and laughable hoaxes. Ulysses dissected a “mermaid” skeleton with clinical disdain: “Dolphin spine fused with baboon ribs. The ‘flesh’ is salted mutton. Amateur work.”

Yet certain specimens silenced him—a vitrified optic nerve, a disarticulated skull.

“The cranium—it fascinates you?”

“Its dissection method. The skull’s puzzle of sutured bones resists separation sans occult means. Yet some mortal genius packed the cavity with dried peas, submerged it—hydration expanded the legumes, gently prying each plate apart. Elegant.”

Their tour halted at Fowler’s pièce de résistance: a gilded sarcophagus cradling an 18th Dynasty prince. VIPs watched mummy unwrapping; plebeians viewed the aftermath. Yvette’s feigned interest stiffened.

Crossed arms. Narrow shoulders. Wide hips.

Years of hospital chats had taught her osteology. This pelvis screamed female.

Fowler’s rictus grin confirmed others’ doubts.

Egyptian tombs, long pillaged for mummy-paint pigments and quack remedies, now birthed forgers. Royal relics fetched fortunes; Fowler’s “prince” was likely some peasant’s bones dipped in gilt.

“Fraud!” hissed a patron. “I paid forty guineas for this?”

Fowler’s face purpled.

“Genuine,” Ulysses murmured when Yvette inquired.

“But the skeleton—”

“Tutankhamun’s own remains—studied by clandestine scholars—had a clubbed foot and feminine pelvis. Inbred royals. This one’s defects confirm lineage.”

“Supernatural corruption?”

“Dormant for millennia. Besides, their sorcerers ritually purged corpses of power. Harmless.”

“…Is this documented?”

“Imperial Library’s public archives. Aiding Fowler serves your agenda.”

Yvette stepped forward, channeling Ulysses’ lecture (censoring the occult).

“…Consanguineous pharaonic marriages bred hereditary anomalies. This mummy’s deformities align with Tutankhamun’s lineage, per the Alexandria Codex held in Bloomsbury. I’ll furnish references.”

The applause was thunderous. Fowler near-wept.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

“Mr. Fisher! You’ve saved this exhibition!”

“Credit lies with my uncle.” She anchored Ulysses’ retreating sleeve. “Sir Ulysses tutored me exhaustively.”

Fowler blanched. “But we—that is—forgive my past impertinence, Sir! Your grace humbles me—”

Ulysses escaped only to mutter:

“Gratuitous meddling.”

No, Yvette thought. Revenge is a dish best served mummified.

Having explored the museum during its early preview, Yvette and her companions found little left to see by opening hours, though the day remained young.

"Lunch in Kensington first, then a leisurely stroll before returning," suggested Ulysses.

"Kensington? That’s quite a detour, isn’t it?" Yvette’s brow furrowed. Several fine eateries lay nearby—why venture to the city center? Ulysses hardly struck her as a culinary connoisseur.

"The horticultural exhibition’s ongoing. We might as well visit while there."

Ah, Kensington’s famed flower show. During the London season, when nobility flocked to the capital, such events multiplied like spring blooms. Gardening being deemed a genteel pursuit—particularly among ladies—the Royal Horticultural Society’s exhibit mingled masterpieces from aristocratic gardeners with pet projects of society matrons.

Lately, Yvette’s clubmates had dragged her through every seasonal diversion—horse races, tennis matches, hunts where servants flushed terrified prey toward gentlemen’s guns. None appealed, least of all the bloodsport after recent… incidents. Flowers seemed a safer delight. Yet her burly companions preferred more masculine amusements. Men at flower shows? Only when squiring female relatives.

Ulysses’ invitation intrigued her. His phrasing of "while we’re there" rang false—this felt more pilgrimage than pitstop.

"Are you… taking me there specially?"

"Kensington’s no great distance. And earlier—those bones and taxidermy bored you senseless, didn’t they? You barely paid attention."

Busted.

Prior assumptions melted upon arrival. Yvette had imagined a glorified plant market—rare species, flawless blooms, pots lined up for admiration. Reality engulfed them. This wasn’t visitors observing flora but submersion in a living tapestry.

Exotic blossoms formed merely a fraction. Landscaped gardens sprawled, arrangements cascaded, even prize vegetables gleamed. French-inspired "natural" designs ruled—artful wilderness where delicate specimens basked in glasshouses dotted with charming teahouse furniture. Enchanted, Yvette wandered wide-eyed.

One oddity stood out: attendees were mostly gentlemen escorting ladies. Two men together drew glances.

Feeling this, Ulysses drifted half a step behind, a shadow at Yvette’s shoulder.

"Sir?"

"Not ‘Sir.’ Merely your hay-fevered valet today." He adjusted his face mask.

Disguises crumble before familiarity.

"Ulysses! At last! Yearly invitations, yearly excuses." Booming laughter announced the Duke of Lancaster, golden as his RHS medals. "Almost mistook you—so oddly dressed!"

"Address me formally. Shouldn’t you be dancing attendance elsewhere this season?"

Normally crisp in French-cut coats that aggravated Albion’s jingoistic sensibilities, Ulysses’ plain attire today invited comment. Ah, the ton—where ladies rolled carriage blinds to better flaunt gowns and critique rivals’ hemlines.

"A riding injury pardons my absence. Bless that clumsy mare—she brings me serendipity!"

Without my intervention, you’d be worm-food, not here badgering him, Yvette’s inner voice snarked.

"Yves! My gallant savior! Don’t tell me Ulysses is… escorting you?" The Duke’s smirk could sink ships.

"My nephew wished to dine locally," Ulysses cut in stiffly. Normally the duke’s verbal sparring partner, he stood disarmed by his own uncharacteristic ruse.

Yvette threw him a lifeline: "We thought to view the exhibits after lunch."

"Providence smiles! Come, behold my triumph! With Her Majesty mourning, the field’s clear. Victory shall be mine!"

The duke’s glasshouse revealed his masterpiece: clusters of unearthly spider lilies, ivory petals veined crimson, blood-red stamens at their heart—a vision of bridal macabre.

No wonder his confidence. While rivals touted irises and dahlias, his entry hailed from mythic Cathay—nautical graveyard since ancient mages’ departure stirred eternal maelstroms. Cultivating such warmth-loving blooms in London’s chill? A feat of horticultural hubris.

"Summer blossoms coerced into spring via heated greenhouse—charcoal stoves, night and day."

"Magnificent. Certain to win."

Her praise lit ducal inspiration. "A name eludes this marvel. Yves—the honor’s yours."

"Me?! I name weapons, not flowers!"

"Then ‘Yves de Fische’s Bloom’ it shall be! All London will whisper of you~"

Saint George, spare me…

Rescue came from an unlikely knight:

"Fueling rumors of your… unconventional tastes, Your Grace?"

Hear hear!

"Scandal amuses."

"They’d hustle you to the altar by week’s end."

"Ugh. Nevermind."

Yvette stammered: "Name it… for the gardener?"

The duke wrinkled his nose. "‘John’s Pride’? Unthinkable."

Fair.

"Moot for now. Let friendship be commemorated!" He snatched shears.

"Your competition entry!"

"Plenty in the nursery."

Ignoring protests, he presented the bouquet. "Befits you."

Yvette stiffened. Such words… rarely directed at gentlemen.

…

Evening found Yvette souring over tea and tragedy—the gazette’s obituaries:

[Corey Short (42), Titmouse Furnishings proprietor, perished May 22nd via self-administered toxin. Financial collapse cited, following thwarted rooftop suicide attempt days prior. Coroner’s verdict: self-murder.]

Redemption’s light… extinguished?

That final smile had radiated hard-won peace.

"Flowers in your room, Young Master." Alison’s vase glowed with unnatural blooms. "Sugar water prolongs their life. What fine lady grew these, I wonder?"

Yvette swallowed the truth: A ducal jester’s whim, grown by John the gardener. Let maidens dream of rose-tinted romance.