As the theater curtains fell, Lord Montague carved a path to Lady Yvette's secluded booth.

"Shocked, are we? Expecting familial leniency towards my wayward child?" The vampire lord's smile revealed pearl-white fangs.

She hesitated. "I... anticipated discreet justice. Not this public theatre of blood."

"Albion's Night Courts demand decisive rulership," he replied, moonlight silvering his ceremonial mantle. "Would you have Kindred queens and barons flood Earth with bastard lineages? Every stolen conversion diminishes humanity's fragile light. The sentence required theatricality – a lesson etched in crimson."

Yvette conceded silently. The ancient laws protected mortals as much as immortal society. Predators unchecked would feast humanity to extinction.

"My true purpose glows brighter," Montague continued, motioning towards shadowed courtiers. "Three London-bound scions stand indebted after you cleansed our House's dishonor. Warwickshire lies too distant for urgent consultation."

The introduced vampires wore mortal guises effortlessly – a bibliophile baronet, a reclusive heiress, and most intriguingly, a patron of sciences. Recalling those terrible visions of celestial corruption – an astral monstrosity seeding cosmic plagues – Yvette posed her query:

"Astronomers? Scholars charting the void betwixt stars?"

"Dietrich von Stein," mused the scholarly benefactor. "Saxon lenscrafter obsessed with stellar observation. His glassworks founder on bubble-filled blanks currently, but next month promises London demonstrations. Associates include Greenwich stargazers..."

Yvette accepted the Prussian's credentials. Europe's idle rich funded inventors like racehorses, hungering for reflected glory. Dietrich wouldn't refuse a sponsor's request for introductions.

Filthy pennies skittered across ale-stained planks. The silent docker collected his pittance, ignoring the foreman's sneer. This was "Merry Roger," apostle of sunken temples, now reduced to dockside anonymity.

His companion's botched reconnaissance had ended in bullet wounds and tabloid headlines. While yellow sheets later ridiculed the "police fantasy," Roger maintained disciplined hibernation – selling his tavern, dissolving into London's bone-tired dockworkers where sea-tanned skin and salt-cured lungs drew no stares.

Rotting timber groaned. Candlelight revealed a velvet-collared intruder.

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

"Lost, milord? This ain't no pleasure garden."

"A pity about your rum cellar," the dandy remarked, inspecting grime-caked nails. "Authentic Antillean blends grow scarce since your... retirement."

Roger's pulse spiked. Oceanic powers surged instinctually – a man might "slip" into Thames mud tonight–

"Needless drama," the man tutted, producing a surgeon's lancet from his cane. "Observe tonight's entertainment instead."

Their exchange unfolded in hissed whispers – the stranger revealing horrifying insight: Drowned God rituals, even failed artifact plots. When Roger demanded provenance:

"Spoon-fed opportunities! Smugglers needing tidal sabotage! Treasure hunters seeking sunken crypts! Yet you snatch cutlery while the feast awaits..."

"Judas!" Roger's blade flashed.

The visitor's laughter dripped arsenic. "Judas betrayed truth for silver. We scribes of Christendom's fables betrayed ourselves. Entire civilizations built on lies to veil cosmic cancers. But your wage-thief? His skull now garnishes Warehouse Three's cobbles – my parting gift."

A commotion erupted as dockhands returned – recounting their overseer's "accident" with relish. Timelines matched perfectly: death had stalked the visitor's departing footsteps.

As Albion's glittering social season waned, the final summer month heralded the time-honored Investiture rites.

Yvette observed dispassionately—the ancient Order of the Garter concerned royalty alone. Queen Margaret IV, though unwed, presided as sovereign over this inaugural ceremony of her reign. Foreign monarchs—Holy Roman Emperors, Byzantine rulers, Muscovite Tsars—had dispatched envoys or come personally, transforming London into a hive of crowned heads and hidden dangers. The Special Missions Bureau's agents prowled the crowds, Yvette among them scanning for supernatural threats.

Her nerves stretched tautest when the Garter procession passed—minutes feeling like hours. The Queen's azure garter gleamed against velvet robes, white plumes nodding regally. Only when the last jeweled slipper vanished from view did Yvette exhale.

Relaxing slightly, she admired subsequent knightly orders. The Albion Imperial Knights' approach quickened her pulse differently—there strode Ulysses, Grand Master Lancaster's lieutenant. The two made striking figures: crimson cloaks flowing over gold-braided uniforms, dress swords swinging. Their heroic mien eclipsed older knights' paunchy solemnity, setting ladies' fans fluttering like startled doves.

Definitely the block's handsomest, Yvette conceded privately.

Post-ceremonial duties found her meeting Ulysses in mufti outside headquarters.

"Sir Knight! Survived the peacock parade?"

"Endured. You stayed? Surprising."

"Worth it to see you play hero-costumed."

His wry smile faded as Lancaster descended—a golden retriever of a duke. "Ives! Here for my grand entrance?"

When pressed for compliments, Yvette's diplomatic evasion proved too subtle. Relentless, the duke conscripted her into Greyston Manor's gathering through an overeager viscount's proxy invitation.

Next day's arrival at the Versailles-like estate brought fresh bewilderment. Liveried footmen with prizefighter physiques handled luggage like sacred vessels—a ritualized absurdity underscoring Albion's new-money grandeur. The convalescent Earl's absence disappointed title-hunters, leaving his son Thornton to host.

Through it all, Yvette marveled at aristocracy's intricate dance—where servants balanced icy propriety with sacred service, and dukes collected people like curios. Yet behind marble façades and plumed hats, the real game continued—one where her role remained shadowed and unclear.