A mere coincidence? Yvette wondered briefly before fixating on the crystal-clear ice before her.

Even in her modern past, such flawless ice had been uncommon. Trapped air bubbles usually created opaque freezer cubes, requiring industrial processing to achieve bar-quality clarity—an impossibility in this refrigeration-less age.

"Winslow—does our host maintain an icehouse? How is this transparency achieved?"

"The ice markets stock readymade blocks," Winslow explained. "Shipped from Lake Winham in the New World. Their operation is ingenious—harvesting winter lake ice which forms without air pockets, much like Songhua River ice for Harbin's sculptures."

New World ice? The geographical leap startled her. Transporting it across hemispheres during a four-month voyage defied logic.

"Merchants line holds with sawdust insulation," Winslow continued. "Only a third melts en route, and meltwater serves as crew provisions. Free raw materials yield enormous profits—visionaries, those colonials."

Ah, surface-area physics. Thick cores preserved by insulating chaff... and potable meltwater eliminating port stops. Yvette recalled North American glacial deposits like Glacier National Park—year-round ice sources enabling this frozen trade.

"Another bowl, please?"

Her eager gaze defeated Winslow's frugality.

Blue witchfire consumed the one-armed corpse within the Tower's purification circle. Two white-coated researchers observed clinically.

"Subject terminated himself with a carved spoon last night," one remarked. "We should've restricted movement."

"Insanity made him useless—kept babbling sacrament and offering his flesh." The other shrugged. "Financial investigators found leads anyway. This pawn bought occult services; we need his supplier."

Earl Gray's irregular massive bank transfers had led them to a recent London arrival—jobless yet wealthy, tipping lavishly at brothels and clubs. The perfect facade for a low-tier supernatural profiting from hidden powers.

A facade now extinguished—dead before the Earl's fatal gathering.

Lesley Sharr, "Mourner" of the Special Missions Bureau, arrived under urgent recall.

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"Your protégé 'Libra' encountered an Abyssal incident," a researcher informed. "No agent casualties, but corrupted minds require... adjustments."

Sharr's lips tightened. "My role?"

"Trace our dead payee's memories. He's Tier-2—suicided via tonic overdose. Suspect timing implies conspiracy."

"Memories fade after seven days."

"Preservation rituals commenced three days postmortem."

As they navigated Tower corridors, her colleague probed: "Any Rosicrucian insights from Frankfurt?"

The Order's blend of mysticism and proto-science fascinated the Bureau. Unlike blind worshippers, Rosicrucians dissected the divine as scholars—dangerously enlightened. Sharr's ancient lineage alone granted access to their secret congresses.

Every June during Corpus Christi, the Rosicrucian Order and its offshoots convened - a gathering Shar never missed for intelligence updates.

"Same stale seminars," she reported. "Astral journeys, alchemical formulas, mind studies... maybe thirty percent actually useful. I'm compiling the worthwhile bits for archives. Check the new arrivals if curious."

"Splendid news!" The researcher beamed.

Shar's expression darkened. "Outer Circle meetings. Rumor says several crossed into Inner Circle territory recently. Their new discussion sites? Completely hidden from us."

The rose-entwined cross emblem - a stylized Tree of Life - bore ten mystical spheres called Sephiroth. While independent mages stumbled blindly into power, Rosicrucians systematized the occult: ten ranks mirroring ten spheres, from 1=10 Neophytes in Malkuth to elite adepts beyond fifth sphere Geburah.

Inner Circle resurgence after decades of absence suggested dangerous breakthroughs. Yet Albion's Protestant church, long estranged from Rome, shielded them from Papal interference. Continental problems for Continental authorities, Shar decided, entering a cluttered chamber.

Mummified limbs and alchemical gear littered the workspace. Floating in greenish fluid, a shaven head stared through the glass - jaw locked in tetanic rigor, eyes voids of diluted poison.

"Kept the head per your instructions," the researcher said. Autopsies remained the only reliable method for Sephirah testing; uneducated hedge-mages couldn't verbalize their own power levels.

Donning elbow-length gloves, Shar lifted the specimen. Long-dead irises reflected final moments - a necromantic gift from her bloodline. Sometimes mere flickers, occasional golden retrievals of hour-long death visions. Today...

"Guh-ACK!"

Minutes later, the researcher found Shar vomiting convulsively.

"Nether... backlash..." She trembled, phantom burns prickling her skin. "Saw my own death... cursed vision. Pitchfork through guts unless I lockdown. But mark this - there's an occult puppeteer who blocked my probing. No accident. No mortal squabble. We're dealing with..."

Days later, Canterbury Cathedral's porter blinked at the visiting French dandy. Roman Catholics craving Anglican audiences? Unheard of. Yet the stranger's gilded beauty compelled obedience.

Ulysses stood haloed by stained-glass light, his frippery shed like a serpent's skin. Ribbed columns framed him ascending into the vaulted heaven - an angel misplaced amidst mortal arches. The porter fled to announce him.

Canterbury's stones told layered histories: heavy Romanesque foundations lifting Gothic spires heavenward. Ulysses traced the metamorphosis - humanity's vaulting ambition once called blasphemy, reborn as divine aspiration. Progress or peril? The question lingered in colored light.