“Is something amiss? You’ve barely touched your meal. Albionese cuisine may lack finesse, but breakfast is tolerable. The fare worsens as the day progresses.” Ulysses paused, fork hovering over his kedgeree.

Though called “breakfast,” the clock neared noon. Yvette’s body hadn’t eaten in days. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, gilding the table’s floral centerpiece—fresh harebell and carnations. Opposite her, Ulysses lounged in a brocade morning robe, his golden hair rivaling the dawn.

The spread tempted any appetite: steaming coffee, toast with clotted cream, plump poached eggs, tomato-baked beans, and sizzling mushrooms with bacon. Yet Yvette could scarcely breathe, let alone eat—her corset’s whalebone stays cinched ruthlessly.

“…Can’t… breathe…” Her words emerged thin, chest constricted.

“The pallor! The delicate flush! You’ll dazzle next season,” Ulysses enthused. Winslow nodded approvingly.

Your beauty standards are broken!

Breakfast proved torture. Worse came that afternoon—Ulysses presented an array of Parisian gowns. “The pinnacle of fashion,” he declared. “Custom orders intercepted and tailored overnight.”

“Why not secondhand?” Yvette asked, recalling Petticoat Lane’s bustling rag markets.

“Last season’s rags? Mon dieu. You’ll bear the de Fischer name. Spare it disgrace, dear niece.”

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Stunned by extravagance, Yvette pondered why this “generosity” felt so irksome.

Moments later, she emerged in mint-green rococo splendor—layered taffeta, cascading lace, and a hoop skirt wide enough to sail the Channel.

“Exquisite,” Winslow approved.

“Eighteen inches by spring,” Ulysses mused, eyeing her waist.

Yvette staggered. 45 centimeters?! The maids had tightened her stays mid-dressing.

“Must I wear this… cage?”

“Eccentricity draws attention.”

“Said the man who owns seven embroidered nightshirts,” Winslow muttered.

“I’m French—eccentricity’s expected. Albionese think we breathe arrogance.”

Yvette ventured weakly: “Could I… pose as a man?”

Silence fell.

“Preposterous,” Winslow breathed.

“Intriguing.” Ulysses circled her. “One final adjustment.”

Before she could react, maids pinned her arms. Yvette tapped thermal energy to resist—yet their grip held firm. Their skin felt corpse-cold through silk gloves.

“Puppets,” Winslow explained. “My craft. Apologies for the roughness.”

“The scar.” Ulysses donned surgical gloves, sterilizing a scalpel. “Marks you as flawed. Let’s erase it.”

“Why do you look… eager?”

“Passion for healing.” He offered a vial. “Laudanum. Eases pain.”

“No.”

“Stubborn girl.”

The maids forced her onto a divan. Cold steel pierced her brow, scraping necrotic tissue. Yvette clenched her jaw—silent.

“Impressive fortitude.” Ulysses seemed almost disappointed.

“No sutures?!” She glared as he removed gloves.

“Patience.” He slit his finger, pressing bleeding flesh to her wound. “My blood accelerates healing. Side effect: itching.”

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, her mirror showed flawless skin.

“Thank you, Sir Ulysses.”

“Uncle Ulysses. Practice.”

“You’re barely older!”

“Nephews shirk duties. Nieces require guidance. Now.”

“…Uncle Ulysses.”

He beamed like a cat with cream.

“Must you torment her?” Winslow sighed.

“She blushes under your gaze, Winslow. Give her time.”

“Dinner shall feature your favorite: black pudding.”

Ulysses paled. “…Cruelty incarnate.”

“Miss Yvette’s portion will be… adjusted.”