Days later, the maids delivered new attire: a champagne frock coat embroidered with gilt thread, a matching waistcoat, lace-trimmed shirtsleeves, and a tricorn hat adorned with satin ribbons. The ensemble included ivory stockings, knee-length breeches, and chestnut leather pumps.

Dressed fully, Yvette blinked at her reflection—a porcelain-skinned dandy radiating delicate elegance.

Too effeminate.

In this timeline, France’s pre-revolutionary opulence still reigned. Unlike Albion’s sober gentlemanly aesthetics, Parisian fashion catered to salon hostesses—men’s attire dripped with lace and pastels to please discerning noblewomen.

“Only a peacock like Ulysses could pull this off,” Yvette muttered. His haughty demeanor offset the frills, transforming opulence into authority. Her borrowed outfit—tailored from his upcoming Parisian order—felt like playing dress-up.

“Your male guise spares us months of etiquette training,” Ulysses remarked. Albionese ladies cultivated demure grace; Frenchwomen perfected coquettish charm. Yvette’s modern directness suited neither—but made a convincing boy.

“Chin up, little lord. Let the rabble bask in your radiance.” Ulysses adjusted her posture. “Should anyone slight you, challenge them to duel.”

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“Duels are illegal here.”

“Only fatal ones matter. Crush their pride discreetly.”

“But against Transcendents…” Yvette hesitated. “Is my power truly useful?”

“Ingenuity bridges gaps.” Ulysses flexed his hand—muscles writhed, nails blackening into raptor talons. “At your tier, I mimicked harpy eagles. 400-pound grip strength. Crush skulls like walnuts.” He demonstrated by flattening a silver crown. “Your energy conversion holds potential. Imagine.”

Guns. The thought struck her. “Are firearms legal here?”

“Hunting’s a national pastime. Why?”

“My ability could amplify their use.”

“Pistols then—discreet.” Ulysses turned as Winslow entered.

“The Fleet Street editors await,” Winslow said. “They need your… guidance on framing the chapel incident.”

As a “French nobleman,” Ulysses held shares in major papers—a convenient veil for covering occult events.

“Take Yves”—Ulysses coined a masculine variant of her name—“to Malkin’s workshop. A pistol for our fledgling duelist.”

Winslow stiffened imperceptibly. “You’ll return for supper?”

“Naturally. Spare no effort on the black pudding.”

Once Ulysses left, Winslow sighed. “He’s grown fond of your cooking.”

Albion’s upper class dined notoriously late. The real trial came at 7 PM—Yvette’s “practice” meals. Lemon-studded puddings, kidney pies reeking of offal, and the crowning horror: jellied eels glistening like aquatic nightmares.

Ulysses had devoured even Winslow’s vengeful black pudding—a blood sausage resembling congealed nightmares. “I modified my taste buds to hyena’s,” he’d confessed. “Scavengers endure worse.”

Madness. Yet Yvette’s herb-roasted pheasant and saffron stews had thawed even his Gallic snobbery.