The day after Christmas found Yvette ensconced in her study, quill flying across parchment. In this age, a noblewoman’s life revolved around society—and society demanded correspondence. Eighty percent of one’s waking hours, by her estimation, were spent either socializing or preparing to do so, with letters forming the backbone of these efforts.

  She’d dispatched scores of Christmas cards beforehand, yet still the replies piled high—far outstripping her expectations. Charities she’d patronized, journalists she’d commissioned, even obscure acquaintances whose names eluded her recognition until she cross-referenced dusty guest lists. The avalanche made her consider adopting that modern convenience: a diary with indexed contacts, lest she commit some unforgivable oversight.

  Then came the thunderbolt. Amidst the gilded envelopes, one bore the royal seal. Queen Margaret IV of Albion—the sovereign herself—had penned Yvette a Christmas greeting. The distinctive slant of the letters confirmed it; she’d know that handwriting anywhere after their crossword duels at Windsor.

  This wasn’t the Albion of later centuries, that faded empire sulking in Europe’s shadow. This was Pax Britannica incarnate—an age where colonial governors and foreign monarchs flooded the palace with seasonal dispatches. The queen waded through a thousand letters daily, her vacations punctuated by ciphered missives stored in color-coded boxes (closer companions than any consort). Secretaries filtered the trivialities, yet here was a personal note.

  And Yvette had sent nothing in return. The presumption of addressing a monarch privately gnawed at her.

  Professor Wheatstone’s gratitude proved easier to absorb. Her orchestration of that telegraph-mediated wedding had catapulted his company to fame, securing ￡10,000 in investments—enough to realize his Channel cable dream. Rubber-insulated wires, anti-corrosive sealants, a custom-laid ship... all now feasible. His invitation to inaugurate the line was both honor and burden.

  Julie’s letter brimmed with sunlight—her husband Chatham was improving under the Order’s care, meditating by forest lakes as his afflictions receded. An illusionist had even disguised his mutations for their reunion. They were planning honeymoon destinations already.

  Hope bloomed in Yvette’s chest. May his recovery be swift.

  London itself seemed transformed. Dickens’ A Christmas Carol had struck like lightning—miser Scrooge’s redemption via spectral visions kindling citywide charity. Where Salvation Army buckets once held meager coins, silver now gleamed in heaps.

  The club, contrary to expectations, buzzed with activity. "I’d thought everyone fled to country estates," Yvette remarked, surrendering her outerwear.

  "Posturing trumps tradition," drawled Curare. "None dare seem indifferent to the lower orders. Strychnine and I played benefactors yesterday—today, we reclaim sanity." He exhaled a smoke ring. "Country winters are interminable. One adopts glacial speech merely to fill the silence."

  No fox hunts to enliven December—only frostbitten sportsmen chasing undernourished game. Torture for misanthropes like Curare.

  "That hack Dickens will eclipse you at this rate," teased Oleander, the club’s bibliophile.

  Curare grimaced. "I’m composing! Or trying to. Our familial exile to rural solitude somehow involves hosting every passing dullard."

  "I thought your parents had accepted your... conversational limitations."

  "Fame resurrects futile hopes," he muttered into his pipe.

  Oleander laughed—then sobered as Strychnine asked about his changed demeanor since the Sydmouth ball. "An inheritance," he confessed. "A distant uncle’s passing eases my financial straits."

  Offers of loans were waved aside. "My family spends like drunk sailors. Without entailments protecting the estate, we’d be destitute. Jewelers now refuse them credit, so they schemed to wed me to some cotton magnate’s daughter—"

  "From the Southern provinces?" Strychnine’s nose wrinkled. "Their family trees resemble knitting needles. Dysentery and cousins and—”

  "Precisely!" Oleander shuddered. "Thank Providence for dead uncles."

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  Yvette’s relieved sigh caught midway. Her gaze snapped to Oleander’s teacup.

  "Something amiss?"

  "Nothing," she lied.

  The bloodied handprint on the porcelain had already vanished.

  Yvette wasn’t sure if the bloodstain she’d glimpsed was real—some eerie sign linked to Nerium—or just a figment of her imagination. Since a single glance wasn’t enough for certainty, she kept her composure and continued the conversation as though she’d noticed nothing unusual.

  From Nerium’s relaxed banter with friends, she pieced together that his recently deceased relative—a wealthy squire—had also been a Hamlin, the same surname as Nerium himself. However, his branch of the family had split off long ago, with little contact between them. The Hamlins of North Yorkshire were said to be an illustrious old lineage.

  "Sounds rather convenient, doesn’t it?" Curare teased. "Just when you needed funds, this gentleman passes away, leaving you a tidy sum to solve your troubles... Out of curiosity, where exactly were you when old Hamlin died? And who can vouch for your whereabouts?"

  "Ah, the novelist suspects foul play!" Nerium scoffed, unruffled. "I was in London those days, playing in a polo match—witnesses everywhere. Besides, the old man lived recklessly in his youth and caught syphilis. It left him sickly, with no heirs. His death was just the disease running its course.

  "More to the point, the Hamlin estate has always had strict inheritance rules—ones that ironically saved me trouble. Two centuries back, an ancestor decreed that no heir could engage in trade, or they’d forfeit the land to the next in line. The man ahead of me? He’s knee-deep in shipping ventures—sunk a fortune into a steamship about to launch. Asking him to abandon it now for some rural gentry title would be madness. The estate’s rents can’t compare to overseas trade profits."

  "Pity. I’d hoped for a juicier tale," Curare remarked. "‘No trade allowed’—what a puritanical clause for a gentry family."

  These days, commerce was still seen as rather vulgar among the elite. But with industry booming and old money fading, even aristocrats struggled to keep up appearances. Those lucky enough to own mines or London property thrived—coal fed factories, and districts like Piccadilly minted gold—but country nobility with stagnant landholdings faced decline unless they scrounged up income… even if it meant enduring whispers about ‘new money’.

  If titled lords bent the rules, why hold country squires to impossibly high standards?

  "Are you sure this inheritance is as generous as you think?" Strychnine interjected. "If old Hamlin truly avoided business, his wealth couldn’t have been vast. Beyond land rents, how much cash could he leave? Enough to settle your parents’ debts?"

  "Actually," Nerium grinned, "the solicitor confirmed twenty thousand pounds in ready money alone."

  Gasps circled the table. Twenty thousand?!

  "The North Yorkshire Hamlins married shrewdly. His two wives brought hefty dowries, and ancestors did the same. For generations, they’ve stayed out of trade, lived comfortably, and even expanded their ancestral home into an architectural marvel—a timeline of styles, really. Locals practically revere them as moral saints."

  "Impressive," Curare admitted. Neither he, Strychnine, nor Yvette were strangers to commerce—her stake in a newspaper proved that.

  Then Yvette saw it again—blood, this time smeared across the table by Nerium’s right hand. Like spectral fingers dragging from some unseen plane, desperate to breach into their world.

  No illusion. Something was wrong with Nerium. Was his inheritance cursed?

  "How old was old Hamlin when he died?" she asked abruptly.

  "Sixty-something? We weren’t close, and he avoided society. I never knew his exact age."

  A syphilis-weakened man in his sixties, dying quietly in bed with doctors and priests in attendance... Hardly the stuff of curses.

  Then why the sinister visions?

  "Have you visited the Hamlin estate lately?"

  "I had to. The heir above me refused the inheritance, so the solicitors tracked me down. By the time I arrived, the old man had already passed. Never saw him alive."

  "An intense experience. While there, did anything... unusual happen? Anything memorable?"

  "Nothing strange, but the house! A gorgeous sprawl of gray-white stone—you could trace each era’s additions. Tudor hallways, Stuart-Gothic arches, Baroque salons... Like stepping through history itself."

  Yvette suppressed a frown. "They must’ve been wealthy for generations." Renovations didn’t fund themselves.

  "Naturally. They were magistrates for years."

  In Albion’s past, magistrates wielded near-feudal power over their districts—always local gentry of high standing.

  "Any feuds with neighbors? Magistrate roles breed envy. The wrong family in power might make enemies of everyone. Best watch your step if old grudges linger."

  Decades of weak royal authority had let rural gentries act like petty kings—settling scores unchecked. Romeo and Juliet wasn’t just fiction; Shakespeare’s own patron once harbored a murderer who shot a rival magistrate.

  "I asked around. No enemies. The Hamlins even co-host festivals with neighboring squires. The ‘honorable gentleman’ type, I suppose—liked by tenants and peers alike."

  Then—again. Blood bloomed on Nerium’s cheek before vanishing.

  "Speaking of," he added, "I’m due back in North Yorkshire soon. The old man left a manual listing landowner duties—funding church repairs, militia drills, that sort. Next up is the winter festival. Tenants already pressed cider last autumn. Just need to roast mutton and bread for the feast."

  "Oh! I’ve always wanted to see rural festivals," Yvette lied brightly. "Might I join?"

  Nerium beamed. "The ‘Chevalier’ at my humble feast? Honored!"

  "Splendid! I’d love to see the preparations too."

  "Consider it done! I’ll show you true country hospitality."

  Of course, Yvette cared little for festivals. The bloodstains had to connect to Nerium’s Hamlin ties—whether the inheritance, the estate, or something darker. Time to investigate.