Yvette paced back and forth in the empty apartment, speculating about what must have happened.

  The female pharmacist was clearly no ordinary person. As a witch or sorceress who knew the methods of brewing potions, she might possess some supernatural ability—something that could be inferred from the way she and the woman in the pale yellow dress had vanished together.

  There were also no signs of a struggle at the scene. If she hadn’t left willingly with the woman in yellow, she had at least been coerced or threatened. Yvette believed the latter was more likely. Otherwise, the woman in yellow wouldn’t have impersonated her to cancel the request for help at the club. Or perhaps the pharmacist was in some state that prevented her from appearing in person. According to the testimony of the pharmacy owner, the resignation letter had at least been written in her own hand.

  So, had the woman in yellow detected Yvette’s surveillance?

  Yvette carefully considered the woman’s behavioral patterns and doubted it. For one, Yvette had kept her distance. For another, the woman had disappeared too close to the pharmacist’s residence. If she had truly discovered a pursuer, Yvette reasoned that she herself would have calmly led the tail away before vanishing, ensuring no immediate clues pointed back. So why choose to disappear there?

  Yvette rubbed her chin, her thoughts drifting to the open drainage grate downstairs.

  Go down into the sewers? If that was where she vanished, it would confirm she hadn’t noticed Yvette.

  First, Yvette recalled the details of her pursuit. From the moment the woman in yellow entered the alley to the moment Yvette found her gone, she estimated the timeframe and retraced her steps, matching the woman’s stride. Just before reaching the spot where she entered the alley, Yvette indeed discovered a sewer entrance.

  Though the opening was too small for a human to pass through, now that she had the location, she descended via a nearby manhole and followed a path toward the spot where the woman had vanished. There, she found a slightly dry platform.

  Though water hadn’t reached it, the damp, musty air fostered thick patches of moss. Stepping onto the platform, Yvette saw clear scrape marks, recent in origin.

  The impression in the moss resembled two cylindrical jars—large enough to hold over a hundred pounds of liquid. And they must have been full, for the moss beneath had been crushed into a greenish-brown paste.

  This explained why the woman in yellow had "vanished" aboveground—she had come to retrieve these jars. The pharmacist hadn’t accompanied her, though, as there were no footprints but hers.

  Unless the pharmacist had already been killed, dismembered, and stuffed into the jars.

  There was no definitive proof yet, and the thought was gruesome, but Yvette kept the possibility in mind.

  ……

  A few days later, Yvette dressed in clothing resembling that of her old university classmates. She even glued on a fake mustache, donned gold-rimmed glasses, and curled her hair into tight ringlets. Disguised like this, not only would the woman in yellow—who had only glimpsed her once—fail to recognize her, even close friends like Oleander wouldn’t. Now, carrying a suitcase, she sat in a swaying mail coach, exchanging idle chatter with the coachman—though most of the conversation was just her talking to herself.

  At this time, telegraphs had not yet spread to most parts of Albion. Only a handful of major cities and railway stations had lines. For daily communication, people still relied on the postal system. The Royal Mail used bright red—crimson mail coaches, scarlet uniforms, vermilion postboxes. Trains carried letters, parcels, and newspapers along the rails to distant counties before mail coaches delivered them to towns and villages.

  Two days prior, Yvette had arrived in the town of Furness and inquired at the post office about lakeside villages nearby. The only confirmed answer was a single remote settlement named Prutton, the farthest village in the county, visited by the mail only twice a month. Timing it just right, Yvette rested for a day before boarding the coach to Prutton.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Though she could have hired a private carriage, that would have drawn undue attention. If there truly was something amiss in that village, a wealthy stranger arriving unannounced would surely arouse suspicion.

  During her stay, she had also taken care to construct her disguise, purchasing old notebooks, a hammer, a magnifying glass, a ruler, and other surveying tools from a secondhand shop. She now posed as a young geological researcher, claiming to be visiting Prutton to study and search for mineral veins.

  But, as it turned out, Yvette had worried for nothing—at least as far as her fellow passengers were concerned.

  Besides carrying cargo, the mail coach allowed four passengers. Yet none of the five others—including the postman and guard—cared about her purpose, particularly since they themselves disliked scrutiny. Even in London, members of Parliament traveled in groups to deter highwaymen. In these fog-shrouded backwaters, everyone kept their collars turned up, covering ears and cheekbones, eyeing each other with distrust. After all, anyone could be in league with bandits. Cases of postal workers stealing mail or passengers turning out to be robbers weren’t uncommon across the country.

  Behind the coach, near the driver’s seat, loaded weapons waited. Any suspicious movement would earn a nervous postman’s bullet.

  It was far from a comfortable journey. Most of the time, the coach jolted and swayed along muddy dirt roads. On steep inclines, everyone had to disembark and push.

  Even so, Yvette had it better than the postman and guard, who rode hanging outside the cabin. Though spring had warmed the air slightly, it was still cold—winter had even claimed postal workers frozen to death on duty. Still, Yvette noticed healed frostbite scars on their faces.

  These men were experienced. Maybe she could coax some information out of them.

  The three other passengers disembarked along the way, visibly easing the postal workers’ tension. If there had been a traitor in league with robbers, they would have struck earlier. By the final stop, most parcels would have been delivered, making the trip low-risk. Relaxed, the postman and guard began humoring the sole remaining passenger—that talkative young man.

  "Prutton? What’s worth seeing in that wretched place? You’ve felt it yourself—this godforsaken road must’ve been built by the Devil to torment travelers. Even the richest land wouldn’t draw merchants, and Prutton’s fields are just ordinary."

  The postman wasn’t wrong. Albion’s prosperous villages lay along rail lines, where farmers could sell milk, cheese, and produce to cities. Poor roads meant relying on beasts of burden—horses burned through the grain they carried within sixty kilometers. No market meant poverty and isolation.

  "If a passenger has too much luggage, how is the fare calculated? On my return, I may have ore and soil samples—too heavy to carry by hand," Yvette probed.

  "If you occupy another passenger’s space, naturally, you pay double."

  "Others have done the same?"

  "Of course! A fortnight ago, I carried a lady—local to the village—with two large iron jars of pickles. Charged her double, and she was the only passenger that trip."

  "What kind of pickles are worth hauling so far?" Yvette’s pulse quickened, but she feigned casual curiosity. "Do tell! I’ll be lodging there a while—I must try them."

  "Mrs. Rayburn. She’d gone to London to visit relatives. Some fancy new recipe, I imagine. Exotic to us rustics, though you city folk must be sick of it." The postman spoke without suspicion, though he then lowered his voice in a "between men" tone. "Still, lodging just for pickles you can get anywhere seems a waste… I’ve heard Prutton women are downright warm, if you take my meaning. Villages that isolated, folk intermarry for generations. They welcome fresh blood."

  "Speaking from experience?" Yvette played along.

  The guard barked a laugh. "Listen here, young sir—never trust a man’s boasts, especially about women. Else you’ll end up like this fool, believing tall tales and faking coach damage to beg a night’s stay, only to be left high and dry."

  "Damn you!" The postman flushed with anger. "As if any wench came knocking for you!"

  "That’s the difference—I never expected any. And you still owe me two shillings for our bet!"

  The postman fell silent before grumbling, "Prissy little sluts… Probably knew I was a regular. Worried their men would kick up a fuss—you know how it is. Strangers are safer for that sort of thing."

  "If the rumors are true, our friend here will do just fine. Handsome lad like him? Toss him in that village, and he’ll rut like a prize ram!" The guard guffawed.

  From their banter, Yvette gleaned useful details. Prutton was indeed remote—so much so that even the local lord rarely visited, sending only a steward to collect rent after harvest. Unlike most villages, rents were paid in produce—wheat, wool, honey—rather than coin.

  As the regular mail carriers for these parts, the two men had heard rumors that Prutton women were… hospitable. Several versions circulated: a neighboring farmer searching for lost sheep, a stranded traveler spending the night, all receiving "special attention." The postman, tempted, had tried his luck but met only disappointment, while the guard dismissed it as country boasting.