Upon sensing Cirsa's whereabouts, the village promptly decided to send someone to capture her and bring her back. Driven by resentment over her sister's betrayal and fearing that others might hear Cirsa's account of her own role in the affair if someone else went instead, Serena volunteered to go to London.

  The village provided her with a magical cursed ring. Under its unassuming gemstone lay a tiny poison reservoir, with a small, painless needle on the palm-facing side. Traditionally used by the village to "deal" with stubborn investigators, this time, the reservoir contained a mysterious liquid capable of nullifying their lineage's powers. Upon meeting Cirsa, Serena pretended to embrace her while pricking her shoulder with the prepared poisoned ring. She then waited for the effects to take hold while making small talk with her sister.

  Cirse appeared unaware that her whereabouts had been discovered. Through their conversation, Serena learned the truth. Furthermore, after the second time Cirsa noticed her lover's scheme, she had resorted to a self-made abortifacient to expel the barely-formed embryo, believing herself safe and ignorant of her sister's true purpose.

  But it was too late. Once the potion took effect, Cirsa was rendered immobile, stuffed into two jars by Serena, and brought back to the village.

  Serena had expected Cirsa to be sacrificed in this form—after all, such was the fate of their lineage. Logically, with all the crimes Cirsa had committed, she ought to have been offered directly to appease the gods' wrath. However, after deliberation with the elders, the elders suddenly changed their minds, deciding to wait for her to recover before making further decisions.

  "I thought you two were close, which was why you deceived us to help you send her away," Edwin jeered.

  "Relationships between women are far more complicated than you imagine... If she had only left forever and never returned, I would have wished her well... But all this was fate’s doing," Serena spat.

  "If so, why insist on staying here? You too could have left like her."

  "I have yet to obtain what I desire—how could I simply abandon it?" Serena fixed her gaze on Edwin, her eyes glittering unnaturally even in the dark forest. "Without her, I might become the 'Queen Bee.' Do you know? Like ordinary bees, a queen bee retains eternal youth until her fertility wanes, showing no signs of aging. But we are human. A Queen Bee of our lineage can only bear four to six children in her lifetime. Unlike those foolish sows who hasten their deaths in servitude to the gods, I will remain young... Time is running out for me, which is why I agreed to help you kill that creature. I only want its golden mead—my reward for aiding you!"

  Golden mead... Based on the Doomsday Clock’s research on this village over the years, it appeared to be a liquid capable of transforming ordinary humans. The exact method of obtaining it was unknown, but it was undoubtedly tied to the supernatural entities that lurked here. This foolish woman had forsaken her noble soul for such a trifle, becoming a mere tool for a monstrous eldritch being.

  Edwin smirked coldly. "Rest assured, we have no interest in such things. Of course, if you're willing, we might exchange a small sample afterward—purely for research purposes."

  ...

  As night fell, Valerie carried a clay jug to water the sheep returning to the pen beside the farmstead's barn. Faint singing drifted from the wilderness—the voice of the girl who had worn a daisy wreath and attempted to seduce Yvette during the day, now missing since dinner.

  Even in daylight, the dense undergrowth forced travelers to tread carefully. Now, beneath the cloud-veiled stars, Valerie could only make out an approaching figure, inexplicably unimpeded by the darkness, moving effortlessly through the wild like a spirit of nature.

  After a few minutes, the girl reached the barn, ignoring her mother as she headed straight for the farmhouse.

  "Where were you, Martha?" Valerie stopped her.

  "I found honey. It's very sweet. Do you want to try some?" Martha asked with childlike innocence, holding up a simple clay bowl containing a broken honeycomb no larger than half a palm, its hexagonal cells still glistening with fresh honey.

  "Martha, our traditions demand restraint in using 'medicine' within the village. Withdrawal symptoms risk drawing unwanted attention. It should only be used on outsiders during slow seasons when brief departures are necessary," Valerie said gravely.

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  "Silence! I know better than you!" The girl's sweetness vanished as she glared venomously. "You're just a servant—don't presume to lecture me! I must select from limited candidates, and that rare clever man from London is far superior to the dull lechers of this village. Even the gods would approve my choice."

  The woman who was nominally her mother fell silent, stepping aside to resume her chores, while Martha whispered through gritted teeth, "Just wait. To humiliate me like that... I'll make you beg to enter me..."

  She dipped her slender fingers into the golden syrup, humming softly: "Honey~ honey~ sweet honey, mixed with the crimson spring of life. The triumphant Love ascends his throne, bathed in golden light..."

  The next morning, as Yvette finished binding her chest, hurried footsteps clattered up to the attic. Hastily buttoning her shirt, she had just two left when the door flew open without a knock.

  "Se?or Jiménez~" Martha stood in a floaty white linen dress, bearing a breakfast tray with an air of demure obedience.

  "Do you never knock?" Yvette kept her back turned, draping her coat over her shoulders.

  "Father is out working. It's laundry day, so Mother is at the river. The younger ones are gathering herbs or herding sheep. Mother told me to stay and tend to your needs," Martha said sweetly, batting her luminous eyes. "You didn’t come down, so I brought breakfast~" Though grating, her act left Yvette little room for complaint.

  But the sudden use of "Mother" and "Father" unsettled her—yesterday, the girl had never once referred to them as such. This sugary obedience reeked of deceit.

  "Thank you. It's very kind of you."

  "Se?or Jiménez, here’s buttered bread, smoked rabbit, boiled eggs... and homemade mead." Martha set the tray by the bed but lingered. "May I help with anything else?"

  "Could you close the door on your way out, Martha?"

  "Of course!" she trilled, slamming it shut with a force that rattled dust from the rafters.

  Yvette, unmoved, murmured just loud enough for Martha’s ears outside: "Ah. Dust fell in. Such a shame—now it's unsafe to drink." She poured the mead out the window.

  On the stairs below, Martha seethed as the liquid splashed outside. Clutching her dress, she nearly tore the fabric. Kneeling wouldn’t suffice—not nearly enough! She'd stomp on that wretched man’s groin until it swelled beyond use!

  Inspecting her meal, Yvette ate only the peeled eggs and the rabbit's inner meat, discarding the rest into a handkerchief to dispose of later. Something was off—this girl’s sudden sweetness, the suspicious food... She’d take no chances, especially in the hometown of that "herbalist."

  "Delicious breakfast. I’ll take a stroll now." She returned the tray downstairs with a polite smile.

  "How was the mead, Se?or Jiménez?" Martha asked sweetly, masking her malice.

  "Exquisite. Sweet yet crisp, with a lingering finish."

  The moment Yvette left, Martha’s mask fell.

  "That lying bastard... A silver-tongued philanderer, no doubt." She sneered. "Oh, how I’ll relish your tears when your smug face finally cracks..."

  Yvette had no idea someone despised her so fiercely. Her current errand involved investigating Mrs. Reiberg, the woman the postman had mentioned—the one who’d hitched a ride back to town carrying two jars of pickles. She strongly suspected this was the same woman she’d glimpsed at the club before the stranger vanished.

  This era’s Albion wasn’t like the future. With life expectancies so short, elderly folk were scarce unless you wandered London’s noble suburbs or the financiers’ quarter. Yet in this village, Yvette noticed an abnormal number of young faces—especially girls—far more than any rural hamlet ought to have.

  She ambled over to some kids playing marbles by the road. “Do you know where Mrs. Reiberg lives?”

  “Why d’you ask, sir?”

  Yvette produced a folded ribbon—once used to tie her hair, now unnecessary since she’d curled it short. Embroidered with lace, it looked distinctly feminine.

  “The mail coach driver said she rode with them last time and left this behind. They asked me to return it since I’m staying awhile.”

  The children bought the lie. A boy pointed toward the woods. “That cottage with the cold chimney. She’s hardly home lately—doubt she’s there now.”

  Beyond the dense green trees, only the rooftop was visible. Thanking him, Yvette circled the village and approached from the forest side.

  Isolated among thick woods, the cottage stood eerily quiet, linked to the village by a single winding path. Long-neglected branches drooped toward the roof, some tips yellowed—recently singed?—likely after the occupant’s return.

  Villages like this rarely bothered with locks. Farmers left keys in doors all day. Though this place wasn’t that careless, the windows were unlatched. As Yvette reached for one, rustling footsteps approached.

  Ducking behind a woodpile, she spied a teenage couple holding hands. The girl looked familiar—one of Martha’s friends from the chapel.

  “S-sure no one’s here?” the boy whispered.

  “Relax,” the girl scoffed. “She’s been gone for days. Probably off currying favor with the elders, ever since her sister… well, tried to replace her…”

  They vanished into the barn, their voices fading beneath wooden creaks.

  Silencing her steps, Yvette crept to the door.

  “W-we shouldn’t… inside the village… it’s sinful…” the boy protested weakly.

  “Quiet!” the girl snapped. “You’re my servant. And what’s the sin? They took your ‘troublesome bits’ years ago. Nothing can come of this—just a harmless little indulgence.”

  The hay rustled loudly; the stench of moldering winter fodder wafted out.

  “Ah—try talking like that gentleman from town…” the girl panted.

  “C-can’t…” he mumbled. “If you fancy him so much, just go to him.”

  “Martha would claw my eyes out,” she hissed. “She’s been eyeing him since he arrived—that pretty Londoner with his noble airs. Who wouldn’t want his child? But I’