Sunday.

All across England, from John O' Groats to Land's End, the clinking of silverware on porcelain aligned like a synchronised ceremony. Butlers, the stoic sentinels of propriety, awoke their masters and mistresses for church and or business. Downstairs in every manor; scones, cream, and jam were warmed and plated, ready to be served with a strong Assam from India's Orange Zones, alongside the day's paper.

At seven-thirty, having relieved the First Footmen, or Head Maid, pending the proprietor of the estate; both lords and ladies perused the latest national gossip.

The weekend marked the week-in-summary edition of the Herald Sun and the Telegraph, meaning extra-thick papers weighted with classifieds.

The Sun's double-page jacket, with its eye-catching red letters, featured a picture of Gwen Song, her eyes all aurora, her figure sleek and svelte in her Shen-teī battleplate. In Brittanic Bold, the plosive "EATEN ALIVE" was what the editors had chosen to ensnare eyeballs, followed by the non-sensical standfirst, "Devourer engulfs Ystradfellte".

In a smaller, blue-tinted teaser for page 3, the words "Nothing to Hide" prefaced a picture of the Void sorceress' flushing face. Should the discerning buyer turn immediately to said page, what they would then find was more gainful employment for Miss— a buxomly gifted sorceress of petite talent. Assuming the reader could tear their eyes away from the compelling article on Miss Caterina's favourite food— "Fish and Chips", they would then find a small expose on Void Magic. That, and an image of Gwen standing beside a timid Mage in Cambridge robes, alongside a gruff Dwarf. Should a customer inquire whether the sorceress was Ravenport's daughter, the paper did offer an apology— on page 9, in a tiny grey amendment box.

Next to the Sun, the Telegraph, its editors possessing a keener sense of authenticity— chose to go with an image of Gwen standing amidst a dark swarm of lampreys. The headline, "One Woman Purge" was front and centre. What its teaser showed was a fair-haired Cleric with a flower Spirit on one shoulder, and a Mandrake on her palm. "Strength of Spirit" was the name of the page 5 article, composed so that the judicious reader was awarded a close up of Sen-sen, a cross-continental Ginseng from Huangshan. In a smaller teaser, advocating for page 8, one could read an interview with Gwen Song's feathered white Wyvern.

Turning the pages, a few browsers sipped their tea a few seconds too long and scalded their tongues. Other raised brows and requested that their majordomos filled in the details.

Who could have imagined that; uninvited, a single sorceress would gnaw her way through the Red Gulch, erasing all green-skin presence for the next quarter, freeing mines for deep-ranging excavation? Who could guess that the same sorceress had then befriended the Commandrumm of the Hammer Guard, requesting a city-wide tour of the Red Citadel? Who should have expected that said sorceress now held within her palm, a twin-Spirited Cleric, and a freshly-harvested Hag-Core from her Wyvern's arse?

Lord Mycroft Ravenport wordlessly nibbled on a brittle scone as he scanned the tabloid, first quickly, then again in detail. After the last tidbit of misinformation was digested, he willed his Message Device into life.

Ding! The spell connected.

"You've reached Dominic Lorenzo," a tired, just awoken voice replied. "May I ask who this is?"

"The cockatrice croaked thrice."

"Three times I denied the Nazarene." The Diviner was now wide awake.

"God save the wicked."

The resultant pause was held a little too long for comfort.

"Milord."

"Agent."

"How may I be of service."

"I am told you know Gwen Song in a personal capacity?"

"Knew her since Friday, Milord. I am well acquainted with her sister-in-craft, however."

"Who is your handler?"

"Magister Milliford. Your Grace."

"Joan? I see. I'll have Saville debrief your Master. My apologies for the… unsanctioned contact."

"Quite alright, Sir. We are the Mageocracies' eyes and ears. We live to serve."

"Yes." Ravenport sipped his tea. "Now, I wish to know every detail. Leave no act untapped."

"I... was on the front page once." Lady Loftus sipped her tea, seated across the table from a fresh-faced Gwen and an eye-bagged Ollie. "I was sixteen and coming out. Lord Wembley's boy, Jeremiah, invited me to first-dance. Acting on a dare from his Eton mates, he kissed me without permission, in public. I struck the boy twice— like this…"

The Lady Grey mimed a Mage Hand. "— The cad lost two of his front teeth. Father was furious, of course. Lord Wembley came to apologise personally, and poor Jem went about without his incisors for the better part of a year while father's upset simmered."

Lady Loftus allowed the cup to rest; her expression remained contemplative.

"Jem died after the Beast Tide. Near Merthyr Tydfil, in fact, to Trolls. We found his body eventually, though not all of it."

The matron sighed. "How curious— I haven't thought about Jeremiah in two decades."

"I am sorry to hear that," Gwen apologised. From the looks of Ollie's apprehension, Lady Loftus wasn't the type to outwardly show upset.

"Don't mind me. Just an old woman's musing." Lady Loftus reheated her Assam with a glance. "You'll be going to London then?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Gwen nodded. "Elvia and I will be visiting the galleries and the museums, maybe watch a show or two."

"No word from our Dwarven compatriots?"

"Not yet, Milady."

"I see. You must remember, London has the highest concentration of Mages anywhere on earth, not to mention Demi-human dignitaries. Any Mage worth her salt in sorcery must tread as if on air. Ollie?"

"I'll take care of Gwen, Mistress."

"You just do your best. Gwen, will you be visiting the Isle? I've told Wally you'll be gracing his presence and needing his full cooperation."

"I shall." Gwen bowed her head.

The Isle of Dogs was the leasehold Lady Loftus had lent to Gwen as a base of operations. Located some ten kilometres from London Bridge, the underdeveloped peninsular skirted the River Thames on all sides sans north. Presently, the Marchioness' men operated a farm for unique breeds of quasi-magical domesticated animals, including kennels with breeding prize-winning hunting hounds. Boundary wise, Gwen's jurisdiction began and ended with the farm and its surrounding hamlets— Cubitt and Millwall.

Gwen herself had been stunned by the Machioniness' generosity.

In the forgotten dimension of her mundane world, the Isle of Dogs was prime real estate. In the late 80s, the revitalisation of Canary Wharf Station had completely revitalised its dilapidated, outdated, decaying infrastructure. In the 90s, following an uptick in land speculation, the Isle rapidly consolidated into an office and retail mecca, kicking out the very dockworkers that the redevelopment initially sought to aid.

In Gwen's present London, no such developments had yet taken place, and the Isle continued to remain a bastion of close-knit communities tethered like beasts of burden to the yoke of Canary Wharf and Millwall's shipyard. The port authority of the Isle currently suffered from poor management and a lack of understanding of the location's importance, primarily as a result of prejudice toward the NoM ghetto-townhouses.

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Wally Samson was the custodian of the Isle, overseeing Lady Grey's puppy mill. A Mage of small talent, Wally was the son of the Marchioness' ageing ground keeper, having returned from Military Service to receive a coveted position as a custodian for Ely's many properties.

"Well, then." The Lady indicated for the tabloids to be moved downstairs to be savoured by the servants. "Shall we expect you before or after New Years?"

"After." Gwen bowed again. "Thank you for your understanding, ma'am."

The Lady appeared to rest her case but then decided against reticence.

"The 'rags' are a double-edged blade, Gwen. I hope you know what you're doing. They're like Gnolls— not impossible to tame, but completely comfortable with biting the hand that feeds."

Gwen assured the Lady that she knew her goals.

"Good, then I shall leave you with an axiom from my mother," Lady Loftus intoned carefully. "Maxie— make some trouble out there, but if an angry mob stampedes my garden, God help you..."

Nightingale's College, London.

As one of the big three Medical Colleges responsible for churning out the Mageocracy's frontline healers, the college took great pride in the location of its leasehold, being situated directly adjacent to Westminster Bridge, opposite the palace of the same name, overlooking the Thames.

The brutalist building itself, however, did not echo the grandeur of its surroundings. As celebrated as Florence Nightingale was during her tenure, there was significant opposition to her philosophy that magical healing was for both NoMs and Mages. There was also her unorthodox view that vast numbers of low-tier quasi-magical nurses utilising magical instruments trumped the training of Faith-fuelled Clerics.

As a keen student of biographies, Ollie informed Gwen that Florence was first a graduate and then an instructor at King's College. Under Queen Victoria, the founder of Elvia's college came into prominence for her actions during the Crimean Conflict against the Demi-humans of Central Asia. The present-day college itself was converted from St Thomas' Hospital, underwritten by King's into a secular medical school in recognition of Nightingale's achievements during the war.

Also according to her Praelector, Nightingale's represented a curious bridging of the Mage-NoM divide. The Crimean Conflict, alas, was the first publicised instance in which a prominent, frontline individual at the highest tier of Victorian Spellcraft demanded practical healthcare for NoMs. Namely, the radical Miss Nightingale fought for the sanitation of NoM infantry hostels, triage stations, healing tents, and the placement of one lower-tier healer for every fifty or so NoM infantrymen. Incredibly, where more than a hundred thousand soldiers died of preventable illnesses and injuries in the three-month campaign in Scutari, her compassionate, cost-saving measures reduced subsequent casualties to two-thirds.

And though recognition had initially escaped the Lady of Modern Medicine, no petty politics could impact the unambiguous matter of Faith. All across the front, the worship of "Our Lady of the Lamp"— said to be the lone figure of Florence wandering the camps at midnight, bestowing Healing Word and Remove Disease upon sleeping soldiers, widely circulated. For the establishment in the Church of England at the time, Nightingale proved an awkward "Saint" to place. The reason being that the middle-aged woman widely spoke out against the use of Faith Magic in the conquest of colonial heartlands. Instead, she considered Faith to be a manifestation of compassion, love, and care for the suffering of Mages, NoMs, and Demi-humans.

In the aftermath of Florence's academic teaching, the untitled Magister wrote simple and concise medical annotations in prose, making many of the epoch's kept knowledge open to all. Thanks to her and her advocates, a sharp decrease in infectious diseases, preventable ailments, and infant mortality spread across the Mageocracy like a reverse-contagion. Her generosity was such that even Demi-human races long plagued by chronic maladies came to benefit, ushering in a new era of diplomacy across much of Queen Victoria's domain.

When Florence finally passed at the age of ninety, the church breathed a sigh of relief and christened her "Our Saintess of the Lamp". All across London, medical institutions erected statues and stained-glass portraits in her honour. Most curiously, in the Purple Zones skirting the Black Sea, there exist shrines to Florence Nightingale, worshipped by the local Demi-humans as a Goddess of restoration and regeneration, a fact that, to this day, vexed heads at the Westminster Congress of Cardinals.

And it was in front of one such statue that Gwen, disembarking from Waterloo's endless array of levitation platforms, arrived.

"Palace to the right, palace to the left, palace opposite—" Gwen felt dubious that, for occupying such a location and as a place of such fame, Elvia's home looked underfunded by two decades.

"The college portion is located in the newer wings," Ollie explained. "The hospital wing needed to be shut to be renovated— I guess the authorities never had the opportunity."

"The woes of public health." Gwen approached the gate. Where a guard had been staring for some time. Others gawked as well: one reason was that her face looked familiar. Another could be that the sorceress stood pretty in a knee-length skirt and kitten heels, oblivious to the cold.

"Hi. I am Gwen Song. Here is Magus Ollie Edwards. We're here to visit Elvia Lindholm," Gwen relished her next words. "We hail from Cambridge."

The guard stood aside before he even finished Messaging the ward Matron.

Inside, the college wing of the teaching hospital was a mishmash of modernisation and dilapidation. The antiquity of the lesser rooms had overseen the crossing of four monarchs. Others portions were renovated with glass and steel, filtering sunlight from outside through Daylight Orbs.

"Miss Lindholm's shift hasn't ended." The Matron standing guard behind the counter at Elvia's station eyed Gwen questioningly. Speculating that this must be one of the crones giving Elvia grief, Gwen stood her ground and stared back until the Matron looked away.

"No visitors for staff," the woman insisted.

"We'll wait." Gwen directed Ollie to a side bench. The Matron looked like she wanted to say something, but thought better of addressing someone rumoured to have wiped out a mountain.

While her Praelector fiddled with a data slate, Gwen observed the coming and goings of the hospital, diving deep into thoughts of her own.

Now that she had settled into London, how should she proceed with the enterprises she had laid out in China and Sydney? It wasn't as though, without a base of operations, without a crew of tertiary-educated workers; and without a central office, she could reproduce her success. Without the right support, she wouldn't trust herself to operate a fleet of hotdog stands.

What she needed then, was something lucrative and agile enough to give credibility, but transparent and straightforward enough to skill up a group of locals. As with China, she would prefer NoMs uplifted by gainful employment, for these individuals engendered the highest loyalty and enthusiasm.

Now, seeing that the Lady Loftus was willing to lease her the lesser portion of the Isle, there was no reason she could not strike another deal with the port authority there. With the Marchioness backing her interests, it would take a brave and greedy entrepreneur to short change a noblewoman with a direct line to Buckingham Palace. If so, drawing from the House of M, she may be able to "import" skilled individuals from Shanghai, elevating NoM professionals into the realm of highly paid expatriate professionals. After that, she could use these little seeds to propagate a core group of accountants and managers.

The time frame, assuming she could kick-start the mana-engines at the decrepit docks, would take a year or more. In the meanwhile, she needed to gain a local presence.

What she needed, Gwen considered her options, was a tremendously daring book— an intellectual enterprise that would shake the foundations of Mage society, while maintaining a facade of progressive, moral superiority. When earlier, she had gazed upon a handsome statue of Florence Nightingale in the lobby, she couldn't help but feel that there was a book that could be engendered— one that was the crying need of the hour, showing the terrible cancer of apartheid with all its boils and bleeding scabs. If composed correctly, here was a book that should serve as a clarion call to the bruised and beaten NoM masses.

And Elvia— Eureka! EVEE would be the key!

The healers needed Faith, if so, why not make Evee the subject of an appropriated book? Sure, it was fiction, but when did "Faith" ever need something concrete and tangible? In this book, she could create a diptych of humanity— she— or the ghostwriter she paid, would expose Mage society and its disgusting depravity. Then, she would present a young healer, one of original innocence and natural virtue, blonde, of course, with the bluest eyes. This healer would have a mentor, a father figure of sorts, who existed as an unyielding defender of the rights of NoMs as enshrined by the law, a man would not break under the yoke of the Mage's repression! What a book it would be! Presented in the timelessness of its literary milieu, it would vicariously draw the audience into a bitter conflict of grace and disgrace, discrimination and altruism! The readers could not help but be moved— touched— enraged!

And Evee, hailing from Nightingale's was a perfect model for mythology! She was a scion of the very "Saintess" who treated NoM soldiers during the war. Who was to say that Evee, with her Kiki and Sen-sen, would not rise to become the poster child of the college? All Elvia lacked was a generous crystal-account for acts of philanthropy, a good consultant who understood the vertical integration of charity-branding, and good "Faith" would come rolling in.

A philanthropic Demi-Saintess with two Spirits and a multi-national charity under her wing? Sweet dreams are made of Evees!

Gwen felt her hands clench and unclench. It was achievable; she could feel it in her bones; she could put it in the bank! Money and momentum! Once the Evee Express left the station, fundraisers, sponsors, government grants, maybe even cross-continental recognition and support— the world was Evee's oyster!

"Hehehe... Hahaha…" Gwen chuckled to herself, grinning like a mad priestess. "Excellent— how excellent!"

Beside her, Ollie Edwards felt goosebumps rise all over his skin. Haunted by Gwen's cackling, he couldn't help but wonder if somewhere, a Shoggoth was descending into the Material Plane.

"Gwennie!" Elvia's voice greeted the duo from the corridor, wholly oblivious of the "Special" role she would play in her friend's otherworldly ambitions. "Ah, Ollie— thanks for coming."

"Evee!" Gwen stood, opened her arms, then swallowed the girl wholesale with her long limbs. "Did you get your vacation approved? If not, I'll have a stern word with your boss, or we'll go Purge another mountain."

"No, no, I am free!" Elvia replied quickly, aware that her friend wasn't joking. "I've sent Mathias back to the barrack as well..."

"— she's joking," Ollie declared to the doctors and nurses, now watching the trio with unfriendly expressions. "Let's go, let's go. Trafalgar Square awaits!"


Evee and Ollie's guided tour of London central began a hundred meters from Nightingale's, where the Southbank Lion stood, a silent sentinel guarding the south end of Westminster Bridge.

As it was winter, the River Thames ran blue and aloof, its lapping edge white with rime as the body meandered past County Hall. Different to Gwen's memory of London, there was no "London Eye" jarring the cityscape. Instead, a towering lattice-structure held a shielding transponder amidst a dizzying array of Divination nodes, winking against the cold light.

"All of this feels so surreal," Gwen remarked as they crossed on foot, their noses wrinkling at the mana miasma spewing from endless trains of lorries and busses.

"What, being in London?" Elvia giggled. For Gwen's big day out, the healer was bundled up in a lime-green cashmere jumper adorned with a raspberry beret. The colour-combination was borderline Kiki— though as far as Gwen was concerned, Elvia could do no wrong.

"Sen!" Sen-sen peeked out from a pocket, joined by Kiki, both drinking in the winter sun.

"Yes." Gwen's eyes followed the unfamiliar, and yet all-too-similar skyline. Everything "old" was there: The Palace of Westminster, the Metropolitan Guard Quarters, the Big Ben, behind which one would find No. 10 Downing, the state-sanctioned residence of Lord Magister Blair.

"Did you know." Ollie's eyes twinkled as they approached the pier-side of Westminster. A lightbulb hailing from Mayfair, the Praelector had advertised himself as their guide. "That Big Ben does not actually refer to the clock itself?"

"Sure, it refers to the principal bell inside the Tower," Gwen answered casually, still deep in thought. "And the building is called Elizabeth Tower. After her Majesty's Diamond Jubilee."

"Your patriotism is admirable—" Ollie regarded his companion strangely. "I believe you meant her Golden Jubilee? Her Majesty enjoyed a Commonwealth-wide celebration only two years ago."

"Ah—" Gwen realised she may have let slip a bit of the future. "Of course, what I meant was that her Majesty's rose will never fade."

"Wrong Elizabeth," Ollie chuckled. "But… Elizabeth Tower, eh? I like that."

"Ahaha…" Gwen squeezed Elvia, simultaneously teasing Sen-sen. Seeing that Ollie did not pursue the matter, she changed the subject. "When can we hear it chime?"

"Unfortunately, not until Christmas Eve," Ollie lamented. "It's more so a symbol now. After the Germans damaged the mechanism during the great Blitz of '41, killing the Dwarven artificer responsible for the original design, we've had no end of trouble. It's still accurate, mind you, but the city-wide sonic-spell generated by the bell takes a toll on the delicate instruments. Also, since we all use Divi-Devices now, having the glass thrum and threaten to break is becoming a bother. Of course, for special occasions, Big Ben will toll without delay."

Past the clock tower, the self-guided tourists kept a brusque pace as the trio advanced into the city, sauntering into parliament square. A few passersby stared; mostly gawking at Gwen, others at the two Sprites jostling for space in Elvia's pockets.

At the garden, Gwen met a familiar face.

"Lord Magister Churchill," she declared happily. Keeping an eye on Ollie, she then tested the waters to see if her memory could fill some gaps in London's parallel history. "His speeches are so inspiring— 'We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.'"

"You forgot 'We shall fight in the air'— you're a fan of Minister Churchill?" Ollie appeared pleasantly surprised. "Impressive, for a Frontier girl. Do you recognise any of the other statues here?"

"Gwen, how do you know of Lord Churchill's speech?" Elvia cocked her head adorably. "Did they teach this stuff in China?"

"I read it back in Sydney." Gwen resisted the urge to mount a lumen-recorder onto a pole to snap a picture of Evee and herself. But then again, who would she send it to? Yue?

"But— I've never seen you read while we're in Sydney," Elvia demanded suspiciously. "You're always training or eating or sleeping."

"I was wrapt in secret studies." Gwen hand-waved her friend's suspicion. "With Master, you know."

Here and there in the square were other statues, most of which Gwen did not recognise. Names like Lloyd George, Jan Smuts, George Canning, escaped her entirely. Others, like the immediately recognisable statue of Honest Abe, was obvious at a glance.

"Who's the woman?" Gwen asked when they reached a humble bust less grandiose than the others. "Millicent Faulkner?"

"Miss Faulkner fought for the right of women to own property and participate in the Spellcraft revolution," Ollie stated proudly. "She's one of ours."

"Ours?"

"The founder of Newnham College, of Clough Hall fame." Ollie's voice rose an octave. "Quite a few of our alumni have statues in the city. I can point them out if you like."

"That would be helpful but unnecessary." Gwen curbed her guide's enthusiasm. "Let's keep going, I want to see the rest of the landmarks, hit the museums."

"Well, ONE Museum," Ollie snickered. "Besides, the Commonwealth's collection isn't so easily accessed. We'll need permission to see the rarer displays."

"All the Museums, we would take until New Years," Elvia chimed in. "Also, we need to break for lunch."

"What's good for eating?" Gwen asked. In China, there had been so much food that she was spoilt for choice. In London, she had thus far kept to a strict diet of meat and vegetables; interestingly, the pastry and cakes had been excellent.

"Fish and Chips?" Elvia suggested. "We'll go by Buckingham, then circle back to Trafalgar. There's a delightful pub called 'The Lord Moon' which serves wonderful whiting. I've been there with Sylvie."

"Sure." The corner of Gwen's lips twitched. Fish and Chips? Surely there's better food? "But since this is London, how about authentic British Curry?"

"You'd have to go to Soho for that." Ollie made a face. "I am surprised you know, much less fancy, Demi-human food. Spice, from the Indian subcontinent? I don't know. A lot of our expatriate Mages are addicted to the stuff— says its flavour from the Gods. I tried it once. Far too pungent for me, and the heat— good lord, its like eating fire. Goes down like magma, comes out like—"

"You folk seriously don't eat curry?" Gwen felt as though slapped in the face. No curry Tuesday? Did people here survive on steak and vegetables?

"Did you eat curry in China?" Elvia was keen as well. "If you recall, we had it once in Sydney. It gave me a tummy ache."

"They don't make it the same in Shanghai." Gwen realised she had not seen the controversial Gandhi statue while in Parliament Square. If there was no readily available curry, what did that imply for the Mageocracy's history with the Indian subcontinent? Moreover, what did it mean for this world's East Indies as a whole? "So the NoMs don't eat it?"

"Spice is far too expensive for NoMs." Her Praelector shook his head. "What supply that reaches London isn't lucrative enough for high profit, nor is it abundant or cheap enough for the masses."

"I see." Gwen licked her lips. Butter Chicken, Tikka Masala, Beef Korma, Rogan Josh. Gods above, her mouth watered uncontrollably just thinking about the food. Perhaps at the Museum of London, she could gain some insight as to what had changed across the Mageocracy's five-centuries of colonisation to deny Britain its most quintessential cuisine.

The tourist trio had next planned to skirt Buckingham Palace via the avenue called the Mall. Unfortunately, they only made it as far as Marlborough House before they were halted in their tracks.

"G-Griffins!" Gwen gripped Elvia so hard the girl yelped. "Bloody oath! Evee—"

Overhead, the sight of Royal Griffins made her heart flutter. Standing in the shade of a mulberry tree, Gwen fought to encompass the majesty of an eagle-lion with wings of copper-gold and white feathers hinting at silver. Even the half-mythical Golos, who was 'ruggedly' handsome— lacked the regality of Britain's iconic heraldric beast.

Was it the mounted Knights that plucked at the heartstrings? Gwen wondered, feeling her face flush. The red-jacketed Mage mounted atop the marvellous bird-beast sported three plumes on his helmeted headdress. Below the chin, the Griffin Guards wore polished cuirasses, inscribed with Glyphs and runes too complex to decipher. On the Griffins' heads, shoulders and fore-claws, they were protected by magical barding in matching Mithril that glinted as the birds sailed through the sky.

"And this is why you don't fly near the Palace," Ollie warned his companion. "The Griffineers hunt first, ask questions later, assuming you survive."

"They look so awesome," Elvia squealed.

"Evee, who do you think is stronger." Gwen breathed out when a Griffin turned to face the trio. "Gogo or— er— is that patrol coming toward us?"

Her observation proved acute.

A trio of Griffins, each the size of a caravan, alighted on the broad strip of tempered, crimson asphalt.

"Stay calm," Ollie warned his House-sister, while Elvia hid behind her and her Sprites inside her jacket. "They're likely asking for our ID. Papers at the ready—."

With a grand buffet of breaking air, the Griffins landed.
A head double the size of Gwen's torso turned to regard her with its golden eyes.

"Halt!" the lead Knight approached. From the Saxon-scarlet satin adorning the man's armour, Gwen could see that this was a Mage from Mathias' most desired Ordo— The Most Distinguished Order of St George. "Why do you approach the home of her Majesty?"

"Lord Knight— here are our identifications and credentials." Ollie presented their Public Practice of Magic licences. "We hail from Cambridge."

The Knight scanned their cards with his eyes. When the man took Gwen's ID from her to peruse its tiny, bible-print list of Schools and annotations, the man's eyes widened.

"SKAARK!" the Knight's Griffin snarled. Leaning closer to the girls, it sniffed them both. Elvia hid her Sprites, hiding in Gwen's shadow.

Gwen's feeding-hand itched. She wanted to give the Griffin a drop of Almudj juice. But, with Ollie besides her, it took everything she had to resist stroking the Griffin's beak. This close, the creature's beauty was heart-breaking. From its feathers to its divinely-sculpted profile, the Griffin was a thing of superb intelligent design.

"Very well," the Knight returned a greeting. "I have taken note of your credentials. Now, why do you approach?"

"We wish to sight-see," Ollie declared. "To my awareness, the public is allowed to approach up to and outside the Victorian Gate, are they not? We wish to contemplate the crest of the Unicorn and the Lion, so that we may wish her Majesty well."

"I would allow it, usually," the Knight paused. His piercing blue eyes then locked onto Gwen. "However, proximal admittance for a Class VI War Mage will require clearance from the Tower."

"Ah—" Ollie bowed. "Apologies, I was not aware, Lord Knight. We shall take our leave."

The Knight did not immediately dismiss them. Instead, he nudged his Griffin's flanks so that it approached the Void Sorceress.

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"Hello," Gwen said nervously. The Griffin's beak could arguably pierce her chest, puncture Elvia, and still had more length to spare.

"Young Lady, the word is that you Purged the Red Gulch?" The officer, who Gwen could see was in his forties, kept a tight reign of his bird-mount. "By yourself?"

"I had Evee here to help me." Gwen patted her healer on the back. "There was a guy called Mathias as well— a bloke from St Micheal's. He came along as support."

"The Rothwell boy?"

"The very same."

"Good on him." The rider leaned down and extended a hand. "I am Knight-Captain George North. I am pleased to see such a worthy addition to our nation's military arm. I do not doubt we may see each other again in the future. I hear you have a tamed Kirin?"

"I do, Sir North." Gwen shook the man's mailed glove, then curtsied a little lower than she wished. "And yes, Ariel is a Kirin— of sorts. There's Caliban too, with its many forms. May I know your partner's name?"

"This is Sparhawk." The Griffin Guard looked pleased with Gwen's response. "We are bound by blood."

"I'd love for Ariel and Sparhawk to meet, but don't think I can summon my Familiars here," Gwen replied carefully. "Nonetheless, it's nice to meet you both."

"Likewise. My apologies for detaining you so far from the gate." The Knight-Captain was surprisingly cordial. "My liege is much occupied this time of year. As her guards, we take no chances."

"Of course. I understand," Gwen simpered, stunned that she was having a conversation with a Royal Magister seated on a Royal Griffin, outside the Royal Home of Elizabeth II, discussing how close she could get to the Queen of England. "We don't wish to inconvenience you."

"I see we understand one another." The Knight backed his mount away. "— Sparhawk?"

Of its own volition, the Griffin nuzzled Elvia, enticed by the healer's presence, or at least the morsels in her pockets.

"Good luck." The Knight coaxed his mount way. "Cambion, Clifford, we're resuming patrols!"

"Yes, Sir!" The others took to the air. In a minute, the Griffin flight once again turned to specks above the palace grounds.

"Well." Gwen turned to the others once the last bell-beat of wings faded. "That was… something."

"Isn't it?" Ollie breathed out.

"It's the dream of every boy to be a Knight," Elvia provided some insight into Ollie's sigh. "And the dream of every Knight is to join the Griffin Guard."

"You get to raise a Griffin from infancy to adulthood," Ollie appended Elvia's proclamation. "You receive an egg, once you're inducted, to bond with your Astral Soul. If the rider dies, the Griffins will hunt down their partner's killer to the end of the earth. Once avenged, or if the quest is no longer possible, they kill themselves. The same could be said of the riders."

"Jesus."

"That's why they're the ultimate symbol of loyalty," Ollie said. "Lions, Unicorns, and Griffins— Courage, Purity, and Loyalty— the watchwords of the Empire where the sun never sets."

Gwen watched Ollie's chest puff with pride. "How very nationalistic."

"It's only natural." Ollie shrugged. "We're citizens of the Mageocracy, after all. As Mages, we're the keepers of the state's Mandate."

"Of course." Gwen looked around at the empty avenue, deserted save for a few Mages like themselves who had business here. So much land, so many cloud-clapped spires, gilded statues and golden-winged cherubs had been dedicated to just one Household.

But for how long could such a system sustain itself?
History splutters, but it chugs on, driven by the momentum of the aeons.
Like a glacier being pushed out to sea, the resentment of the NoMs would pile up, until one day, like climate change...

Gwen felt her will waver. Why should she, a benefactor of the Tower systems, act as the catalyst? What if all she desired was a palace for herself and Evee?

But no— she cautioned herself. Touching Elvia's golden curls to calm her mind. Some things ought to be done, not for the sake of picking a path, but because they were right. If not for collective gain and a mutual profit, why do anything at all?

"… and here we are, Trafalgar Square! The heart of the city! Up there's Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, Hero of Trafalgar, perished during the action against the French and Spanish allied fleet. His sacrifice led to unchallenged Britain supremacy over the Atlantic and Pacific for the entire Hanover epoch, culminating in the establishment of the Mageocracy as we know it."

Nodding, Gwen surveyed the scene.

Trafalgar Square was as she had recalled from her alter-life. The enormous roundabout was there, as was the Georgian and Edwardian Gothic-revival architecture that surrounded it. The difference, as far as Gwen could see, was that the iconic memorial felt more prominent and boisterous, matching the gravity of the Mageocracy.

That, and the Lions that adorned the base of Lord Nelson's column were instead a foursome of Griffins, each with their wings tucked, eyes sharp, and talons fully extended.

The fountain monument beside Lord Nelson was also many times larger than Gwen recalled. Unlike its modest incarnation in her world, a massive Grecian sculpture in transmuted bronze marked its centre. Upon closer inspection, Gwen perceived the mangled series of fins, arms, busts and buttocks displaying an epic struggle of tumultuous battles at sea. At the very top of the structure, a triumphant Lord Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood rested the butt of his sword-wand on the head of a bowed Mermen King.

"For the conquest of the Caribbean and the successful defence of the Mediterranean from the resurgent Mermen," Ollie helpfully provided the details. "The one been trodden on is the Coral King of Ionia. It's a wonder that forty ships of the line managed to down a Leviathan, using only quasi-magical black powder and Dwarf-forged Adamantite Harpoons. Lord Collingwood was Lord Nelson's Second if you're wondering— both are British legends."

"Were they notable magic users?" Gwen inquired, feeling oppressed by the excessive history. Australian chronicles tended to favour the First Fleet, sans the Indigenous folk, and focused more on looking ahead. There was a lot to be proud of, though much of it involved desperate struggles celebrating local vagabonds like the Rogue Mage Ned Kelly, or acts of English futility like Gallipoli.

"Lord Collingwood was an early example of a Master Transmuter." Ollie pointed to the plaque. "Lord Nelson... was talented in other ways."

"How so?"

"Today, we would call him a Squib." The Cambridge Magus forced the words from his throat. "I know, absurd, right?"

"Wow." Elvia stroked Sen-sen with one hand, toying with Kiki with the other. The plants purred, mewing softly.

Impressed, Gwen tried her best to visualise the battle at Trafalgar. For herself, it wasn't hard to imagine a time when a man with a talent for command, a knack for rousing speeches, and a mind for tactics was far more important than a girl who could summon Wyverns and matter-devouring Caliban-beasts. If this world had indeed once entertained such individuals, what had gone wrong during the Spellcraft Revolution to curb the involvement of non-magical individuals in British society?

As a beneficiary of the neo-libertarian new world order, Gwen suspected she knew the answer.

"Shall we head to lunch?" Elvia tugged on her sleeve. "The Lord Moon is close."

"Sure." Gwen turned away from the bubbling mayhem of amalgamated metal. A fin here, a boob there, contorted limbs all over. "Fish and chips it is."

Gwen felt conflicted.

Her biggest disappointment came in the form of a modern theatre made from glass and steel that sat beside Southwark. The ubiquitous Millennium Bridge was missing as well, making the stretch between Blackfriars and London Bridge exceptionally inconvenient.

And then they arrived at London Tower, also known as the Old Palace, "The Ivory Tower", The Shard.

Over its nine-century year history, the Tower had served sequentially as a palace, an armoury, a treasury, a menagerie, an administrative record office; and now the heart of the Mageocracy's Tower System. For the locals, the soaring spire's design had attracted an atypically dry English moniker— "The Shard"— for its likeness to a chipped HDM.

Compared to Gwen' recollection of the original structure— London Tower and its surroundings proved far more extensive. With Mage Flight becoming commonplace, the moat was now a spacious lawn, within which, in centre of its double-walls, sat the fabled Tower. Though the designers had kept its original facade, it wasn't difficult to spot the late 20th-century addition— a section a kilometre in height, levitating above the medieval base. Combined with the dozens of renovated, medieval spires surrounding the base block, the scene stole all breath from Gwen's lungs.

"Wow," she marvelled on approach. "It's taller than the Chinese one. They really built a floating superstructure?"

"It's the 'tallest' Tower in the world. I mean, it would have to be. It houses the Crown Jewels!" Ollie's eyes misted over with admiration. "Between the Crown, Sceptre and the Sovereign Orb, our Artefacts are powerful enough to cow even Dragons. You ever heard of the Heart—"

"Yes, the Heart of Flames—" Gwen mumbled, her mind suddenly mired in the past. In the recess of her skull, a baritone voice hummed the Empire's nationalistic masterpiece, "Jerusalem".

Bring me my wand, of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of Desire:
Bring me my stone: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Heart of Fire—

Her Master had sung that song, fighting embarrassment to mollycoddle her upset. Who would now do that again? Gwen despaired even as she swallowed her feelings. Gunther growled rather than hummed, and Alesia's singing-voice sounded like she was vocalising from the bedroom.

"I know the story. It's the Core of an Ancient Dragon."

Ollie sighed with relish. "Did you hear about the Red Dragon incident we had in '01?"

"I did." Gwen nodded. How could she forget, that was the day she "arrived" in this world.

"Once the fires died down, her Majesty had a word with Sythinthimryr, the keeper of Carrauntoohil, regarding the egg episode. Palace officials say the Crimson Queen was invited into the Tower of London to gaze upon the Heart, after which she willingly went home without needing reparations. It was quite the story when it broke."

"The tale of the tail-wagging Dragon Queen, eh?"

"Well." Ollie grinned. "In the worst-case scenario, the Order of St George is well versed in hunting down Titans and Mythics. That and Carrauntoohil is within teleportation distance of the Shard. Arguably, after an incident like that, we have good cause to parley with the great lizards."

"That's awfully kind of the government." Gwen wondered if the incident really was as cleanly wrapped up as the reports said. In her opinion, someone like Ravenport may provide a more nuanced view of things.

"That's the way it is." The researcher laughed. "Shall we?"

The trio made their way into the inner courtyard, up the ramparts, and between the gate towers.

"Not many people here," Gwen observed. In Shanghai, even Fudan's faux Towers were shoulder to shoulder with activity. "Slow day?"

"Oh, Gwennie, people don't 'walk' into the Tower," Elvia chuckled. "We won't be either, there are short-range Teleportation Circles at the base of the old Ivory Tower. It's a security measure."

"My mistake. Well done, Evee." Gwen ruffled Elvia's hair to disguise her embarrassment. One can take the Omni-Mage out of the Frontier, but not, apparently, the other way around.

At the gate, the trio was greeted by Tower Guards in midnight-blue uniforms, embroidered with markings in gules. Upon the men's bosoms sat the Royal Crown, tied together with an overlarge hat, a thick coat and shoes sporting what appeared to be a stylised Tudor rose.

Once the guests made a show of their licences, the stoic guards stood aside.

"Are those Beefeaters?" Gwen whispered.

"You know about Beefeaters too?" Ollie was well delighted by her knowledge. "That's not a term you hear too much outside the service. Every Custodian is a veteran Mage who has served his or her tour in her Majesty's beloved corps."

"We should show the proper respect," Elvia reminded her boisterous, all-too-casual companion.

"You know, the other half of the Beefeaters are the Ravens at the Green Tower. There are thousands of the buggers when the weather's fair. They've been around since the eleventh century, or so the story goes. Most of the flock's quasi-magical now after Henry VIII's decision to make use of the local flock. At least a hundred at any given time serve as Familiar to the Beefeaters, who feed them beef sourced from the Royal farms. I've heard that some Transmuters have chosen to join them, leading the murder. This one Sun article said that when young Mages tried to Magic Missile one, the Raven turned one of the delinquents to stone."

"If the last raven dies, the Tower falls," Elvia added ominously. "So the story goes."

"Hold up." Gwen's scalp crawled. "You're telling me there's Ravens that are in fact, people?"

"Which is why it is best to leave the birds well-alone while in London," Ollie advised. "Imagine netting a Magister…"

What Gwen protested was the loss of privacy to the fact that some Raven-guy could be staring at her right now. In fact, she seemed to recall seeing a few here and there while they toured the Thames.

Her complaint, however, was silenced by their stepping into a circular portal located inside the spacious liminal space of the magically amplified Ivory Tower.

"We're in a secure pocket dimension used for transit—" Ollie explained before they teleported into the interior. A split-second later, their circle flashed quicksilver, depositing the trio in the main lobby. "— and here we are. Welcome, to London Tower, House-sister."

"Holy—"

Inside, the lobby of the Ivory Shard could only be described as monolithic. Above them, the ceiling stretched upward indefinitely, though Gwen suspected some illusion must be at play. All around them, the horizontal space expanded outwards like an Olympic oval. Reminding her of termite mounds on the savannah, obsidian service counters sat on white marble, stretching as far as the eye could see.

In place of pillars, Teleportation circles in aesthetic, circular tubes gave the sterile space a retro-future aesthetic.

"From here, just approach a counter and they'll port you to the right sector within the Shard." Gwen's helpful House-Brother pointed to a smiling woman who was unoccupied. "Shall we?"

At the counter, the middle-aged woman's eyes lit-up. "Welcome to London Tower. Miss Song, I presume?"

"You know me?"

"It's our job to know." The woman's smile was kind and affecting. "How may I help?"

"You're famous!" Elvia cooed. "Miss Devourer of Shenyang."

Embarrassed, Gwen slid over her ID. "I'd like to check my CC account, please."

The clerk placed her card onto a small, elevated dais just enough to hold a phone. A glow of Divination engendered, then the clerk tapped on an unseen data slate. Once a hidden device spat out a receipt, she continued. "Here's your script, Ma'am."

Elvia looked away, as did Ollie.

"2901." Gwen whistled, pleasantly surprised. "Where did the—"

A pair of tendrils from Kiki cupped her mouth by pressing a petal against her lips.

"Gwen! You can't just say that out loud!" Elvia hissed. "That information is private."

"You wouldn't want to invite hucksters." Ollie looked around nervously, as though Gwen was showing off an armful of Creature Cores. "Let's keep moving. Did you have any business to conduct at the Tower?"

"No, not yet." Gwen packed away her ID, then waved to the clerk. "Thank you, Ma'am."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Miss Song." The woman appeared genuinely taken by her presence. "Not for the daughter of Lord Ravenport."

From smiling serenely, Gwen stopped dead in her tracks.

Elvia's eyes went wild.

Ollie swallowed nervously. Having spent some time in her company, a few inklings of Gwen's trouble with Ravenport had leaked through the sieve of idle conversation. "Gwen… don't mind it."

"Gwen, that's not true... right?" Evee appeared the sort easily swayed by print media.

"Of course not!" Gwen snapped, first growling with ire, then deflating when she realised there was nothing to be mad about. Like Lady Grey forewarned, tabloids were a double-edged affair. "Ravenport and I— We're not anything! We're less than nothing!"

"Gwen—" Ollie pulled her aside. "Keep your voice down."

"Don't be upset." Elvia patted her sides. "Let's go to our next stop."

"Not enough time for the Museum." Ollie quickly let go of Gwen's clammy hand when he realised he had lewdly waylaid his House-sister without her permission. "Shall we head for the Isle? Master Samson should be waiting for you."

"Alright." Gwen noticed that, as advised, the others around them had their ears perked. She wanted to stay in The Shard longer, to see if there were Demi-humans, possibly an Elf or two, but Ollie was right.

The Tower could wait. Now, it was time to visit her London abode.


The trio took the country-line to Limehouse, then a bus to Blackwall. No fare was needed thanks to their Public Practice of Magic Licences, which allowed the Mages free transit on intra-city transports from ferries to busses to the London Tube.

At the station, Gwen bought a copy of the Sun Herald, one of the three newspapers widely available for purchase. When she handed over the currency card, a wide-eyed newsagent stared, scarcely believing that page three had come to life. Flipping through the spread, she could see that the public interest continued thanks to new testimonials coming out of Merthyr Tydfil.

Once disembarked, Gwen studied the locality with a measured eye. In its present incarnation, Canada Square, Cabot Round and Westferry Circus all remained in their pre-developmental dilapidation, with short, squat brick buildings encompassing the length of the waterside, crammed to the brim with town housing for NoM dockers.

For Gwen, who was all too familiar with old-world London's infamous "second CBD", seeing Canary Wharf in an untransformed state was jarring to the extreme. In her plane, since the late 80s, foreign investment from the Saudis and then the Chinese had transformed the docklands into a financial leviathan. Pound for pound, the apartments and commercial spaces around the Isle became some of the most expensive in the city. The irony was that, when the economy of the Isle of Dogs collapsed in the 1980s, the project sold itself as bringing back jobs to the 20,000 dockworkers and their families.

Naturally, by the 90s, all but the fringe-living families on the isle had been priced out by the enterprises. Thanks to Thatcher's union-busting and Blair's public cuts, Canary Wharf had even attained corporate extra-territoriality for its pseudo-public spaces.

On their way to Millwall, Gwen felt giddy that present-day Canary Wharf remained entrenched in the 80s. There were no skyscrapers, only plumes of oily, inefficient mana exhaust adding to London's winter smog.

Amazingly, the old quay still operated— serving the very same purpose it had some century ago, off-loading incoming freight that serviced the city. When she spied at the cargo barges, most of the ferried goods consisted of fruit and vegetables from both across the English Channel and from the northern wildlands.

"It stinks," Ollie observed, wrinkling his nose.

Elvia agreed. The region had been a bog-swamp. Now, as a result of urban decay, nature had reclaimed some of its industrial spaces.

Half-a-kilometer later, the trio passed the Marsh Wall, arriving at what could have been the seventh-five storey Landmark Pinnacle. Disparate from Gwen's recollection, a triple set of steel-gated warehouses, half-rusted with the teeth kicked-in and the windows smashed, occupied the hotel's commercial space.

"Location, location, location." Gwen smacked her lips audibly enough for the others to hear. "What a place this is."

"Does it remind you of Forrestville?" Ollie's lips curled, suggesting that Gwen was nostalgic for the industrial sprawl of her Australian home.

"Forrestville wasn't this bad…" Elvia pulled her sweater lower, even though she wore formless pants that hid her thin legs. "Gwen, there are NoMs here."

"Of course there are NoMs here," Gwen snorted. "This is the hamlet of Millwall!"

And as the trio knew nought of Millwall, there was nothing more to be said.

To their left and right, moving down Westferry into the Outer Docks, sat rows of grey, Victorian terrace houses with shared partitions and dark, conjoined gables. From the windows of these cramped, dreary-looking homes, tired eyes looked out at the intruders.

What must they look like to the NoMs? Gwen wondered. She must appear out of place with her elegant autumn getup. Beside her, Ollie was every inch a Wizard from Hogwarts, wearing grey trousers and oxfords, half-hidden under Cambridge's signature robes. Behind them stood Elvia, whose garish combination of colours was the brightest, retina-searing thing from dockside to the farm.

"Watch out!" Ollie halted the group. There was a puddle, or perhaps a sinkhole, or maybe something disgusting and unnameable, barring their way.

Threateningly, the muddy water glooped.

"We could walk around."

"Not for much longer." Ollie indicated to the patch of green on the distant hill. "This area used to be a bog. Thanks to the snow, the mud rises like water across the tidal flat. Gwen can fly, but WE need to play by the rules."

"Is Levitation too much?"

"There's always Prestidigitation," Elvia suggested.

Gwen looked around. "Ariel!"

"Ee!" A crash of thunder struck the clearing, Ariel appeared a split-second later, hovering mid-air. "Ollie, Evee, you guys Levitate and hold onto Ariel."

Flying in a sense, but not-flying all the same, the trio forded the encircling ring of mud.

"Ee!" Ariel's senses were sharper than its human companions. Instinctively, it picked up the odour of unwashed bodies ripe with cabbage smells, emerging from the docker's terraces. For a creature of rarified air, the stench of the unwashed masses shivering with winter-sweat was not a pleasant experience.

"Looks like we've got company," Ollie observed drily.

A mob approached, assembled from the flotsam and jetsam of folk emerging from the leaning terraces. Most of them wore work shirts with dark, rain-proof jackets. There was nary a woman among the men, who wore unfriendly scowls, carrying dangerous malice in their eyes.

"Oi, wot're the bleeding likes ef ya doin' in a sheit hole loike this?" The leader, so far as Gwen could see, was a man in his late forties; ham-faced, barrel-chested, and wearing a newspaper cap.

"I am sorry?" Gwen halted Ariel. "What are we doing here?"

"Yeah, wot're chicky Sorceresses loike yos doin' in a hoe loike ours?"

"Sight-seeing." Gwen returned a dazzling smile. "Gentlefolk, please don't mind us."

"Oh, but we do min', young lydy. This 'ere is our 'omes. What's so interestin' abaht a bunch o' wag's hearths?"

Gwen wondered if the workers would at all understand if she simply told them that she would soon bring them new jobs with fair pay for the next two decades. Seeing the isle in such a state, she could almost taste the untapped opportunities— though that could also be the swamp water. Either way, all she needed was a spark, once an investor appeared with the cash to gentrify a single section, other punters followed like hungry mongrels smelling a fresh carcass.

"Rest assured we have no unkind intentions, good sir." Gwen nodded.

"Ya best be garn naw." The dockers menaced them.

"Of course, we—"

Ollie halted her before Gwen could go. Leaning closer, the Praelector began to furiously whisper beside her ear. "Gwen, are you going just to let them… bark?"

Gwen cocked her head at her companion. "Yes?"

Ollie raised a brow. "They're NoMs."

"I know. These are the salt of the docks. The common muck coughed forth by the Thames." Gwen shrugged. "Don't give me that face, Ollie. Are you seriously going to bang spells with yokels?"

"We are Elite Mages." Ollie's voice rose an octave. "Untitled we may be, we remain beyond the NoM's reproach. I am a Magus of Cambridge, and you're a sanctioned War Mage. We are free to go where we please in London. Be it the Tower, or this— eyesore."

Hearing Ollie's displeasure, the dockworkers stepped back.

"Now you're frightening the poor sods." Gwen sighed. "Good people of the Millwall. Pay Magus Edwards no mind. We'll be leaving immediately."

"Gwen." Elvia tugged Gwen's sleeve.

"Yes, Evee?"

"I can sense their sickness." Elvia's eyes darted toward the leader and a few more of the younger men. "Malnutrition mostly, and Diphtheria, Tuberculosis, Mould Lung…"

"Black mould?"

"Quasi-magical toxin poisoning," Elvia whispered. "There's probably Slimes and other Magical Creatures living in the docks, or under the hamlet in the sewers."

"Yikes…"

"Can we help them?"

"Are they dying as we speak?"

"No…"

"Then we'll be back." Gwen waved at the dockworkers to show that indeed, they were merely passing by. "Ollie, be a dear and come away."

The trio skirted the soupy water in the dock, then threaded their way through the dockland until they reached upper Mudchute, once a fishing village on a boggy rise emerging from the swamp. A century ago, the land had appeared as a result of displaced Transmutation overspill from the dock's construction. Now, the mud-hill was the location of Gwen's new address— Lady Loftus' gifted leasehold.

At the gate of what could only be Mudchute farmhouse, Ollie fired off a flare to inform the keeper of their arrival. With the silvery Sigil blooming overhead, a hound call went up, followed by a long chain of howls, barks and growls. A moment later, streaming from the barns and the kennels, some two dozen dogs poured forth.

"Holy hell…" Gwen fought back her lesser instincts.

These were large dogs— wolfhounds by the appearance of their bristly coats, and each the size of a pony. On long, graceful legs, the dogs pounded the sodden turf, bringing up great clouts of icy clod. Instantly they surrounded the trio, forcing Kiki and Sen-sen to hide even deeper inside Elvia's pockets.

"Come-bye!" came a great, booming voice over the hill.

The dog-swarm obeyed, forming a clock-wise wheel as they encircled the travellers.

The silhouette of a man emerged, stocky and stout and with the air of a military man.

"Stand!" A shrill whistle followed the order. As one, the twenty-odd dogs stood to attention, a few scratching their ears while the rest panted, sniffing the air to taste the intruders.

Gwen and her two companions waited until the man was in speaking range.

"Gwen Song, War Mage," she introduced herself. "This is Magus Ollie Edwards— Peterhouse's Praelector, and here is Elvia Lindholm— trainee Cleric from Nightingale's. Master Samson, I believe?"

"Right you are, Miss Song." The man saluted, despite Gwen possessing no official rank. "Excuse the pups. They are still in training."

"They're plenty well trained." Gwen drifted forward, just skimming the earth. The ground underfoot alternated between waterlogged grass and ankle-deep ice-sludge.

"Aye, it's a wee wet after the snow thaws." Wally Samson put on a knowing smile. "I brought a few pairs of Wellies."

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Together, the group made for the house on the hill. The veteran was older than he looked. The man's wheat-coloured hair was interwoven with strands of grey, giving him a grizzled demeanour.

"Wally Samson, at your service."

"Thank you, sergeant."

"Just Samson will be fine." The man brushed off their politeness. "Got early supper prepped if yer mind. Just simple, farmhouse fair."

"I love a good farm to table." Gwen was entirely serious. The fish and chips had been a bit too lite and a bit too rich; a paradox made possible only by fast food.

"EE!" Ariel expressed a desire to play with the dogs. Gwen obliged by cutting the Familiar loose, allowing Ariel to hover over to the panting hounds hungry to take in the newcomer's scents.

"Caliban!"
"Shaa!"

The dogs bolted, instantly recognising a predator who could consume the lot of them and still have the stomach to spare.

"EE!" Ariel lamented, glaring at Caliban.

"Shaa!" Caliban considered chasing the hounds.

"Aww." Gwen tossed her Familiars a few HDM crystals. "Poor Cali. Don't mind it."

"Shaa…"

Wally said nothing, though he did keep a safe distance from Caliban.

The farmhouse itself was a brick and flint cottage in dusky red, with mossy-tiled roof and a lichen-covered fence surrounding the outskirts. To the rear sat two enormous barns, both taller than the house itself. The kennels were located in the eastern quadrant, taking up more space than both the main building and the barn, looking drier and better furnished as well. Here and there, Gwen could see Black-faced Suffolk sheep, the curly-haired Irish Auroch, and stranger creatures halfway between horse and goat. Atop the roof gable, a pair of ravens looked down on the gathering with cold, unblinking eyes.

The voyeuristic birds and the dour stench of the swamp aside, the setting very much reminded Gwen of an episode in "Escape to the Country".

Inside, Gwen was surprised to see an unsealed ceiling older than the Mageocracy, left exposed so that the fireplace could bake the moisture from the wood. With a Firebolt from Wally, the hearth roared into life, casting the dining room into shades of warm orange.

"That er guess?" A woman emerged from the attached kitchen, her face white and round as a full moon. "Time ter service supper, ser?"

"Almost, Mary, thank yee," Samson gave his orders, then shooed her from the dining. "Please, yer honours, sit where ever ya like."

Ollie and Elvia sat on either side of the large, oaken table, while Gwen sat at its head. Wally Samson then left to retrieve a bundle of documents, returning to the desk with printed parchments and an expensive fountain pen.

"Yer lease-holds, my lady." Wally presented the documents. "Sign here, and you'll receive custodianship of the lower Isle's estates, as well as care over Cubitt and Millwall for the next five years."

"Thank you, Wally." Gwen read through the documents carefully, a paranoid habit inherited from an earlier life. "… it says here I have to pay a levy?"

"Ten per cent of what the estate produces." Wally nodded. "Mind you, other than the kennels. We don't produce much of value. Just enough to eat."

"I assume our benefactor receives the levy?" Gwen asked if the tithing was to the London Tower, the Commonwealth Government, or the Lady of Ely.

"Yes, the tithing is to the Lady of Loftus," Wally clarified, apparently more in the know than Gwen gave him credit.

"Of course." Gwen felt better for the fact. It came as no surprise that Lady Grey's kindness wasn't without her slice. "And the rent?"

"No rent. But, as our custodian, you will be liable for the estate's land tax, stamp tax, corporate tax and income tax during your occupation. Other than that, the levy is all."

Gwen performed a few quick calculations. If her tax code served, up to thirty per cent goes to the man, plus lump sums throughout the year, plus another ten per cent of her gross goes to her benefactor. After that, whatever she portioned out to herself lost another thirty per cent to the state. Compared to her forming a party and going out and farming for Cores and crystals, it was a bland affair. If so, there was little wonder that adventuring, with its hard-to-trace income streams, was a principal avenue of profit.

Studying the next few pages, she puckered her lips while scanning the documents. For someone without the means to circumvent the economic barriers, the Isle of Dogs was a problematic piece of real estate. For herself, who had seen it all happen, the matter was more so an issue of how to kick-start the transformation.

First, she desired tax cuts.

That was the catalyst she needed.
She could effortlessly bring the cash, but the city of London had to guarantee her profitability if it desired advancement from the private sector. In exchange for bringing employment and rejuvenating the local economy, there had to be tangible benefits; not just for herself, but for her future investors.

One of which was Lady Loftus, naturally. Once the isle's potential could be realised, the Marchioness of Ely would be the envy of all. Then, assuming she could bring onboard new friends with vaults full of HDMs, it was entirely possible to recreate some portion of the isle's commercial landscape within the span of five to ten years.

Of course, she would need a trustworthy and wily manager to oversee the operations, at least until her Spellcraft course finished. If there was one thing she looked forward to, it was that few would dare to short-change Magister Song, War Mage. In time, she could then funnel the profits into a Tower— if not in the Commonwealth, then a commercial one in the USA.

And as for the NoMs— Gwen paused when she reached the last page.

NoMs weren't Mages. No matter how much they worked, the distance between Demi-gods and mortals could not be bridged, not without unbearable upheaval. If there must be change, it must come gradually, slowly, trickling from below, seeping through the stratum of society like the moisture-seeking roots of a rock-tapping cactus.

That, or ride in high upon the crashing crest of profit.

With a flourish, she signed her name, then pressed her Glyph into the contract. The paper briefly flashed while the Divi-invocation took hold.

Wally Samson bowed deeply. "Ma'am. The thirty employees of the estate and I, await your pleasure."

"Thank you, Wally." Gwen packed the papers for safekeeping. "I look forward to working with you."

"Nary a title, and yet already the mistress of a domain," Ollie said, his lips sultry with longing. "Maybe you can start by teaching those dockers a lesson in propriety."

"You're still mad about that?" Gwen gave Ollie a sideways glance. "Wally, what's the state of employment in Millwall and Cubitt?"

"Idle, Ma'am," Wally replied without any particular emotion. "Ever since the upgrade to the Royal Albert, the Royal Victoria, and the George V docklands, Canary Wharf has been neglected."

"From that prefix— I take it the 'Royal' docklands are operated by folk with long names and blue blood?"

"Correct. A coalition, ma'am. Each of the Factions has their cut. Norfolk, Camden and Exeter have controlling stakes, among others."

"I see." Gwen's nostrils flared when Wally spoke the familiar name.

With some disappointment, she realised that market regulation in this world didn't come in the form of government intervention. The state itself spearheaded the spirit of anti-competition. If so, then the proposals she sold in China would fail to net her the same portion of profits. Different to the economic wild west of the Frontier, London beheld itself to "Royal" robber barons and resource tycoons. In turn, all sycophants must offer perpetuation perpetual tithing to those at the top.

Feudalism-in-reality.
Democracy-in-name.
Fascism-in-practice.
Cronyism by design.
— all sustained by the perpetual threat of extinction.

Gwen found it ironic that a Brit— the late novelist George Orwell— warned the world that the purpose of conflict was to consume the products of human labour. In Oceania, the repressive fear of annihilation made the gifting of all power to a small caste seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival. Fighting down an impulsive fancy, Gwen wondered what would happen if she quoted Orwell on a pamphlet and rained his wisdom over London? Would she be in Stasis by the end of the week?

"I am sure even you can see these are desperate folk," Gwen invited Ollie to consider the NoM's circumstances. "Who cares for propriety when there's no gruel for the babe? Manners? Can manners nourish a dying daughter?"

Ollie formed a slight frown.

"And they're sick," Elvia aided her companion. "These are hungry people, Ollie."

"It's the lord's responsibility—" Ollie began, then quickly realised what he was about to admit.

"I have taken too little care." Wally bowed his head, saving the young man. "Please inform Lady Loftus of my ineptitude."

"That's not what I meant. I say, your dogs look wonderful," Ollie added quickly. "Incredible coats, very robust, superbly fed, I—"

The young man stopped when Gwen and Elvia's gaze shoved the words back down his throat.

"Well-fed Wolfhounds and starving villagers." Gwen sighed, turning away from the wisdom of Cambridge's esteemed Magus Edwards. "Not the best combination, Wally."

"The hounds have claimants." Wally's voice grew stiff, "Many of them will grace the estates of the nation's foremost Lords and Ladies. The genealogy of these dogs harkens back to the time of the Virgin Queen."

"I know." Gwen reached out to deliver a reassuring pat on Wally's shoulder. "I am not admonishing you, Wally— but we are going to do things a little differently in the next few months. Please bear with me and trust in Lady Loftus."

"I shall." The ex-soldier, now dog-man, doggedly bowed.

On cue, more than likely listening for her entrance, Mary the kitchenmaid entered with a troop of maidservants, bringing in a stream of Mudchute's finest produce. Toad in the hole, Shepard's Pie, Scotch Eggs, Steak and Kidney Pudding, and of course, a famous, farmhouse Sunday Roast.

Elvia professed to have lost her appetite thanks to growing concerns for the villagers. Ollie's hunger was repressed by his earlier misstatement. Gwen partook in the early supper with her usual professionalism, pounding down unsaturated fat, creamy starch and baked carbohydrates without so much as a visible belly bulge.

When she finished her third portion, Wally coughed politely.

"Yes, Mister Samson?" Gwen looked up from her plate, a sausage sitting on a fork.

"It's customary to leave enough for the staff," Wally hinted in a low voice. "And for their families as well… for, you know, bubble and squeak. It's a rare treat."

"I am sorry— for what?" Gwen put down her sausage. "Leftovers? They eat our leftovers?"

Her gaze swept over the mostly empty pots and pans.

"My apologies…" She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a serviette. "That said, ever heard of the wonders of SPAM?"

Gwen and her party stayed the night at Mudchute Manor, a place that Mary intimated was known to the locals as "The Kennel".

The cheeky moniker aside, there was ample room, as Wally had cleared Lady Loftus' master bedroom for Gwen's occupation, as well as two guest bedrooms, a study, and a section of the barn should she wish to stow a vehicle.

The next morning, after a farmhouse breakfast of bacon and eggs, the trio, joined by Wally, made a tour of the farm.

Caliban and Ariel had spent the night wandering the extremities of the estate, harassing sheep and playing with the dogs, eventually sleeping in the kennel, where it was nice and cosy. In part, thanks to Ariel's intervention, the Wolfhounds accommodated Caliban's presence, tolerating the slithering beast in their midst.

After morning tea, the men, the women, the Familiars and the dogs bounced their way across the snow down to Cubitt. At the farm's edge, the dogs returned. Gwen packed her Familiars away, not wanting to frighten the NoMs eking out an existence under the shadow of London's Elite.

Cubitt itself possessed less history than Millwall, though no less sorrowful. During the Pan-European Conflict, Canary Docks saw the launching of a dozen ships from Westwood & Baillie, Samuda Brothers, J & W Dudgeon, including the Dreadnaught HMS Royal Albert.

After the Beast Tide, the shipyards and the freight-docks unilaterally migrated eastward to the five-kilometre stretch that made up the Royal Docklands. Canary's owners, unable to find investors, allowed the facilities to rust, then rot.

"What's that building over yonder?" Gwen pointed to an enormous warehouse some two blocks across that looked like shipping containers plastered together with glass, concrete and sheet metal.

"The West Terminal Printing Press," Wally advised. "It's all but abandoned, I am afraid."

"What happened?" Gwen's profit-senses tingled. There was an opportunity here; she could feel it in her bones. "I thought the tabloid-rags did well in London."

"Not all. Here lies The Observer's final stand. Lord Mulholland, the first Earl of Halifax, built the press-factory originally in the thirties. The German blitz had damaged the press when they launched strategic spells at the docks. His grandson, Charles Wood Mulholland, third Earl of Halifax in the late 80s, hoped to revive the business through volume-production. Unfortunately, his business could not compete."

"Who did it lose to?"

"The Sun Herald and the Telegraph, ma'am. The London Observer performed well for a time. It faced criticism from Minister Thatcher's government, for its socialist outlooks. Once sales began to slip, and the advertisers left, there was little Young Master Charles could do. In the end, he chose not to continue his grandfather's legacy."

"I take it." Gwen twisted her lips with pleasure. One man's garbage was another transmigrant's treasure. "That the Earl of Halifax thought Page Three was a sham, Page Five was for fools, Back Page sports was worthless and that the news should only report the truth and nothing but the truth?"

"You've read him like a tabloid, ma'am."

"Do we own the press?"

"No, ma'am, just the land."

"What's in there now?"

"Abandonment, I fear. Most of the machines are inoperable." Wally shook his head. "There's been vandalism as well."

"But the operation has remained," Gwen stated. "The system is there. The streamlined paper printing, I mean."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is the lease released?"

"The estate has outstanding rent." Wally coughed uncomfortably. "The Marchioness has instructed us not to pursue the balance… for now."

"Okay. Well, that's just wonderful. I want to see inside," Gwen announced. "Wally, take us over."

"We're not going to the city?" Elvia butted in. Today, the Nightingale Cleric chose to wear a bright-red, knee-length jack with a rabbit-fur stole. She looked like a little Santa, or perhaps a young Missus Claus. They were three days off Christmas, mayhap Elvia was feeling festive?

"Oh, museums can wait." Gwen's eyes were positively aglow. She was feeling festive for an entirely different reason. There could be no better Christmas present than what she had just uncovered. "Wally, who used to work at the press?"

"Locals from Millwall, Cubitt and Blackwall. The dockers can at least cross the river to work at the Royal Docklands— the print labourers, I am afraid, have taken up either vagrancy or menial labour down in Dulwich and Greenwich."

Fuck me! Gwen breathed out. Her heart had not palpitated like this since Tonglv went into business. It was amazing how, sometimes, things just fell into place of their own accord, as if a higher power directed her with a guiding hand. The isle, the printing press, the labour-ready workforce desperate for any work, the indebted owners...

Through further confirmation awaited, she now knew London was a different beast to China. As a century-old ocean-fairing superpower, her desire to tap into the profits of the docklands was likely in vain.

But, as Ravenport had demonstrated, the nobility's economic prowess was wholly focused on the acquisition of tangible resources within the Mageocracy and its colonial heartlands. Ingredients, Crystals, Magical Beasts, Demi-humans, land itself— these were its heart's desire. Comparatively, against intangible forms of currency generation, the inbred nobles may as well be cross-eyed.

"Wait, we're NOT headed for the National Museum?" Ollie affirmed Gwen's sudden change of plans, previously verified at breakfast, flabbergasted by his ward's fickleness. "I was going to instruct you regarding the Mageocracy's history!"

"HA!" Gwen had to hold onto something to still her untamable pleasure. She found her stress ball in the form of Evee's pliant, wincing shoulders. "The past can wait, old man! We're going to see the _future!"_