The Shadow of Great Britain

Although many parts of these reports are not credible, it does not prevent ”associating with a dancer” from becoming material for attacks within the Whig Party, affecting his future prospects of entering the cabinet.

Of course, compared to the early days when someone hinted that Viscount Castle Ray might have committed an unforgivable crime (sodomy), which caused this historically top three Foreign Secretary of Britain to commit suicide due to excessive mental stress, Lord Brougham’s association with a dancer is of little consequence.

In the end, whether these matters are significant or not is not important; what matters is whether there are people now planning to weigh these issues.

Regrettably, according to Arthur’s self-assessment, there might be more than just one or two people who want to weigh him.

And these people are silent now either because they haven’t found the opportunity or because they feel it is not yet time to fight to the death with him.

While in politics, occasionally selling someone a handle is one means of self-preservation, but the handle involving Fiona and Nightingale Mansion is indeed too significant.

Tom downed his drink in one go, attempting to use that bond between old friends to ease the atmosphere: ”Actually, it’s not that hard to please women. Don’t keep a stern face. For a girl like Fiona, if you suddenly send her a love letter one day, give her a handmade pouch, or even a bouquet of night-blooming jasmine... Even if you personally bring over a tea tray, despite being awkward or blushing a little, the effect would be much better than how you are today. Women, as long as she likes you, her heart will always soften.”

He paused for a moment, as if suddenly remembering something: ”Oh, right, during my vacation last year, I bought a star plate ornament in Brighton. I heard that girls are quite into astrology these days. If you don’t know what to give, why don’t I bring that star plate to you?”

Arthur couldn’t help but tease upon hearing Tom’s suggestion: ”Tom? Are you serious? Aren’t you afraid that, by some coincidence, Mrs. Tom discovers that an ornament from home ended up with Fiona? How do you plan to explain that?”

Tom was momentarily stunned by his words; he hadn’t considered that: ”This... you’re right... Then you think about what to give, your ideas have always been more than mine.”

Arthur sipped his wine: ”What do you think of astrology as a field of knowledge?”

Tom waved his hand dismissively without thinking: ”What else is there to say? It’s a place filled with fortune tellers and gypsy witches, but girls like it. Do you know about Valeriy on Hudson Street? That Gypsy Witch who just became popular earlier this year, for some reason, my wife insisted on taking my birth date over for a reading. It’s fine that she went, but she insisted on telling me that I would have a disaster before the age of fifty.”

Mentioning this made Tom indignant: ”If it weren’t for being busy with the princess’s birthday lately, I’d definitely have Tony take people over to overturn her caravan, making her hug her crystal ball and float back to her Bohemian hometown along the Thames River!”

Unexpectedly, upon hearing this, Arthur signaled him to be patient: ”Don’t trouble her, at least not recently.”

”Why?” Tom asked, puzzled: ”Arthur, you don’t actually believe in this, do you?”

Arthur glanced at the Red Devil sneaking a drink by the windowsill: ”It’s not about whether I believe it or not, but until Fiona finishes getting her fortune read by Valeriy, you’d better not disturb her.”

”I...” Tom thought he misheard but then suddenly recalled seeing Arthur frequently taking Colly and Hutter around the Gypsy settlements not so long ago: ”Arthur, you weren’t... I thought... weren’t you getting a fortune told for the princess?”

Arthur drank the last of his wine: ”Tom, in this world, there are no such things as can or can’t; you have to remember, everything is arranged by fate.”

...

The wind on Hudson Street always carried a hint of saltiness, sneaking up the brick walls from the Thames River, teasing the wind chimes under the eaves, bringing a few crisp, overly eerie sounds.

When Fiona entered the dimly lit room with her cloak draped over her shoulders, she was holding a crumpled letter.

It was sent from Valeriy to Nightingale Mansion two days ago, containing only one sentence: The stellar paths are unusual, destiny revolves. Not coming is disaster. Coming is also calamity.

Inside the room, three low copper lamps were lit, with light sticking to the walls like damp coal ash.

The Gypsy Witch Valeriy, a spiritual leader of numerous London mystics, sat behind a wooden table covered in a star map.

She appeared to be about fifty, with a high nose bridge, sunken eyes, knotted hair, wearing a string of old-fashioned silver pendants on her left ear, and five or six copper wire talismans wrapped around her right wrist. An old leather boot peeked out from beneath her robe, which was typically made of bright red taffeta, her eye corners painted with exaggerated lines and patterns that only Eastern witches in the eyes of Londoners would have.

It was as if she had known Fiona would come; she didn’t even lift her head, only letting out a hoarse phrase from her lips: ”You wish to ask about him.”

The hem of Fiona’s cloak was stained with street water, her heels splattered with mud, something she would ordinarily never tolerate, but at the moment, she had no mind for such trifles.

She sat down rather hurriedly, her fingertips clutching her leather gloves tightly, then scanned the tent as if verifying whether it was truly secluded, or perhaps forcing herself to calm down.