After a long day, Duke Berkeley returned to his residence at Berkeley House on Piccadilly Street. Located in Mayfair, one of London's most famous upscale residential areas, Berkeley House was the Duke's home in the city, a family estate that had been passed down from his father, with rooms still preserved as they were.
"Your Grace, Earl Norman has arrived and is waiting for you in the reception room," the butler greeted him.
Duke Berkeley frowned slightly. "Tell him I'll be there shortly."
He quickly ascended the long staircase, his footsteps echoing throughout the mansion. The banister was made of intricately carved oak, reflecting the dim glow of the wall lamps. Upon reaching the sitting room on the third floor, the warm light from the large fireplace danced gently, casting shadows that matched the golden velvet curtains and the handcrafted clustered carpets.
In the adjacent dressing room, he changed into his formal attire for receiving guests, adjusting the buttons on his jacket while pondering the reason behind his unexpected visitor's appearance.
In the reception room, a crystal chandelier emitted a soft glow, and Earl Norman was admiring the exquisite hand-painted wallpaper. The crackling of the fire in the fireplace filled the room, burning pine resin from distant forests. On the bamboo side table sat a pure silver teapot, sugar bowl, milk jug, and two silver teacups.
"I haven't seen you in a while," Duke Berkeley appeared at the door, holding two cups and pouring champagne. "You must stay and have a drink."
"One can drink at any time, but I fear you won't be in the mood once you hear the news I've brought," the man, shrouded in the shadows of palm leaves, turned to face him. The candlelight from the chandelier spilled over his face, casting a complex interplay of light and shadow.
Earl Norman sat gracefully on the plush sofa, his posture erect, black hair slightly curled and falling over his forehead, giving him the appearance of an aristocratic scholar from a prestigious academy. But when he lifted his head, his pitch-black eyes, devoid of emotion, bore down on him. Despite sitting, his gaze gave off a sense of towering dominance. This cold, almost inhuman aura sent a chill of unease and reverence.
At times, Duke Berkeley wondered who the real monster was.
"Perhaps you haven't heard," Norman interlaced his fingers, wearing black leather gloves. "In Kent, we've discovered a monster. It's strange, with deep red skin, sharp fangs, and survives by drinking human blood. It's utterly mindless, a terrifying creature. The church is quite upset, and they've decided to dig up Kent and exterminate this monster."
"A truly terrifying monster," Duke Berkeley remarked calmly. "You must find it, otherwise, I fear I won't dare leave my home."
As the leader of the Liberators' Club, Berkeley had witnessed many transformation ceremonies. Yes, those who underwent successful transformations would become his kind, but those who failed the transformation would become mindless, true monsters.
Therefore, every ceremony's officiant carried a silver dagger, able to swiftly subdue any transformed monster and burn it with the ritual fire, thus protecting those who retained their sanity.
This process was flawless. Yet, the sudden appearance of a mindless monster threatened to expose him and the Liberators' Club.
"Your uncle," Norman looked at Berkeley directly, "once hinted to me about your disappearance nearly a year ago."
The old-money aristocrats of high society had often intermarried, and there were distant blood relations even between Berkeley and Norman. Though Norman had speculated about Berkeley's identity, without any vested interest, he never made any direct accusations against the nobleman.
"Oh?" Berkeley replied innocently, meeting Norman's gaze. "He must be mistaken. No matter how you look at it, I have no connection with such a monster, right?"
Norman's lips curled into a slight smile. "What's even more unsettling is that this red monster seems to have accomplices."
It seemed that the ritual had been interrupted midway. Berkeley quickly assessed the situation. Though a rare occurrence, it was certainly possible.
"Quite worrying," he sighed. "I hope the church can ensure our safety, wouldn't you agree, Inquisitor?"
Norman said no more, for he had said all he needed to. "Of course, if you have no further matters, I shall take my leave."
Berkeley made no attempt to retain him. After seeing Norman out, he sank into a chair in his study. The "sincerity" and "openness" that had been on his face moments ago faded away, and his long lashes cast a shadow over his eyes.
The paper dolls needed to be rolled out quickly to test whether the method would work. If not, the Liberators' Club would likely need to retreat to the countryside to avoid further scrutiny. His "dear" uncle was still looking for his weaknesses, all for the vast wealth of the Berkeley family.
"It would be great if I could just get rid of him. He's such a bother," he muttered, playing with a colorful paper doll on his desk. "Do these little toys even work? The countryside… I remember I have a castle in Suggra. If nothing else works..."
In eager anticipation, the paper dolls set off from the printing house, spreading to surrounding towns. The three-penny colored paper dolls were distributed across stationery and toy shops. Yes, London had stores that specialized in toys, where they sold tin soldiers, marbles, wooden puzzles, sewing machines, fans, *The Comic Moral Stories*, *Simple Spelling*, and other items. These small shops were packed with dreams for every child.
The black-and-white paper dolls, priced at half a penny, were handed over to peddlers. They appeared at various places: penny markets, public markets, and festivals. Some even went door to door, selling cheap wooden dolls, tin soldiers, buttons, lace, and other small necessities.
Of course, they also sold humble little booklets containing nursery rhymes, poems, and folk stories, all very cheap, wrapped in inexpensive blue paper—usually used to wrap candies.
These licensed peddlers purchased the booklets on credit and took them by train to villages and small towns outside London, only to return to pay the bill. This way, they could save unnecessary expenses and let the booklets spread further while feeding back to the printers which books were the most popular.
"Yes, it's the new product from London," one of the peddlers flipped through the black-and-white pages of the booklets, enthusiastically introducing his new offering. "These can be cut out and assembled. It's the latest fashion in London! You can even color them! Your children will love this gift."
"How much?" an intrigued customer asked.
"One penny!" the peddler exaggerated, "For just one penny, you can take home the whole booklet."
Compared to the worn-out poetry and nursery rhymes, the illustrated paper dolls seemed far more attractive. Customers hesitated, counting the coins in their purses as they wandered around the peddler's stand. Some ladies, willing to spend generously, waved their hands and bought several, without hesitation. The black-and-white paper dolls quickly became popular in the towns and villages.
"Pictures are always more appealing than words," the peddlers shared their experiences, "especially for those who can't read well. Buying a picture book for a penny feels like a good deal."
"I knew these booklets would sell well," one peddler lamented, "I should have ordered more."
"Ha, remember," another peddler mocked, "you were skeptical about these at first. You wanted to order more yearbooks instead."
While the black-and-white paper dolls took over the countryside, the colored paper dolls found a warm reception among London's middle and upper classes.
Within half a month of *Ladies' Monthly* being published, people hadn't yet forgotten about Helen's story. Just like merchandise surrounding a famous character, fans of Helen's story were naturally curious about what she looked like and what she wore. When a booklet appeared on the market satisfying this curiosity and at a reasonable price, the paper dolls' popularity was almost predictable.
Moreover, the booklet included a beautifully crafted card, almost like a work of art, as well as a catalog containing all the cards! It seemed to ignite a hidden collecting obsession within everyone. When they saw the catalog and realized they only had one card, they couldn't resist the temptation to complete the collection.
"I've already collected two of Helen's white dress homecoming cards," Nancy complained. "But I still need the red-green dress reunion card. It's so beautiful! Mrs. Stephen showed me hers, and apparently, that one card alone is worth a whole shilling!"
"A shilling?!" her husband James exclaimed in shock. "You could buy four whole booklets with that!"
"Even with four booklets, I might not get it," Nancy grumbled. "I suspect they printed fewer of the red-green dress cards. Otherwise, I can't explain why it's so rare."
Of course, the printing house wouldn't deliberately print fewer of any specific card. However, since the cards and booklets were packed in envelopes, and there was no way to identify which envelope contained which card during the transport to bookstores, it naturally resulted in some shops having uneven distributions of cards.
"If they sold the cards individually," Nancy sighed, "it would be much easier!"
James thought for a moment. "If I set up a place in my bookstore where people could trade cards, that might be quite popular, don't you think?"