I settled into one of the chairs at the far end of the library hall. Directly before me stood a polished table, its center adorned with a vase of fresh flowers.
Every table in the room was arranged the same way.
Lost in these idle observations, I barely noticed the librarian approach until he gently placed the book on the table in front of me.
He offered a quiet smile, a brief bow of the head, and withdrew.
The same endless questions stirred in my mind once more, but this time I ignored those foolish inner voices.
The book's brown leather cover bore the title History of the Montagu Family.
Seeing those words sparked a sudden curiosity deep within me.
With no real interest in reading properly, I opened the book at random—purely out of that fleeting intrigue.
My eyes fell on the right-hand page.
"The House of Montagu and Manchester"
In the final years of King George IV's reign, the Montagu family—resident in Manchester and considered a moderately ranked ducal house—faced declining influence among the people due to the rapid industrial growth in the region.
Factories and diverse industries, the management of workers, and the dwindling number of household servants all signaled that the Montagu line might soon cease to hold its ducal status in the coming years.
But following a massive workers' uprising—little different from a full-scale labor revolution—the collapse of several major industrial factories, and the bankruptcy of two industrial banks, Henry Montagu stepped in.
He struck deals with everyone.
The factory collapses caused an unprecedented slump in cotton exports; raw material prices fluctuated wildly; the debts owed by factory owners to banks became a crisis in themselves.
Henry Montagu seized the moment. Knowing the owners faced ruin and would grasp at any lifeline, he offered salvation—in exchange for control.
He paid their debts, supplied raw materials, even granted portions of his own land, and in return took controlling shares in their enterprises.
That was the entire text on the right page.
I turned to the next and continued reading.
"The House of Montagu and Manchester"
The uprising Henry Montagu orchestrated resembled a true workers' revolution. Local police proved powerless; the government grew anxious about the industrial fallout; Manchester's capitalists fled.
Seeing the chaos, the duke dispatched his private guard. He distributed food among the workers, temporarily raised wages, bribed certain rebel leaders, and personally tried those who refused his terms.
When the two major industrial banks teetered on collapse, the duke acted again.
Their failure would paralyze industry—and Manchester, whose pillars were its factories, would tremble like an earthquake zone.
So he intervened, winning the people's respect and deepening his influence beyond anything before.
He purchased the debts, took bank shares in settlement, and established new banks and credit funds.
With these moves, the duke became the very heart of Manchester's industry—every factory needed capital, and the capital belonged to him.
Once certain of his dominance, he secured exclusive transport contracts, monopolized coal and steam supply, claimed ownership of the lands beneath the factories, and forced the banks to issue loans only with his or his advisors' approval.
I finished the page and realized I had even forgotten how to breathe properly.
Scattered, questioning thoughts flooded my mind.
Did this mean the Montagu family held the heart of Britain's industry in its grasp?
Did it mean the Duke of Manchester effectively owned Manchester itself?
Was I… a truly powerful duke?
I no longer knew what to think—or if I was even thinking clearly.
The only thing I could do to calm myself was close my eyes and draw a deep, steadying breath.
I did exactly that, but a ferocious headache surged through my skull once more.
I closed the book, clutched it in my hand to take with me, and rose slowly from the chair.
I quickened my steps toward the double doors—the pain was growing sharper by the second.
Reaching them, I eased one open and slipped out into the corridor.
The entire hallway was lit by wall-mounted chandeliers holding flickering candles. There were no windows.
I couldn't understand why none of the doors along this passage seemed to mark the duke's bedroom.
My thoughts multiplied—about the cathedral, the librarian, the House of Lords session, the Montagu family, a thousand other things.
At last, I reached a different door at the very end of the corridor—one with unique carvings, darker wood, and the words Duke's Bedroom etched on the wall beside it.
Seeing that inscription, I forgot all the pain.
It was time to rest.
I opened the door quietly, stepped inside, and closed it behind me.
The same room where I had awakened.
The same wooden desk and leather chair, the same grand bed, the same overwhelming vastness.
I walked to the desk, set the book down, and headed straight for the bed.
I didn't care whether I had eaten or not. Sleep was all I craved.
Exhaustion, pain, a heart in turmoil, intrusive thoughts.
I simply collapsed onto the bed and closed my eyes.