After the work in the cellar concluded, Eleanor did not act immediately. She knew all too well that rashly inquiring about the Eastern Textile Workshop and Deacon Hanmer—especially regarding a specific black-haired, violet-eyed girl—would be tantamount to exposing herself. The old servant's words were like a stone dropped into a deep pond: they created ripples, but ripples could awaken hidden creatures beneath the surface. She needed the water to settle, to let herself slip back into the quiet, pious image of a diligent cleric's wife, absorbed in her paperwork.
For the following days, she resumed her routine in the archive, even more subdued than before. She paid closer attention to the unspoken dialogue she shared with old Martin, occasionally leaving a small piece of cheese or a dried fruit for him, but never again mentioned the almshouse, the workshop, or the color of anyone's eyes. She was waiting—and processing. Revenge required patience; finding Seraphina demanded absolute caution. Each reckless move could plunge them both back into the abyss they had narrowly escaped.
Meanwhile, the ripples in Lucien Croft's heart refused to settle. The cellar had amplified his unease. Eleanor's calm composure in that squalid environment did not reassure him; rather, it highlighted the chasm separating them. She was a ghost of vengeance, and he, a tethered prisoner. Fear was his cage.
This realization brought him pain—and a faint spark of resistance. One evening, after dinner, Eleanor quietly proposed that he request from Judge Aldrich a recent list of charitable workshops and almshouses under the tribunal's oversight, under the pretext that understanding them would help him fulfill his clerical duties. But Lucien did not yield as easily as before.
He set down his wine cup, a rare glint of fear mingled with struggle in his emerald eyes. "Eleanor," he said, voice dry, "this… this is too risky. Judge Aldrich is naturally suspicious. If I suddenly take interest in these places, he will ask why. How can I explain? It's beyond my duties!"
Eleanor lifted her gaze; her ice-gray eyes seemed deeper in the flickering candlelight. "Your duty is to serve God and save souls, is it not?" Her tone was steady, yet carried an undeniable weight. "To understand where souls at risk or in need of salvation gather… how is that beyond your duty? You can tell him that my piety and previous observations have deeply moved you, and you believe that guiding and aiding those on the margins more effectively helps maintain both the city's stability and the Church's reputation. This is the fervor and foresight expected of a young priest."
She could always wrap her true intentions in grandiose reasoning. Lucien felt a wave of helplessness. "Fervor and foresight…" he murmured, a bitter curve at the corner of his mouth. "In his eyes, it may be nothing but restlessness and ambition."
"That is better than being seen as incapable or timid, hiding away in your study to shirk responsibility," Eleanor's voice grew colder. "Lucien, do not forget what your 'peace' rests upon. I need that list—not for myself, but to ensure our 'arrangements' endure. Any information that helps us hide better and understand this environment better is a necessary investment. Or do you wish I spoke to Sir Gabriel instead, to see if he has a more… 'direct' route?"
The mention of Gabriel struck Lucien like a whip, shattering the small courage he had just gathered. Thoughts of Gabriel's recklessness, arrogance, and the uncontrollable disasters he could unleash immediately deflated him. Facing Aldrich's questions now seemed the lesser of two nightmares.
His face gray, he finally lowered his head, voice barely audible: "…I… I will try to ask. But I cannot guarantee success."
"Do your best, Father Lucien," Eleanor said, returning to her quill, as if their previous exchange had been nothing more than casual conversation.
This small confrontation reminded Eleanor that Lucien was not a puppet without emotion. His fear shifted; he sought an outlet. She would need to manipulate this delicate string—tight enough to guide him, loose enough to prevent collapse or needless rebellion.
Two days later, Lucien returned with a short handwritten list. It detailed several almshouses and workshops indirectly overseen or periodically reporting to the tribunal, including the "Eastern St. Anne Textile Workshop," managed by none other than "Deacon Hanmer." The list was sparse—names and supervisors only, no further details.
"Judge Aldrich seems… indifferent," Lucien said, a mix of relief and lingering fear in his tone. "He told me these were trivial affairs, that I shouldn't disperse my focus, and should concentrate on doctrine and study." In the condescension of his superior, he found a strange comfort—proof that Eleanor's probing request was indeed considered "restless."
Eleanor accepted the list, face calm, yet her mind raced. She now had a name—but how to approach it convincingly remained the challenge. She could not simply ask to visit a textile workshop; that would be far too sudden.
Opportunity came in the form of an unexpected spring rain. Water seeped into a corner of the archive, soaking several seemingly trivial boxes of old letters. Old Martin muttered complaints about the weather and the leaky roof, mentioning that some of the damaged correspondence involved allocations of charitable supplies between parishes and needed to be sorted and dried.
Eleanor immediately volunteered to help. While handling the damp letters, she "accidentally" discovered an old missive from the "Eastern St. Anne Textile Workshop," written by Deacon Hanmer years prior, its format slightly irregular. The letter requested an increase in a batch of poor-quality wool, phrased bluntly and without ceremony.
Eleanor carried the letter to the aged steward in charge of internal affairs, her tone perfectly balanced between seriousness and a touch of concern. "Steward, while sorting the damp documents, I found this letter. It appears to be from the Eastern St. Anne Textile Workshop, but its format seems somewhat irregular. I am uncertain how such correspondence should be archived, and I worry that mishandling it might contravene regulations. Perhaps… should we verify with Deacon Hanmer or have someone from the tribunal review whether their filing practices have improved? After all, it concerns the tribunal's dignity in overseeing subordinate institutions."
She had elevated a trivial formatting issue into a matter of "tribunal propriety," presenting herself as a meticulous newcomer, concealing her true objective flawlessly.
The elderly steward, clearly thinking her fuss exaggerated, could not rebuke her—her pious seriousness left him no choice. "Madam Croft, you are far too conscientious. Such a minor matter… but since you are concerned, I will ask the brothers on their next inspection of the east to remind Deacon Hanmer about the proper format."
"When will the next inspection be?" Eleanor pressed, feigning worry. "These documents need proper archiving promptly. If the inspectors are unavailable, perhaps I… or my husband, Father Lucien, could visit on behalf of the tribunal to demonstrate due diligence? After all, liaising with subordinate institutions is part of a priest's duty."
Eleanor had once again positioned Lucien as a reasonable intermediary. The steward, weary from her persistence, waved his hand. "Very well. If the inspecting brothers are unavailable this week, let Father Croft go in their place. He can observe daily operations and record a brief report. That should satisfy you, madam."
"Thank you for your understanding and support, Steward. This is all to uphold the tribunal's order and honor," Eleanor said, bowing slightly, eyes lowered to mask the fleeting glint of steel within.
The price was a minor persona for herself and Lucien—that of a meticulous stickler—but it was trivial. She had secured a plausible, official reason for Lucien (and, by extension, herself) to visit the Eastern Textile Workshop.
The first probing step was taken, yet Eleanor felt no relief. She knew the true trial awaited at St. Anne's Workshop. Would she find the violet-eyed girl she longed for—or another trap of despair?