Gabriel's words—not now—laden with threat, blame, and the bitter echo of something unbroken between them, clung to Father Lucien Croft's mind like a venomous curse. It did not grant release. Instead, it deepened his torment.
He drifted through his sacred duties like a pale ghost, distracted and hollow-eyed, his gaze forever sliding past the present into some unseen abyss. He feared Eleanor, yet he could draw no true strength from the twisted bond he still shared with Gabriel. Piece by piece, he was coming undone.
Eleanor watched coldly. Lucien's weakness, his confusion—she had expected them, even welcomed them. A man unraveling, desperate to cling to any lifeline, made the perfect puppet. Fragile as this stepping stone was, it was steady enough for her to place her foot upon and begin weaving her own network of whispers.
Her target was clear: the wives of the low-ranking clergy. Women who moved like tireless ants in the shadows of the church, overlooked, underestimated, yet brimming with gossip. They were living wells of information – raw, unfiltered, real.
A few days later, after evening prayers, Eleanor lingered in the shadows instead of leaving. Her eyes settled on a small cluster of waiting women across the hall.
Lucien finished his perfunctory words with a fellow priest and wandered toward her, vacant-eyed, oblivious to his surroundings.
Eleanor stepped forward, her voice soft yet unmistakably clear."Father Croft, these ladies are…?"
Startled, Lucien blinked and looked toward them with disoriented haste, fumbling his introductions."Ah… this is Father Pete's wife, Lady Anna. And this is Deacon William's wife, Lady Marjorie…" His words came out thin and lifeless, like lines recited without meaning.
The women glanced at Eleanor with faint curiosity. The new bride—pale, quiet, almost spectral—was an enigma.
Eleanor lowered her lashes, let a modest, slightly shy smile bloom across her face, and curtsied with practiced grace."Lady Anna, Lady Marjorie, good day. I am Eleanor Croft. We have only just moved here, and I know very little yet. I hope I am not intruding."
Her voice was low, her posture humble, and her tone earnest.
Lady Anna, older and kinder in countenance, was the first to reply."Oh, poor child, no need for such courtesy. You are most welcome."
Lady Marjorie, sharper-eyed, let her gaze flick over the worn collar of Eleanor's gown before replying coolly."Yes. If you find yourself at a loss, you may come to us."
"Thank you." Eleanor's gratitude rang genuine, even tender. "There is so much I must learn still. Especially how to stretch our meagre fare so that Father Croft may serve the Lord well."
It was a simple remark, yet it opened the door to shared grievance.
Lady Anna sighed at once."Isn't it the truth? Even the flour from the church is always mixed with husk."
Marjorie added with a huff,"And the butcher never gives us a decent cut of meat."
Eleanor listened intently, nodding here and there, interjecting with small, seemingly naïve but purposeful questions."I heard the bakery on South Street sometimes sells yesterday's bread for less in the evenings?""Is it true the farmer's wife at the west corner of the market sells eggs for a copper cheaper?"
Each clumsy-sounding suggestion steered the flow, tightening the bond.
Lucien stood stiffly aside, a shadow out of place, his discomfort palpable. His thoughts were far from the chatter—perhaps still haunted by that bitter meeting in the tavern's alley—longing only to escape.
Eleanor ignored him. Her attention, outwardly so meekly given to the women, was sharpened like a blade beneath the surface, sifting through every word. She caught and stored each fragment tied to knights, marriages, families, scandals, and whispers.
When the brief conversation ended, she curtsied again. Lady Anna and Lady Marjorie's demeanor had already softened toward her.
On the way home, Lucien trudged silently ahead, his steps stumbling with distraction. Behind him, Eleanor's shy smile had long since vanished, replaced with her habitual calm. Only a flicker of calculation glimmered in her eyes.
The first contact had been made. A tenuous thread, but a useful one. She would not rush.
In the days that followed, Eleanor wove more of these "coincidences". She listened with uncanny precision, never prying, yet always nudging conversations toward fertile ground.
She learned of Marjorie's disgust when her husband returned from cataloging witchcraft relics.She heard Lady Anna mention Father Pete's late nights spent on old, forgotten cases.She noted complaints of a wandering troupe corrupting public morals.
And beneath the small talk, she caught the whispers she truly sought."Those knights may look grand, but in private they drown in debts and petty rivalries…""Marjorie said her cousin dreams of marrying a knight to rise above her station—foolish girl, those crumbling houses guard their pride tighter than their coin."
Eleanor's mind sharpened. So, the knightly class is not united. Their hierarchy is fragile. The fallen houses, especially, cling to status through marriage and appearances.
When the name Thorne slipped into conversation—perhaps some penniless knight dodging his creditors—Eleanor's gaze flickered almost imperceptibly. Yet her face remained serene.
The fallen Thornes. Sir Gabriel Thorne. A knightly house desperate to maintain its dignity yet starved of means. A weakness waiting to be exploited.
Meanwhile, Eleanor's own image among the women began to take root: quiet, dutiful, thrifty, but too pale, too fragile—a meek new bride to a distracted priest.
When she heard they sometimes gathered in the rectory's courtyard to sew and talk, Eleanor came prepared. On a sunlit afternoon, she arrived with her needlework basket and took a modest seat at the edge.
She did not force her way into their circle. She only listened, spoke humbly when addressed, and shared a small, harmless trick or two.
Like a patient vine, she twined herself around their fellowship, her tendrils delicate but steady, drawing sustenance while silently plotting how to make these ordinary threads grow into snares.
These women, their chatter, their gossip of knights and marriages and fading lineages—this was her first stepping stone.
So small. So easy to overlook.
But in Eleanor Croft's hands, they were being sifted, polished, and prepared. One day soon, they would become the very chains with which she would bind her enemies—and her pawns.
Her head bowed over the steady rhythm of her stitching. Her ice-gray eyes, veiled by lashes, concealed the cold, meticulous calculations within.