Father Lucien Croft's "arrangement" came faster than Eleanor had anticipated—and it fit perfectly within the tribunal's hollow routines. He did not grant her unrestricted access; instead, through an elderly steward in charge of internal affairs, he assigned her a "suitably pious" task—sorting through a collection of long-forgotten donation records and sermon drafts stored in the small chapel's archives attached to the tribunal.
The work was tedious and laborious, far removed from the tribunal's true centers of power and its darker corners, and would attract no one's suspicion. For a newly arrived priest's wife needing "time for reflection," it was perfect.
Eleanor accepted gladly. She knew this was the safest limit Lucien could secure, and at the same time, a stepping stone for her infiltration. The archive was secluded but not isolated. Occasionally, low-ranking clergy would visit to consult trivial documents. More importantly, the elderly janitor, Martin, who kept the place clean, was nearly invisible to everyone.
Martin was close to sixty, stooped, silent, his face a map of wind-worn wrinkles, his eyes murky as if layered in the dust he had seen all his life. He worked at a steady, slow pace, meticulous and nearly soundless, like a drifting shadow.
For the first two days, Eleanor quietly carried out her work, unfurling the mildew-tinged, dusty parchment scrolls, roughly sorting and recording them. Her ice-gray eyes scanned the yellowed text, most of it tedious doctrine or the names of long-dead men, seemingly worthless. Yet she remained patient, like a predator lying in wait.
She did not immediately attempt to probe Martin. Only occasionally, when he passed nearby, she would murmur a word or two in calm, neutral tones.
"Today seems colder than yesterday, Mr. Martin.""The gilding on this missal is exquisite… such a shame it's so worn."
At first, Martin barely responded, a nod here or there, resuming his work. But there was a peculiar calm in Eleanor's tone—no pity, no charity, none of the unconscious condescension that nobles often displayed toward men like him—just a near-indifferent equality. In this place, it stood out.
On the third day, Eleanor offered him a small piece of white bread, wrapped in a clean handkerchief, as a gesture of thanks for keeping the archives clean. Martin's murky eyes flicked to her, his hands pausing mid-sweep.
"You are too kind, madam," he rasped, voice like sandpaper against wood. "Few people come here. Dust comes back no matter how often it's swept."
"Someone always remembers to sweep. That's enough," Eleanor said lightly, returning her gaze to the scroll, as if the comment were casual.
Silence fell again, broken only by the rustle of quill across parchment and the soft sweep of Martin's broom.
Later, as he wiped near her shelves, he murmured, almost to himself, voice low and distant, never meeting her eyes: "Madam, your sorting of these old things… it's a kindness. Some names… after a while, no one remembers them."
Eleanor's heart skipped, but her expression remained unreadable. She brushed a speck of dust from the scroll: "Yes. Many names… perhaps they were never meant to be forgotten."
Martin said nothing further, slowly moving to the next shelf.
Over the next few days, an unspoken understanding developed. Eleanor occasionally offered scraps of food or bland comments. Martin, in turn, let slip small, seemingly inconsequential observations when she reached certain documents or sections.
"Ah… these record donations to the orphanage… St. Mary's Alms House. Each year harder than the last…""These lists… of children sent here for 'learning'… some fortunate ones caught the eye of patrons and were taken, some… disappeared.""This batch of drafts… from Deacon Hanmer. A strict man, later reassigned to oversee the textile workshops east of the city… all those poor girls…"
Every word passed through Eleanor's mind like a sieve. St. Mary's Alms House, children sent from afar, the doomed girls in the textile workshop—each a potential clue. If Seraphina had been reborn into a lowly station, she was most likely in one of these places.
She dared not inquire directly, especially not about a girl named "Cecily Green." That would be too dangerous. She had to rely on these fragmentary hints, piecing together a map slowly, carefully.
One afternoon, only the two of them were in the archives. Outside, a cold drizzle painted the courtyard, making the room darker and heavier. Eleanor carefully unfurled a tattered list, recording several "voluntary attendants" donated years ago from a northern estate—mostly young girls.
Martin was wiping a windowsill when he sighed softly.
"This rain… it's just like that winter," he murmured, voice nearly lost in the drizzle. "So cold… the children brought then… frail as kittens… one had black hair like crow's wings, eyes of a strange color… violet, I think? I've lived long, never seen such eyes… poor thing. I wonder if she's still alive…"
Eleanor's fingers twitched violently, almost tearing the fragile parchment.
Black hair. Violet eyes.
Her blood ran cold, then burned. She forced a deep, steady breath, controlling the storm in her chest, speaking with a calm so cruel it could have been mistaken for indifference: "Unusual eyes… sometimes deemed ominous. Her fate was likely harsh."
Martin seemed pulled back to the present by her composure, shrinking slightly, muttering: "Ah… I'm old, memory fades… perhaps I was mistaken… Madam, you continue, I'll check elsewhere for leaks…"
He took up his tools, shuffling away from the archives, as if regretting his own words.
Eleanor did not look up, did not call him back.
She sat rigidly, motionless for a long while, only her ice-gray eyes burning with twin, dark, and fierce flames.
Black hair. Violet eyes.
Seraphina… is it you?
You are here. Somewhere in this city, enduring suffering.
The weight of fear and the sharp stab of hope pierced her simultaneously. A clue had been found, yet Martin's unfinished words and hurried departure hinted at an ominous possibility.
She slowly released her clenched hands, fingertips trembling. Bowing her head, she resumed sorting the list, her movements sharper, more determined, as if the pile of discarded paper were instead a navigational chart to the fate of her beloved.
Dust danced in the faint light streaming through the window, like countless humble souls whispering in silence. Eleanor Fleming sat among them, a forgotten goddess of vengeance, weaving from these whispers and dust a web of redemption and ruin.