Old Martin's faint, almost forgotten whisper about the black-haired, violet-eyed girl pierced Eleanor's mind like a needle dipped in ice, sending sharp waves of hope and cold fear coursing through her. She knew she could no longer be content to passively sift through fragmented clues in the dust-choked archive.
She needed to act. She needed a plausible pretext that would allow her access to the tribunal's lower servants and, if possible, the external charitable institutions. Lucien's "pious work" had been the first step, but now, she needed to widen her reach.
Opportunity arrived, in a form as unpleasant as it was useful.
Lucien was assigned to assist in inventorying the tribunal's cellar, a grim repository of supplies used for "correction" and "rehabilitation": coarse burlap prison garments, threadbare blankets, and vast quantities of low-quality black bread and water. The management was chaotic, records incomplete—clearly a task no one wanted to touch. Lucien's delicate features twisted in distress and disgust, especially as he caught sight of the rusted, grotesque instruments of punishment lurking in a corner. His emerald eyes betrayed the faintest flicker of visceral fear and nausea.
That evening, Eleanor observed him in silence during their sparse meal—bread, weak ale, and a thin bean stew. She noticed the tension etched in his posture and the tremor in his hands. Placing her wooden cup down, her voice calm and even, she said, "You look unsettled tonight, Father Lucien. Trouble at the tribunal?"
Lucien jerked his head up, as if caught in the act of concealing a secret, then swiftly dropped his gaze, absently prodding the few remaining beans on his plate with a fork. "It's nothing… just a pile of trivial supplies to count," he muttered, attempting casual dismissal.
"Trivial enough to make you lose your appetite?" Eleanor's voice remained flat, yet carried an unyielding penetration. "Perhaps I could assist. Don't forget—I am your 'wife' now. Sharing your burdens is reasonable, especially when those burdens… could affect your reputation or focus."
She had skillfully entwined offer with threat. Lucien's fingers tightened involuntarily. He knew all too well what "affecting focus" implied. Any misstep could draw scrutiny—and scrutiny carried danger.
After a moment of hesitation, he finally whispered, "It's the cellar… the records are in disorder, the quantity vast. Judge Aldrich expects it sorted within a week."
"I understand," Eleanor said, rising smoothly. "Tomorrow I shall accompany you. More hands will make the work faster. And overseeing these supplies—used for both 'charity' and 'punishment'—surely is an excellent opportunity to demonstrate God's mercy and the tribunal's order." Her words draped in pious rhetoric, perfectly masking her true intent: access to the lower servants managing these supplies, and insight into those on the receiving end.
Lucien seemed on the verge of protest but ultimately nodded wearily. There was no reasonable way to refuse, especially after Eleanor had raised the twin banners of "God's mercy" and "tribunal order."
The next day, Eleanor followed him into the tribunal's subterranean cellar—a cold, moldy chamber heavy with the scent of decay and mildew. Faint, stagnant light barely illuminated the room. Several servants in rough cloth moved lazily under the direction of a portly steward, hauling the supplies.
Her presence made the fat man pause, a forced smile plastered across his face. "Madam Croft? How… gracious of you to descend to such a place."
"I am here to assist my husband with the task assigned by Judge Aldrich," Eleanor said, her tone a precise blend of distance and piety. "The Lord teaches us to serve even the lowliest. Cleaning and cataloging these life-sustaining supplies is, in its way, sacred work."
The steward had no retort, only an awkward, acquiescent nod. Eleanor immediately threw herself into the task. She did not merely pretend. Rolling up her sleeves, she handled the dusty black bread, inspected the blankets for mildew, and recorded counts with meticulous clarity. Her efficiency and haughty diligence subtly compelled the sluggish servants to move faster.
Lucien kept track of the inventory and verified numbers. Watching Eleanor operate with such composure and rigor in that grim environment, his feelings were tangled—relief at the speed of progress, awe and a twinge of unease at her near-cold adaptability. She was no fragile noblewoman; she was something else entirely… a being capable of enduring anything to achieve her aim.
During a brief pause, Eleanor casually approached an elderly servant gnawing on a piece of black bread and offered him a small jug of water she had brought—a purer, cleaner drink than what the cellar provided.
"Thank you for your work," she said evenly.
The old servant blinked, pleasantly surprised, and mumbled his gratitude.
"These supplies," Eleanor's gaze swept over the towering piles of black bread, "they must feed many. Besides here… I hear St. Mary's Alms House also needs support?"
The old man took a sip, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Slowly, he began to speak, as if cautiously opening a door: "Indeed, madam. Down here in the dungeon, and at the Alms House… those children and old women depend on this. Though, for the Alms House, they often get less than they should. Deacon Hanmer is strict. He says the guilty or potential sinners shouldn't eat too much…"
Hanmer. Eleanor noted the name. Old Martin had mentioned him as a "strict man" in charge of the eastern textile workshops.
"The guilty still deserve God's mercy," Eleanor said lightly, quoting scripture in a natural tone. "Especially those without care. Perhaps… places like the textile workshops can teach them discipline and diligence rather than mere punishment?"
"Ah, madam, your heart is generous!" The old servant lowered his voice. "But Deacon Hanmer doesn't believe that. The girls there… they live hard lives. Recently, there was a rebellious one—black hair, strange eyes—spoke back to the Deacon, got confined for days. No one knows what became of her…"
Black hair. Strange eyes. Rebellious.
Eleanor's heart tightened, invisible fingers gripping her chest. Another clue converged, pointing to Hanmer and the eastern textile workshops he oversaw.
Her face remained impassive; she sighed softly. "May the Lord forgive and guide her." She turned back to her task, as if the prior conversation had been a mere idle chat.
Inside, however, her mind churned like a storm-tossed sea. The mist had thinned slightly, a faint light revealed a path—but that path led into even darker depths.
Seraphina… if you are there… if that rebellious, black-haired, violet-eyed girl is you… what are you enduring?
The chill of the cellar seemed to seep into her bones, yet colder still was the burning anxiety of nearing the truth while fearing it. She knew her next step must bring her closer to Deacon Hanmer, or to that eastern textile workshop.