The permission to visit the Eastern St. Anne Textile Workshop hung like a slender thread, cast from the oppressive walls of the tribunal into the unknown darkness. Eleanor knew the fragility and value of this opportunity. She had to prepare meticulously, maximizing the effectiveness of this reconnaissance while ensuring that both her and Lucien's disguises remained flawless.
On the night before their departure, the dinner table was heavy with a stillness more oppressive than usual. Lucien chewed mechanically, his gaze drifting, clearly reluctant and anxious about the journey ahead. He finally spoke, voice carrying a subtle note of pleading: "Eleanor, must we… really go? Deacon Hanmer doesn't sound like someone easily dealt with. What if we say or do the wrong thing and arouse his suspicion…"
"We?" Eleanor interrupted, her tone cold and unwavering. "It is you, Father Lucien, who has been instructed to inspect document compliance and observe daily operations. I am merely accompanying you, as your wife, to demonstrate your attention to this 'trivial duty' and the 'harmony' of your household." She drew a precise line between their roles, snuffing out the last flicker of his hesitation. "Your task is to speak with him, observe the environment, and record all surface information you can see. I will use my eyes to discern everything else. Remember your identity, do what you must, speak little, listen much. That is sufficient."
Her words left no room for argument, pinning Lucien firmly in the role of "executor." He lowered his head, speechless, the bitterness of his internal struggle turning his appetite sour. He loathed his weakness—and the woman who had pushed him to this place, as well as the fear he could not escape regarding Gabriel and his own secret.
The next morning, the sky was still overcast. They rode a simple tribunal-assigned carriage toward the eastern district. The closer they approached, the more dilapidated the surroundings became. Narrow streets churned with mud, low houses huddled together, and the air reeked of sewage, coal smoke, and rancid oil. Unlike the solemn, suffocating atmosphere near the tribunal, here the nakedness of poverty and despair pervaded every corner.
The St. Anne Textile Workshop was a massive stone structure converted from an old warehouse. Its high walls featured small, narrow windows, giving it the appearance of a fortress. Black chimneys belched thick smoke, and even from outside, the relentless, muffled roar of the looms could be faintly heard.
A guard, face hard and belt adorned with a short club, scrutinized them before reluctantly checking Lucien's credentials and opening the heavy iron door.
Inside, Lucien instinctively held his breath. The vast hall was dimly lit, illuminated only by a few dust-covered high windows and flickering wall lamps. The air was thick with wool dust, causing an irritating itch upon inhalation. Dozens of enormous looms filled the room, each attended by a young woman, sitting or standing, clad in uniform, dirty gray coarse skirts. Their hair was haphazardly tucked under caps, faces worn and pale, eyes vacant. The deafening roar of the machines seemed intent on stripping away the mind's ability to think.
A stocky man in a black deacon's robe, ruddy-faced yet severe, strode forward briskly. He was Deacon Hanmer. His sharp gaze swept over Lucien's clerical robe before landing on Eleanor, flickering with barely perceptible surprise and scrutiny.
"Father Croft?" His voice was loud, lacking warmth, almost drowning in the loom noise. "I received notice you would come. I am Hanmer. I did not expect you to bring your wife." His tone suggested no honor at the visit.
Lucien, following Eleanor's prior instructions, forced his voice into calmness: "Deacon Hanmer. By orders from above, I am here to observe the workshop's daily operations and to briefly discuss past document compliance. This is my wife, Eleanor." His introduction was dry and restrained.
Eleanor stepped forward, performing a formal curtsy, her face bearing a restrained, gentle smile befitting her status. "Good day, Deacon Hanmer. I hope our visit does not interrupt your work." She played the part of a priest's wife, slightly uneasy in an unfamiliar environment yet striving to remain polite, her eyes scanning the hall swiftly and subtly.
"Work never ends, madam," Hanmer replied stiffly, showing no interest in pleasantries. "This is not a salon. The environment is rough; I fear it is unsuitable for a lady like you to linger. Father Croft, what do you wish to know? We can speak in my office." He clearly intended to dismiss them quickly, especially Eleanor, whose presence was unanticipated.
"Of course, of course," Lucien nodded eagerly, desperate to leave the stifling hall.
Eleanor's voice cut softly through the roar, yet astonishingly pierced the noise: "Deacon, if you do not mind, may I remain here for a while? I am curious about the weaving process and wish to observe how these girls work. I promise not to disturb them." Her request seemed reasonable, harmlessly motivated by curiosity.
Hanmer's brow furrowed, clearly displeased, yet he could not find a direct excuse to refuse. He glanced at the girls engrossed in their work and, imagining a pampered lady could discern little, waved irritably: "As you wish, madam. But stay here; do not wander. These machines make no distinction between high or lowly." His words carried a subtle threat.
He then led a visibly relieved yet anxious Lucien toward a small side room.
Eleanor remained at the hall's edge, the roar of machinery surrounding her. She withdrew all superfluous expression; her ice-gray eyes became precise instruments, scanning, calculating, dissecting. She was no longer a curious onlooker but a hunter, an archaeologist unearthing clues amid the chaotic ruins.
She observed the girls. Their movements were mechanical, exhausted; fingers flew among the looms, rarely lifting their heads, with no interaction between them. Overseers paced slowly among the machines, eyes vigilant. The entire space exuded a tightly controlled, oppressive labor atmosphere.
Her gaze meticulously swept across every visible face. Most were pale, tired, young—but none bore the vivid imprint of memory. Black hair… she saw several, but hairstyles were wrong, facial profiles misaligned, or eyes utterly devoid of life.
Time dragged on, and Eleanor's hope gradually sank. Was the girl not here? Had the information been wrong? Or… had she met misfortune?
Then, a slight disturbance at the far corner drew her attention. An overseer was scolding a girl in a low voice for lagging behind. The girl's shoulders were thin, clad in a gray dress clearly too large for her.
For a moment, the girl lifted her head slightly, as if to defend herself.
In that instant, Eleanor caught a glimpse of her profile, and a few strands of sweat-dark, curly hair slipped from the rough cap.
Eleanor's breath stopped.
The overseer's voice rose, roughly shoving the girl back to work. In that fleeting motion, Eleanor saw her eyes—a pair of rare violet irises, glimmering faintly through tears, fear, and exhaustion.
It was just a fleeting glimpse, her gaze filled with unfamiliar dread and numbness; her face more gaunt and pale than remembered. Yet in that moment, Eleanor's soul let out a deafening, triumphant scream:
Seraphina!
It was truly her. She was here—in this living hell.
The surge of emotion threatened to shatter Eleanor's steel-like composure. She clenched her fingers, nails digging into her palms, the pain barely allowing her to maintain a calm façade. She forced her gaze away, pretending to survey another area, though her heart pounded violently, blood roaring louder than the looms.
She had found her.
But joy was immediately drowned in an even greater tide of anger and anguish. Her Seraphina—beautiful, gentle, the one who had smiled in her arms—was suffering inhuman torment! That overseer dared to push her!
For the first time, icy murderous intent coursed clearly and sharply through Eleanor's mind—not only against Lydia and the tribunal, but also toward this cruel deacon and all who abused her beloved.
At that moment, Hanmer and Lucien emerged from the office. Lucien looked pale; the conversation had clearly been unpleasant. Hanmer's expression was one of "business concluded, you may leave."
"Thank you for your cooperation, Deacon," Eleanor stepped forward, voice barely tinged with tension, masked perfectly by etiquette. "Your management… is certainly strict and orderly. May God bless the fruits of this diligent labor." Her words sounded like polite praise, yet only she knew how "strictly orderly" and "fruits" carried an icy irony on her tongue.
Hanmer merely nodded perfunctorily, hastening to usher them out.
The heavy iron doors closed behind them, cutting off the dreadful roar, and once again locking Seraphina in the shadows.
On the return carriage, Lucien seemed to want to speak—perhaps to complain about Hanmer's rudeness—but upon seeing Eleanor's expression, words caught in his throat.
Eleanor sat silently, eyes fixed on the dilapidated streets rushing past, her side profile taut, ice-gray eyes deep and stormy, a near-terrifying calm enveloping her.
Lucien felt a chill rise from his core. He finally understood this journey was far more than a simple document inspection. He dared not speak again, shrinking silently into the corner, his anxiety peaking.
In Eleanor's mind, only one thought echoed, cold and resolute:
Wait for me, Seraphina. No matter the cost, I will get you out of there. Soon.