In the days that followed, Eleanor Warren's daily life seemed veiled beneath an invisible film. She still went to the scriptorium at the appointed hours, fingers brushing over the cold or coarse spines of books, eyes skimming ink-blotted words on yellowed pages. Yet at the core of her being, her soul had already drifted away, suspended above that roaring stone edifice in the eastern quarter of the city.
Every scratch of her quill across the page seemed to transform, in her mind, into the monotonous, heavy thud of the looms. Every muffled murmur from outside the window made her start, fearing it was a messenger sent by Deacon Hammer to confront her.
She forced herself to eat, sustaining only the bare minimum of strength, though every bite tasted like ashes. Sleep was an even rarer luxury. Whenever she closed her eyes, a pair of violet eyes—wide with terror—stared back at her from the darkness, overlapping and colliding with countless other memories of gazes she once knew.
That day, while cataloguing a donation of old instruments for the church school, her fingertips brushed against a yellowed sheet of music—an old folk tune, tender yet steeped in melancholy. Her hand faltered almost imperceptibly.
Fragments of memory rose unbidden. It was after one of the small soirées at the Fleming estate. The guests had dispersed, and the phonograph still played a languid waltz. Eleanor, slightly flushed with wine, leaned against the balustrade of the terrace to catch the night breeze. Seraphina had slipped quietly to her side, saying nothing, only offering her a cup of warm honey water.
"You hardly touched your food tonight," Seraphina's voice was softer than the night breeze, carrying with it a trace of concern so subtle it could almost be missed. "This will make you feel better."
Eleanor accepted the cup, her fingertips brushing against Seraphina's cool hand. The contact was fleeting, but sharp as a spark, and both of them pulled away at once—though neither could shake the quiet ache of that brief touch.
They stood side by side, gazing down at the slumbering garden below. Moonlight poured like water, bathing Seraphina's profile until she seemed less a girl of flesh and more a fragile sculpture carved from moonstone. From inside, the phonograph carried faint strains of a rustic folk song, its simple melody cutting straight to the heart.
No words. None were needed. A vast, unnerving calm—shot through with a tremor of longing—wrapped itself around them both. Their shoulders were almost touching, close enough to sense each other's warmth, close enough to feel the rise and fall of each breath. Eleanor's heartbeat thundered so loudly she wondered if Seraphina could hear it too.
"You barely ate anything tonight," Seraphina's voice was softer than the night breeze, tinged with a trace of barely noticeable concern. "Drink this—it might make you feel better."
Eleanor took the glass, her fingertips brushing against Seraphina's cool fingers. It was like a faint electric spark passed between them—both flinched, instinctively pulling away, yet neither could shake the craving for that fleeting contact.
They stood side by side, gazing down at the sleeping garden below. Moonlight poured like water, casting Seraphina's profile in a pale, fragile glow—like a statue carved from moonstone, too delicate to touch. The faint strains of the phonograph drifted through the air—a familiar country folk tune, its simple melody piercing straight to the heart.
There were no words. None were needed. A vast, unsettling stillness wrapped around them, tinged with a trembling undercurrent. Their shoulders almost touched, and in that narrow space, they could feel the quiet warmth of each other's bodies, the subtle rhythm of each breath. Eleanor's heartbeat thundered so loudly she could hear it in her ears—she wondered if Seraphina could hear it too.
Progress with Lucien was painstakingly slow. He tried, in his halting, awkward way, to follow Eleanor's instructions—to probe indirectly, to coax scraps of information about the reports on St. Anne's workshop. But his natural nervousness and lack of social grace made every attempt clumsy. What he brought back was fragmented and imprecise: yes, the archives did contain those reports, but they were poorly organized, and without special permission it was nearly impossible to access the details; yes, Deacon Hammer was known for his severity, but he seemed to enjoy the favor of certain higher-ranking figures, because the workshop under his charge was said to deliver "steady output." As for the rumors of the wool merchant, they were vaguer still, dissolving into hearsay the closer one looked.
Each time Lucien returned with these meager scraps, his expression carried a peculiar mixture of guilt and relief. He feared Eleanor's disappointment, yet deep inside, he also hoped that the insufficiency of his findings might make her abandon the pursuit.
Eleanor saw through his thoughts but never called him out. Instead, she recorded every word with an almost surgical calm, piecing them together like fragments of a puzzle. Hammer had protection. The workshop's production was valued. The archive system had cracks. On the surface, these details looked trivial, but in her mind they outlined the silhouette of her enemy and the terrain she was dealing with.
She knew she could not rely on Lucien alone. She would have to carve out new paths of her own.
The opportunity presented itself on her way to church for a routine prayer. She deliberately chose a route that passed by the back courtyard where low-ranking clerks of the Inquisition and their servants often lingered. The air carried the simple scents of stew and fresh bread. A few women in coarse homespun sat in the corner, peeling vegetables as they chatted.
Eleanor slowed her steps, feigning interest in a stubborn cluster of violets growing by the garden wall. Their words drifted to her, fragments carried on the breeze:
"…Aye, that's right—Deacon Hammer's lot wants more girls again. Said the last batch weren't much use…""Ah, poor things… the work's heavy, the rules are harsh. Fine young girls go in, and before long they're…""Hush! Keep your voice down! They say this time it's to make up for 'losses'…""Merchant Black's wagons are heading there with a shipment tomorrow…""Tch, that one's always running back and forth. He and Deacon Hammer, thick as thieves, they say…"
Eleanor's ears caught every word. "More girls." "Not much use." "Losses." "Merchant Black." "Wagons." Each phrase was like a pearl scattered in the dirt, and she strung them together in an instant.
She kept her posture of admiring the flowers until the women's chatter shifted to safer topics, then slipped away as if nothing had happened. Her heartbeat quickened, but this time it was because she had glimpsed a thread of hope.
Merchant Black. The supply wagons.
It might be the perfect chance to approach the workshop without raising suspicion. If she could somehow slip into one of those deliveries…
The thought ignited in her mind—then she crushed it at once. Too reckless. Too unpredictable. She needed something more indirect, more secure.
That evening, she laid out her next demand for Lucien—this one sharper, more precise, and far more dangerous.
"Father Lucien," her voice rang clear in the flicker of candlelight, calm but unyielding, "I've heard that a wool merchant by the name of Black has frequent dealings with the St. Anne workshop. Perhaps a priest, concerned for the smooth running of the Church's industries, might find it natural to consult him? Questions about the quality of the wool, the reliability of supply chains… perfectly harmless. Yet from such talks, one might glimpse how the workshop operates. Maybe even… discover where its management falters—uncertain bookkeeping, irregular handovers, things of that sort."
Once again, she wrapped her true intent in the silk of a noble-sounding excuse—but this time, the arrow of her design pointed directly at Deacon Hammer's business partner.
Lucien's face drained of color."Con—contact a merchant? Inquire about accounts? Eleanor, that's impossible! It crosses every boundary! If Deacon Hammer or Inquisitor Aldrich were to find out—"
"If they ask," Eleanor interrupted, her voice calm and precise, "you are merely showing a priest's diligence—seeking to understand the workings of the Church's industries, hoping to suggest ways to save costs and improve efficiency. Is that not the very image of a conscientious clergyman?"
"As for this Mr. Black… he is a merchant. Faced with a priest of the Inquisition, surely he would be eager to talk, eager to make a favorable impression. All you need do is listen, Lucien—listen, and observe."
"But…"
"No 'but,'" Eleanor cut him off, her tone sharp as a blade. "This is a necessary step to gauge the risks and secure our own safety. Or would you prefer, Father, that one day Deacon Hammer drags some rumor about a girl before Inquisitor Aldrich—while we sit helpless, ignorant of his allies, blind to his methods, lambs laid out for the knife?"
The words struck the deepest vein of Lucien's dread. His mouth opened, but no sound came. At last, he sagged—like a marionette whose strings had been severed—and gave a hollow nod. His eyes brimmed with despair. He felt himself sliding into an abyss with no bottom, and Eleanor Warren was the one standing at the edge, coldly watching him sink.
Eleanor watched his anguish without the faintest ripple within her heart. In another life, perhaps she might have pitied him—might even have flinched from pressing him further. But that Eleanor was dead. The woman standing here now weighed only his utility, measuring whether his fear could be bent toward her ends. To show mercy to an enemy was to be cruel to oneself. That truth had been written in blood—hers and Seraphina's.
While Lucien was left to wrestle with how to "accidentally" cross paths with the wool merchant Black, Eleanor set her own plans into motion. She needed something more tangible— a map of St. Anne's workshop, or at the very least, the layout of its surroundings. The "little stone hut" mentioned by the old servant tugged especially at her thoughts, a shadowy detail that refused to leave her mind.
She made the excuse of needing fresh samples for her studies in drawing, asking the procuring deacon if she might visit the market outside the Inquisition's walls to purchase inexpensive sketches of landscapes or old maps. The request was unusual, yes, but harmless enough. A priest's wife with odd little quirks was preferable to one with dangerous curiosities. Permission was granted, provided she was accompanied by a servant.
At the marketplace, Eleanor moved with singular purpose. She searched stall after stall until, at last, among a heap of tattered books and discarded odds and ends, she unearthed a frayed, half-faded map of the eastern quarter. For a handful of copper coins, it was hers—a treasure disguised as rubbish.
Back in her cold chamber within the Inquisition's walls, she spread the fragile paper beneath the guttering light of a candle, her eyes devouring every faint line and mark. Her finger traced the streets slowly, following blurred names and half-legible symbols.
There.
St. Anne's Workshop. Set apart in a lonely corner of the district, a narrow alley running alongside it. And behind—an empty patch of space, unlabeled save for a faint, nearly illegible word: "Storage?" or perhaps "Annex?"
Her pulse quickened. Could this be the "little stone hut"? Hammer's so-called chamber for "private reflection"?
She studied every possible approach, committing potential vantage points to memory. Any detail, however small, might prove decisive when the moment came.
Just then, the stillness was broken by the toll of distant bells—long, mournful notes rolling from the cathedral across the darkening sky. Evening prayer. The solemn resonance washed over the Inquisition's walls like a false benediction, cloaking iron and stone in the pretense of peace.
Eleanor lifted her head, her ice-gray eyes untouched by any semblance of comfort—only a shard of cold irony.
The bells reminded her of the past life, when she and Seraphina had been condemned. The church's chimes had rung then too—not in prayer for them, but to herald the so-called "victory over evil." Holy bells had once provided the soundtrack to the vilest of crimes.
She carefully folded the map and tucked it away in the most hidden corner. The ringing ceased, yet in her mind, the countdown of vengeance ticked steadily, growing ever clearer.
She knew the net was slowly being cast. Every step was fraught with danger. Lucien trembled and hesitated. The path ahead was shrouded in mist. Yet there was no turning back.
For those violet eyes to shine once more, she was willing to set herself against the shadows of the entire world.