Lucien mechanically swallowed the cold food, its taste like chewing wax. Eleanor's words still echoed in his ears, coiling around his nerves like an icy venomous snake. Approach the merchant? Inquire about the accounts? Every step felt like walking on the edge of a cliff—one misstep, and it would be a plunge into endless ruin. His stomach churned violently, nearly bringing him to retch. Fear and resistance threatened to overwhelm him, yet Eleanor's merciless eyes, along with the threats that struck precisely at his weaknesses, left him powerless to resist.
He slumped into his chair, hands buried in his hair. Gabriel's handsome yet impatient face flashed through his mind, intertwining with Eleanor's cold, calculating expression. He was trapped between the two, torn apart by their respective desires and secrets. The prayers stuck in his throat; God seemed to have turned away, deaf to the cries of a soul filled with lies and terror.
At last, the fear of exposure overwhelmed everything else. Lucien drew in a deep, desperate breath, bracing himself as if for death, and began laboriously plotting how to "naturally" approach the wool merchant named Blake. It would require timing, a plausible pretext, and every ounce of courage he had never truly possessed before.
Meanwhile, Eleanor unfolded the old map she had purchased at the market in her room. The parchment was rough and yellowed, the ink faded and blurred, carrying a faint musty odor. By the flickering candlelight, her fingertips traced the map cautiously, scrutinizing the faint lines and names.
The layout of the eastern district was sketched with minimal detail, streets winding and twisting like coiled serpents. Her gaze swept over every possible mark with surgical precision. Finally, in a secluded corner near the city wall, she found her target—a tiny square, with almost illegible cursive beside it: "St. Anne's Woolery."
Her heart constricted sharply. This was it.
Her fingertip traced the outline of the woolery. Just as the old errand man had mentioned, there was indeed a small, separate section behind the workshop, marked on the map. Within it was an even smaller, blurred symbol resembling a modest hut, accompanied by a nearly faded word—barely legible, yet hinting at "Store?" or "Solitary?".
The little stone house… Eleanor pressed her fingertip firmly against the indistinct mark, as if she could feel the cold despair emanating from that place through the parchment. Had Seraphina ever been confined there? In that dark, freezing, utterly isolated space? The mere thought constricted her chest, a wave of anguish and rage threatening to tear her apart from within.
She forced herself to look away, studying the paths leading to the workshop. The map revealed several narrow alleyways providing access, though only one main thoroughfare existed. She silently committed each geographic detail to memory, knowing that every nuance could prove vital in the days to come.
A faint crackle from the candle flame startled her—a tiny blossom of fire flickered upward. The sound, seemingly insignificant, made Eleanor momentarily falter; she lifted her gaze, eyes unfocused, staring into some point of the void.
Memories surged uncontrollably once again. After an interminable family ball, she had returned to her bedroom, weary and drained, only to find a small bundle of white jasmine flowers tied with a ribbon placed on the windowsill. The blossoms were delicate and pure, exuding a sweet fragrance under the moonlight.
Surprised, she picked up the bouquet, noticing a folded note tucked beneath it. She opened it to reveal a single line of graceful, slightly hesitant handwriting—Seraphina's, unmistakably:
"For the last dance tonight, I truly hope it will be with you."
No signature.
Such a simple sentence struck Eleanor like a lightning bolt. She held the tiny note, her fingertips trembling slightly. At the ball, they had only been able to see each other across the crowd, adhering to the damned etiquette and playing the part of distant cousins. She had watched Seraphina invited to dance by several young gentlemen, maintaining a polite yet distant smile.
Eleanor had never imagined that Seraphina harbored the same tumultuous, unspoken desire that she herself felt.
This bold yet secret confession sent a flush rushing to Eleanor's cheeks, filling her heart with an overwhelming, almost dizzying sweetness, intertwined with an indescribable ache. They were so close, yet separated by an invisible chasm. The bouquet and the note were Seraphina's cautious, tentative hand, reaching out to bridge that gap.
That night, she pressed the note against her chest, reading that single line over and over until every stroke was etched deep into her mind. The scent of jasmine filled the room, lingering even in her dreams. It was the first truly clear signal between them, transcending the ambiguous and delicate space they had occupied—a fragile yet brave message.
Sudden, cold tears slid down her cheeks, falling onto the map and smudging a small patch of ink. Eleanor snapped awake, quickly rubbing the tears and wet marks from the map with her fingers, her movements almost violent.
Tenderness was a luxury, a poison. It weakened hands and legs, clouded judgment. She admonished herself fiercely. In her past life, these unspoken affections and cautious tests had ultimately become the blade that pierced them. In this life, she needed no notes, no jasmine flowers—she needed power, strategy, an iron hand to reclaim Seraphina.
She took a deep breath, carefully folded the map, and hid it away. Her eyes regained their icy, resolute gleam.
The next day, she continued her routine visit to the library. During a quiet moment at work, she casually mentioned to Old Martin, "Mr. Martin, I happened to pass by the kitchen's rear courtyard yesterday and overheard a few of the ladies talking about a wool merchant… Mr. Black? I heard he has some business dealings with the tribunal?"
Old Martin slowed his movements, pausing mid-wipe on the books. He lifted his cloudy eyes to Eleanor, seemingly assessing something. After a while, he spoke slowly, his voice lowered even further: "Black… yes, he's a shrewd man. Well-connected with some of the higher-ups, especially… those in charge of the warehouse and procurement. His goods… hm, not cheap, but they always reach where they're meant to go." His words carried a subtle, knowing sarcasm, the resigned cynicism of someone who lived at the bottom.
"Where they're meant to go?" Eleanor feigned curiosity at just the right moment.
"Ah… well, the places that need handling," Old Martin said vaguely, as if unwilling to go into details. "Hammer's side often uses his stock. Large quantities, and the settlements are… straightforward." He paused meaningfully. "Madam, may I ask why you're inquiring about this?"
"It's nothing," Eleanor immediately resumed the persona of the slightly bored, gossip-prone priestess, "I just happened to overhear it and was curious. It seems Mr. Black is indeed very capable."
Old Martin mumbled, "Yes, very capable," then fell silent, returning to his work.
But the information was already enough. Merchant Black, expensive goods, good relations with procurement officers, extensive business dealings with Steward Hammer, "settlements straightforward"—these words combined pointed to a clear possibility: kickbacks, profit transfers. It might be a weakness she could exploit.
A few days later, Lucien returned with the results of his painstaking inquiries. His face was pale, eyes shifty, clearly tormented by the experience of the "coincidental" encounter with Merchant Black.
"He… he's very cautious," Lucien said, his voice dry, "only spoke in general terms, superficial things… but he did mention the workshop's loss rate isn't low, especially recently… requiring frequent replenishment of both staff and materials… He also hinted that Steward Hammer has very high 'quality' standards, so though his goods are expensive, they are worth it…" Lucien's report was halting, clearly unable to obtain deeper insights.
Eleanor listened quietly, without reproach. Lucien's incompetence had always been expected. That he could confirm the "high loss rate" and "frequent replenishments" already aligned with the other pieces of information she had gathered. Black's vigilance, in fact, only confirmed that there was something amiss.
"Did he mention any specifics about accounts or settlements?" Eleanor asked.
Lucien shook his head frantically. "No! I… I didn't dare ask too many details…"
"That's enough." Eleanor interrupted him. "You've done well, Father Lucien. At least now we know that Mr. Black and Steward Hammer's cooperation is indeed… very close."
Lucien seemed to relax slightly at not being scolded, but the relief was fleeting. Soon he sank back into deeper anxiety—he knew Eleanor had learned something, and he dreaded what she might ask him to do next.
Eleanor no longer looked at him. She moved to the window and gazed at the sky, divided by the high walls outside.
Clues were slowly converging: Steward Hammer's harsh management, the possible kickbacks, the workshop's high loss rate, Seraphina's exact location…
The outline of a plan was beginning to take shape in her mind—bold, dangerous. It required a catalyst, one that could draw Hammer's attention elsewhere and give her access to the core evidence.
That catalyst might lie with Mr. Black, the wool merchant who "settled accounts smoothly" with Hammer, or it might lie in the confidential reports recording "losses" and "replenishments."
She needed to wait—and she needed to create the opportunity herself.
Night fell, and the courthouse fell into silence. Eleanor sat alone in the dark, her fingers unconsciously brushing against the sleeve of her gown, as if she could still feel the touch of that jasmine note from her past life.
From a note that conveyed love, to a map plotting life and death; from the fleeting hope of a dance, to dancing with demons in reality. This was her rebirth.
But there were no tears in her eyes, only two flames silently burning in the darkness.
Seraphina—no matter the cost, no matter how far I must go from the person I once was, I will bring you back into the sunlight. Wait for me.