Days passed slowly in oppressive anxiety. Eleanor Warren was like a stone thrown into the stagnant waters of the tribunal, calm on the surface but with turbulent undercurrents. Her longing and worry for Seraphina were wounds that never healed. Yet past lessons had forged her inner self into a frozen lake—no storm could shatter it, only thicken the ice.
Lucien Croft suffered in his own torment. The "task" Eleanor assigned him—a supposed casual encounter with Merchant Black—had been disastrous. Black's slyness and cautiousness left him on edge, barely gathering any useful information, feeling entirely transparent, as if his soul were being dissected. He returned defeated, anticipating Eleanor's cold reprimands and far worse threats.
To his surprise, Eleanor's reaction was calm. She listened to his rambling, self-exculpating report, eyes like ice, and only said: "I understand."
This serenity made Lucien more anxious. He preferred anger—at least then he could gauge her emotions. Silence was far worse: like the calm before a storm, he felt disposable, replaceable. He searched her face for a clue, seeing only an unfathomable cold abyss.
"Then… what do we do next?" he asked shakily, clinging to the word "we" as if it tethered him to safety.
Eleanor looked through him, eyes seemingly fixed on the void. "Wait. Observe. Merchant Black… leave him alone for now. Your frequent outings are already noticeable."
Lucien's anxiety only deepened at her words. "Noticeable? By who? Judge Aldrich—" At the thought that the stern-faced superior might have already noticed his abnormal behavior, cold sweat instantly drenched his back.
"Merely hypothetical," Eleanor interrupted his panic. "Caution is never wrong. For now, you only need to do your duty: preach on time, handle documents, and behave… as usual." She emphasized the last four words, both as a reminder to him and to herself. Being overly active is itself a flaw.
Lucien nodded, half understanding, yet completely bewildered. "As usual?" He had long forgotten what "usual" even was. Ever since Eleanor and Gabriel had intruded into his life, his world consisted only of fear and disguise.
Eleanor no longer looked at him. She turned and picked up a thick church codex, flipping through it word by word, as if it contained the ultimate truth. Watching her cold profile, Lucien felt a wave of helpless despair and could do nothing but silently leave the room.
Once the door closed, Eleanor's fingers paused mid-turn on the page. Of course, she would not truly "wait." Letting Lucien lie low was to reduce risk, but her own actions had to be far more covert and efficient.
Her focus shifted to another piece of information that old Martin had inadvertently mentioned— the warehouse and procurement. If merchant Blake's high-priced wool was successfully received by the tribunal, it inevitably involved the officials responsible for purchasing and storage. Finding this person might lead her to another link in Steward Hammer's chain of interests.
But this was no easy task. The tribunal's internal structure was labyrinthine, with strict barriers between departments. As the wife of a low-ranking priest, she had virtually no chance of directly inquiring about the purchasing officials.
She needed a new, more natural entry point.
A few days later, an opportunity presented itself unexpectedly. A relatively gentle, elderly priest asked Lucien to help organize a batch of old Mass supplies and books that were about to be sent to various affiliated churches and almshouses. These items were piled in a temporary warehouse and needed to be counted, sorted, and recorded.
Lucien, anxious to find a chance to "act as usual," immediately agreed. When Eleanor learned of this, she naturally accompanied him under the pretense of "assisting her husband."
The temporary warehouse was somewhat tidier than the cellar, but it was still piled high with dusty items. The air was thick with the mixed scent of old fabrics, paper, and dust. Eleanor rolled up her sleeves, put on coarse cloth gloves, and, just as she had in the cellar before, began her work meticulously. She carefully inspected each sacred object for damage, checked every book for wear, and recorded everything scrupulously.
The warehouse was overseen by a young attendant. Seeing Eleanor working so attentively, he relaxed his guard and even spoke to her: "Madam, you're really thorough. Most of these things have been tucked away for so long, they might have been forgotten entirely."
Eleanor looked up and gave him a gentle, slightly weary smile. "These are objects used to serve God and texts that guide the soul. Even if they are old, they deserve proper care. It's just that counting and checking them is quite tedious, especially when some records don't match. I wonder how they were originally cataloged." She phrased her complaint cleverly, making it sound natural and genuine.
The young attendant, feeling he had found a kindred spirit, immediately agreed: "Exactly! Especially those items procured from outside, the accounts are the most chaotic. Some stewards only focus on buying and are careless with the records, which makes it a headache for those of us who have to reconcile them. Take last year's batch of new candlesticks and woolen blankets— the receipts still don't match the actual items, and no one knows at which point the mistake happened…"
Woolen blankets? Eleanor 's heartbeat quickened slightly, but her face remained an expressionless mask of composure. "Procurement is indeed a tedious task. I suppose the responsible officers must have a hard time as well. I wonder which steward was so busy as to let such errors happen?"
The young assistant glanced around, lowering his voice. "Who else could it be? Mainly it's Steward Lowrence who handles the daily purchases. Most of Mr. Black's wool shipments pass through his hands… sigh, but don't tell anyone I said so." He seemed to realize he had spoken out of turn and quickly shut his mouth.
Steward Lowrence. Eleanor silently noted the name. Another name added to her web of vengeance.
"Of course not," Eleanor replied gently, then smoothly changed the subject, picking up a worn hymnbook. "Look at this book—it's terribly damaged. Such a shame for these beautiful melodies."
At that moment, a neglected, dust-covered harpsichord in the corner of the warehouse caught her eye. Its lid was half-open, the keys yellowed, some even missing, like a forgotten noble, slumped in the corner in disgrace.
The floodgates of memory quietly swung open again. It was a summer night, after a small musical gathering hosted by the Fleming family had ended. The guests had departed, and moonlight poured into the spacious parlor like liquid mercury. The ornate harpsichord stood quietly in the corner.
Seraphina was moved by the evening's music; a glimmer of longing shone in her eyes. She quietly approached the instrument, extended her slender fingers, and carefully pressed a key. A clear, solitary note resonated through the silent night.
"I only know a little…" she said, glancing back at Eleanor following her, shyly smiling.
"Just try," Eleanor encouraged, leaning against the piano.
Seraphina hesitated for a moment, then began to play a simple yet graceful folk tune. Her technique was somewhat clumsy, and she paused occasionally, but the melody remained captivating. Eleanor , listening, couldn't help but hum softly along—a lullaby she had learned from her nurse as a child.
Their voices—one from the keys, one from the throat—merged in the moonlight, delicate and tentative, yet perfectly harmonious. There was no audience, no applause, only the two of them and the flowing moonlight. In that moment, it felt as if the world had shrunk to just them and this duet, entirely their own.
When the piece ended, Seraphina looked up at Eleanor , her violet eyes dazzling in the moonlight, filled with a tender, surging emotion. They exchanged a smile, and an unspoken intimacy slowly filled the air. At that instant, Eleanor realized with absolute clarity that something had fundamentally changed. They were no longer merely cousins.
"Madam?" The young warehouse assistant's voice snapped Eleanor out of her reverie. "Are you all right?"
Eleanor jerked back to reality and realized her fingers had been unconsciously pressing against empty air, as if touching keys that weren't there. She quickly lowered her hands and coughed discreetly. "Nothing… I just think it's a pity for this old piano. It must have been beautiful once."
"Yes," the assistant agreed, "I heard it used to belong to some important figure, but now it's just been left here. No one plays it anymore."
"Yes… no one plays it anymore," Eleanor repeated softly, a trace of melancholy in her voice that no one could truly understand.
She forced herself to look away and return to the tedious task of inventory. Yet the duet under the moonlight kept replaying in her mind, forming a cruel contrast with the dust and silence of the cold warehouse around her.
That fleeting warmth and tacit understanding had been the precious fuel that had carried her through hellfire, and now it burned her soul with pain.
Once the inventory was finished, Eleanor and Lucien dragged their exhausted bodies out. Lucien felt a brief, fleeting relief at completing the task, but Eleanor 's mind was rapidly sorting through the new information she had gathered:
The purchasing officer—Lowrence. He had close dealings with Merchant Black, and the accounts might not be entirely clean. This was a softer point of entry than directly approaching Black or Steward Hammer.
But how could she get close to a mid-level officer and find a weakness to exploit? It would require a careful plan and the perfect opportunity.
While she was pondering, an unexpected piece of news arrived—Judge Audric was about to preside over an internal hearing for several low-ranking clergy accused of "misconduct." These hearings were usually closed, but they required clerical staff to record and file the proceedings.
Lucien, being a relatively junior priest, was assigned to assist with the record-keeping.
When Eleanor learned of this, a sharp glint suddenly flashed in her ice-gray eyes.
An extremely bold idea formed in her mind in an instant.