The Dubois estate lay cloaked in the pre-dawn mist, the air heavy with the damp scent of dew and the faint tang of woodsmoke from the factory's distant furnaces. Élise slipped through the shadowed halls, her boots muffled against the polished oak, her heart racing with the thrill of a mission. Julien and Antoine had left for Paris hours ago, their carriage rattling toward the patent office to secure the Mark I's design before Victor Moreau's spies could strike. The crumpled cigarette pack and the scrawled note—Blueprints—she'd found by the stables burned in her mind, proof that danger was closer than ever. Julien's warning to stay vigilant echoed, but Élise wasn't one to sit idle. If a spy was sniffing around, she'd sniff back.
She reached the servants' quarters, a cramped wing smelling of lye soap and stale bread. The faint glow of a lantern spilled from under a door, and she pressed her ear against it, catching the low murmur of voices. Her brother's paranoia—born of that cryptic note, Keep your secrets close, Dubois, or they'll bury you—had infected her, but her mischief gave her an edge. She'd played pranks on servants before, slipping through shadows to plant fake love letters or steal pastries. Now, that same cunning would unmask a traitor.
Inside, two maids whispered, their voices tense. "He was by the factory again," one said, her tone nervous. "Asked about Monsieur Julien's plans. Offered me a franc to keep quiet."
Élise's breath caught. She eased the door open a crack, peering in. The maids didn't notice, too caught up in their talk. The second maid, older and sharp-eyed, shook her head. "You didn't take it, did you? That man's trouble. Smells like cheap tobacco, like the kind Monsieur Moreau's men smoke."
Élise's eyes narrowed. Moreau. Of course. The arms dealer's sneering face at the demonstration flashed in her mind—his mockery of Julien's rifle, his veiled threats. She slipped back, her mind racing. The spy wasn't just watching; he was bribing. She needed proof, something to give Julien leverage in Paris.
She darted to the stables, her breath misting in the chilly air. The cigarette pack she'd found was still in her pocket, its acrid scent a match for the one haunting the estate. She crouched by the stable window, scanning for clues. The ground was soft from last night's rain, and there—clear as day—were boot prints, heavy and uneven, leading toward the factory. Not a servant's tread. She followed them, her heart pounding, until they stopped at a side door of the factory, its lock scratched and freshly pried.
Her fox-like instincts kicked in. She slipped inside, the air thick with the metallic tang of steel and the low hum of dormant machines. Moonlight filtered through high windows, casting jagged shadows across the workshop. Julien's workbench stood in the corner, the prototype rifle gone—safe with him in Paris—but a crate of tools and spare parts remained. She crept closer, her eyes catching a glint of paper tucked under a wrench. Her fingers trembled as she pulled it free: a rough sketch, not Julien's precise hand, but a crude copy of the Mark I's gas system, scrawled in haste.
"Got you," she whispered, tucking the sketch into her blouse. Moreau's spy had been here, trying to steal what Julien was racing to patent. But why leave a copy? A mistake—or a taunt?
A creak behind her made her freeze. She ducked behind a crate, her pulse hammering as footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate, heavy. The tobacco scent hit her, sharp and unmistakable. A man's silhouette loomed, his cap low, a cigarette glowing faintly in his hand. He moved toward the workbench, muttering to himself, his voice low and guttural. "Damn boy's too fast. Moreau won't like this."
Élise held her breath, her mind spinning. She needed to get the sketch to Julien, but confronting the spy alone was suicide. She waited until he turned, rummaging through tools, then slipped out the door, silent as a shadow. The estate's grounds were dark, the mist cloaking her as she ran toward the house. She needed Marguerite—her mother's calm strength would know what to do.
Bursting into the drawing room, Élise found Marguerite by the fireplace, her needlepoint abandoned as she looked up, startled. "Élise, what's wrong? You're pale as death." Élise thrust the sketch forward, her voice breathless. "Found this in the factory. Moreau's spy—he's been copying Julien's plans. He's still there, Maman. We need to stop him before he gets to Paris."
Marguerite's eyes sharpened, her gentle demeanor hardening into the steel of a woman who'd steered the Dubois family through crises. "Show me," she said, rising. "And wake your father. We'll handle this."
As they hurried toward the factory, Élise's mind raced with a plan. "Maman, we don't confront him—he'll bolt. Let's trap him. Get the stablehands to block the exits, say it's a thief. I'll sneak back in, make noise to spook him into running."
Marguerite's lips twitched, a rare spark of mischief matching her daughter's. "Clever girl. But stay safe. Your brother's fighting a war we don't fully understand."
They split up, Marguerite rallying the servants while Élise crept back to the factory. She grabbed a wrench, banging it against a pipe with a loud clang. The spy cursed, his footsteps scrambling toward the side door. Outside, shouts erupted—stablehands, alerted by Marguerite, closing in. Élise ducked behind a crate, watching as the man bolted, only to be tackled by two burly hands, his cigarette falling to the dirt.
By dawn, the spy—a wiry man named Gaston, no one the estate recognized—was tied up in the stables, his cap gone, his face bruised but defiant. Marguerite stood over him, her voice calm but icy. "Who sent you? Speak, or the gendarmes will."
Gaston spat, his voice rough. "You can't stop it. The boy's plans are already in Paris."
Élise's heart sank, but she clutched the sketch tighter. Julien was ahead, racing to the patent office. But if Moreau had a copy, even a rough one, the fight was far from over. As Marguerite sent for the gendarmes, Élise slipped away, scribbling a note to Julien: Spy caught. Rough sketch stolen. Hurry.
She handed it to a trusted stableboy, her voice urgent. "Get this to Paris, to Julien. Ride like the devil's behind you." As the boy galloped off, Élise looked toward the factory, its silhouette stark against the rising sun. Julien's war was hers now, too—and she'd be damned if she let Moreau win.