Chapter 20 - Chapter 20: The Sister’s Spark

The Dubois factory hummed with the relentless clatter of machinery, the air thick with the sharp tang of oil and the faint heat of molten steel. Dawn light filtered through high windows, casting long shadows across the workshop where Julien oversaw the assembly of the ten Mark I rifles for General Leclerc's trial, now just five days away. The captured spies—Moreau's men, caught with kerosene and a damning sketch—were locked in the estate's stables under guard, their interrogation yielding little but curses and vague threats of a "patron" pulling strings. The tobacco scent that haunted Julien's nightmares was gone, but the weight of the coded letter and Roche's bribe demand pressed harder, a reminder that Victor Moreau and his unseen master were far from finished. Julien adjusted a rifle's gas mechanism, his hands steady despite the sleepless nights, his mind a whirl of Patrick Arnaud's technical precision and his own trench-honed instincts. The Mark I was nearly perfect—light, fast, reliable—but scaling production required more than skill. The factory needed efficiency, and with Henri's reluctant funds, Julien had hired ten new workers, their hammers and drills adding to the cacophony. But doubts lingered; the spies' arson attempt meant sabotage was still a risk, and the "patron's" shadow loomed larger than ever. Élise burst into the workshop, her apron streaked with grease, her dark curls escaping a loose braid. She carried a notepad, her eyes blazing with the kind of mischief that usually meant trouble—or brilliance. "Julien, you're going to kiss me for this," she said, dodging a worker hauling a crate. "I've been watching the line, and it's a mess—too many hands, not enough sense. But I've got ideas." Julien raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a rag. "Kissing's a bit much, little fox. What's this about?" He gestured to the notepad, his curiosity piqued. Élise's pranks were legendary, but her knack for seeing what others missed had already saved him with the spy's letter. She flipped open the notepad, revealing sketches—not of rifles, but of the factory floor, with arrows and notes in her neat scrawl. "Your workers are tripping over each other," she said, pointing to a diagram. "The forging station's too far from the assembly line—wastes time. And the tools? Scattered like a child's toys. Move the benches here, reroute the parts like this, and you'll cut production time by a third. I timed it myself." Julien studied the sketches, his engineer's mind catching her logic. The layout was inefficient, a holdover from tractor days, and her plan—streamlined, almost industrial— echoed Arnaud's knowledge of assembly lines from 2025. "You've been sneaking around the factory again, haven't you?" he said, a grin breaking through his fatigue. "This is… brilliant, Élise. How'd you figure it out?" She smirked, tossing her braid back. "I'm not just a pretty face, brother. Watched the workers, saw the bottlenecks. Papa's always grumbling about costs—thought I'd help." Her voice softened, her eyes searching his. "You're carrying too much, Julien. Let me take some of the load." Julien's chest tightened, Marguerite's words—You don't have to face it alone—echoing in his sister's offer. He saw her as she'd been in his past life: grieving, hardened by his failures. Now, she was a spark, alive and fierce. "You're already helping," he said, tapping the notepad. "Get this to Paul. Tell him to rearrange the floor today. We need those rifles done." Élise saluted, mock-serious, but paused. "There's more. I overheard the new workers— some don't trust you. They're loyal to Papa's tractors, think you're chasing glory. And… I saw another cigarette butt by the back gate. Not the spy's brand, but still." Julien's blood chilled, his hand brushing the knife in his belt. "Another spy?" he said, his voice low. "Or a decoy. Keep your eyes open, Élise. If you see anything, tell me or Antoine. No heroics." She rolled her eyes but nodded, darting off to find Paul. Julien turned back to the rifles, his mind racing. Élise's plan would speed production, but the new cigarette butt and worker unrest meant trouble was brewing inside the factory, not just out. Moreau's reach—or the "patron's"—was tightening, and Leclerc's trial was his only shot to break free. By noon, the workshop buzzed with new energy, Paul barking orders as workers shifted benches per Élise's design. The flow was smoother, parts moving faster, and Julien felt a flicker of hope. But as he inspected a finished rifle, Antoine rushed in, his face grim, a letter in hand. "From Leclerc," he said, handing it over. "Roche is delaying the trial—says the Ministry needs 'more oversight.' And there's talk of an inspection tomorrow. Sounds like a setup." Julien scanned the letter, his jaw clenching. Roche's handiwork, no doubt, backed by Moreau. An inspection could expose the rifles—or give saboteurs a chance to strike. "We lock down the workshop tonight," he said. "No one in or out without my say. And Antoine— get your father to lean on the Minister. We need Roche off our backs." Antoine nodded, his poet's charm replaced by steel. "Done. But Julien, this is getting ugly. You sure you're ready for what's coming?" Julien's hand tightened on the rifle, his past life's losses—Antoine's blood, France's ruin— fueling his resolve. "I've been ready for years," he said, his voice hard. "They want a fight? They'll get one." As Antoine left, Julien caught a faint tobacco scent drifting from the workshop's edge, gone in an instant. The rifles gleamed, but the enemy was closer than ever, and Élise's spark might not be enough to outrun the shadows.