The silence in the manuscript vault was louder than any alarm bell. Elara could feel Monsieur Dubois's gaze on her, heavy and speculative. She kept her hands still on the table, her mind frantically calculating her next move. She knew if she left the vault quickly, it would betray her urgency; if she stayed, Dubois would continue to probe.
"It is unlike Laurent to be so unprofessional," Dubois said, breaking the silence. He sighed, running a hand through his silvering hair. "He mentioned the Archduke clue... what could he possibly have meant? Is there an acquisition we are expecting, Elara, that features an Archduke?"
He wasn't asking for help; he was confirming how much she knew.
Elara's eidetic memory, usually her greatest asset, was now a liability. She had to search her memory, but pretend to search her desk.
"I recall nothing, Monsieur," she replied smoothly, rising slowly. "Professor Laurent sometimes allows his enthusiasm for historical gossip to overtake the facts. Perhaps the stress of the acquisition has simply—" she paused, feigning professional concern, "—unsettled him."
She reached for her briefcase. "With the Professor missing and the area secured, perhaps I should return to my office and finish processing the Baron's preliminary inventory. I can prepare a comprehensive report on De Arte Chymica for you this afternoon."
Dubois did not object, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He understood the De Arte Chymica report was a distraction.
"Very well, Elara. But if you hear from Laurent, you must inform me immediately. His well-being, and the security of our acquisitions, is paramount."
Elara escaped the vault and fled the museum. She knew she couldn't risk using her own office—Dubois likely had eyes or ears everywhere. She needed neutral, crowded territory. She headed directly for the Bibliothèque Nationale—the only place she felt truly safe among the millions of books.
Huddled in a quiet corner of the cavernous reading room, Elara focused on the line: "The Key rests where the Archduke weeps."
"Archduke": She immediately dismissed Archduke Franz Ferdinand (too modern) and historical royal figures (too grand). Vance was a private alchemist. He would hide the clue in plain sight, tied to a minor historical artifact or location.
"Weeps": This implied grief, flowing water, or a specific architectural feature—a weeping figure, perhaps a pleureur sculpture.
She pulled out a city guide and began cross-referencing minor statues, fountains, and historical markers from the 17th century. After thirty minutes of frantic searching, her eye landed on a small entry:
The Fountain of Archduke Louis (1695).
The fountain, commissioned after the tragic, early death of a minor royal, stood in the central courtyard of the old Palais de Justice. The centerpiece featured a statue of the Archduke kneeling, head bowed, eternally weeping into the basin below.
It was perfect. Subtle, overlooked, and tied to historical grief.
She grabbed her coat and rushed out, heading for the Île de la Cité. The courtyard was busy with legal officials and clerks. The fountain was exactly as described: moss-covered, the stone Archduke perpetually bowing his head as water flowed endlessly from his clasped hands.
The "Key" had to be here.
Elara approached the fountain, pretending to be a tourist admiring the architecture. She discreetly ran her fingers along the stone base, expecting a latch or a carving.
Nothing.
She grew more desperate, reaching into the cold, shallow basin where the water collected. Her hand brushed against a slick object nestled beneath a patch of algae—a metallic lump, cool and heavy.
With a heart-stopping surge of excitement, she closed her fingers around it and withdrew her hand, wiping it quickly on her skirt.
It wasn't a modern key. It was a single, antique silver key—ornate, weighty, and bearing a faint symbol: a small, stylized depiction of an hourglass.
She had it. The first piece of the puzzle. But the second she lifted the key, she heard a voice behind her, sharp and familiar:
"A beautiful piece of bronze work, isn't it, Mademoiselle Dubois? Tell me, why would a curator of ancient texts be so interested in a late 17th-century fountain?"
She turned to face the charcoal-suited man from the day before. He wasn't a thief; he was Dubois's agent, and he had followed her directly from the museum.