Elara did not return to the archives. The museum was a beautiful, gilded trap now. Instead, she went to a distant friend's apartment, claiming a burst pipe at her own place, and borrowed a change of clothing—a dark, wool coat and a simple, less conspicuous dress. She looked less like a curator and more like a civilian taking an evening stroll, which was precisely the goal.
She needed to think like her pursuers. Henri and the Argentum Society agents would be watching the major rail lines and her own home address. She would move like the shadows of the 17th century, using the alleys and quiet river walks.
Before leaving the borrowed apartment, she used the telephone to call her own landline. She listened for the ring—a small reassurance that no one had broken in yet.
The phone rang exactly three times before the familiar voice of Monsieur Dubois answered.
"Elara? Thank heavens. I was worried. Where are you?" His tone was laced with professional distress.
Elara froze. "Monsieur Dubois? Why are you at my apartment?"
"I tried the museum, then the Sorbonne. I was becoming increasingly concerned about the Laurent matter, and knowing how invested you are in your work, I hoped you might have rushed home to review your notes. I had the spare key, of course, for emergencies. I simply wanted to check on you."
The hairs on the back of Elara's neck prickled. The spare key. He wasn't just tracking her at work; he had full, unsupervised access to her private life. He hadn't broken in; he had simply walked in.
"I am fine, thank you. I decided to take the evening off to clear my head, away from the city. I will return tomorrow." She kept her voice steady, cool.
"That is wise," Dubois murmured. "But Elara, the journal? You didn't leave anything of the Baron's acquisition lying about, did you? Professor Laurent, in his agitated state, might have left something with you."
"Only my personal notes, Monsieur. Everything official remains in the vault."
"Excellent. Get some rest, my dear. We need you sharp for the investigation tomorrow."
He hung up. Elara slowly replaced the receiver. That call was not a check of concern; it was a psychological probe, a reminder that he knew where she slept and had the means to watch her. The idea of him standing in her cozy, ordered apartment, searching for the key, made her skin crawl.
The Saint-Jacques Tower rose like a dark, isolated cathedral against the darkening sky. It was a beautiful but lonely sentinel, the only remaining relic of a grand church destroyed during the French Revolution.
Elara approached it just as the municipal gas lamps flickered on. The tower stood in a public park, closed at night. Scaling the iron railings was simple enough, but entering the tower itself was the problem. The main entrance was sealed with heavy, modern locks.
She moved around the base, relying on her notes of the journal. "...the shadow of the gargoyle who sleeps..."
She looked up at the gothic carvings. Most of the gargoyles were beasts or snarling demons. But on the eastern face, high up, was a figure curled inward, its head resting on its arms as if in deep slumber. As the light from a nearby streetlamp caught the tower, the gargoyle's shadow fell directly onto a specific section of the stone base.
Elara knelt down, feeling along the stone beneath the shadow. This section looked original, unlike the rest of the repaired base. She found a faint line, too perfect to be natural weathering, and used her fingernail to brush away decades of grit.
Hidden beneath the grime was a small, ornate silver escutcheon—a keyhole plate. It was exactly the shape required for the key she held.
Her hand trembled as she slid the antique silver key into the lock. It caught on the teeth, and with a grinding, deeply satisfying clack, the lock turned.
A section of the stone base, barely visible, scraped inward. It revealed a narrow, pitch-black vertical opening—a passage into the very heart of the tower's foundation. The air that wafted out was cold, still, and smelled intensely of sulfur and burnt iron—the unmistakable scent of a long-dormant alchemist's forge.
Elara pulled out a small, battery-powered torch she had bought. She had found Vance's workshop, exactly where the cipher promised. But stepping into that darkness meant leaving all vestiges of her safe, predictable life behind.