The scraping ceased, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of feet on stone—multiple sets of them. They were inside the tower and rapidly descending.
Elara shoved the small silver locket (containing the sketch of the Second Key and the cryptic note about "loss") deep into the inner pocket of her borrowed coat. She couldn't take the time to replace the Hourglass Key in the lower lock; she only had seconds.
She scrambled onto the cold iron grate of the forge. The soot-choked opening of the chimney shaft looked impossibly narrow, an insult to the dignity of a curator. But it was her only route.
With a final surge of desperation, she began to pull herself upward, relying on her upper body strength and the slight friction of her coat against the rough, centuries-old buildup of carbon. The air around her was instantly stifling, thick with fine black dust that made her eyes sting and her throat burn.
A beam of light sliced across the floor of the workshop below.
"The passage is open!" It was Henri's voice, sharp and triumphant. "She's here."
Elara froze, clinging to the soot-slicked shaft. She could hear them clearly now: three men entering the cramped forge space.
"The silver key is in the lower lock," another voice reported. "It's open, but the cabinet is sealed by the upper lock."
"She knows the secret," Henri hissed. "Check the bench! She must have left the secondary key or the map."
Elara risked a soundless upward shove. The soot flaked away beneath her hands and fell silently to the floor below. She prayed the dust was too thick to detect her movement.
"There is something here," an agent muttered. "The wood has been disturbed. And here... a faint scent of perfume."
"She's gone! She just left!" Henri roared, realizing the passage was still open. He shone his light around the ceiling. "The flue! Check the flue!"
The light hit the iron grate directly beneath Elara's feet. She clamped her eyes shut, fighting the urge to cough. She felt a wave of scalding heat as Henri, testing the exit, briefly fired his pistol into the chimney shaft. The sound was deafening, amplified by the stone. A few shards of stone broke off, missing her by inches.
The near-miss gave her renewed terror. She pulled herself up with frantic energy, scraping her knuckles raw against the chimney's stone lining. The vertical shaft twisted slightly, finally opening onto a narrow, maintenance platform within the tower's main structure—a small, dark ledge designed for bell-ringers and inspectors.
Elara scrambled out, tasting soot and fear. She was now high above the ground, hidden by the tower's gothic buttresses.
She risked a glance downward. The agents, realizing the futility of climbing a vertical chute, were already ascending the main spiral staircase inside the tower, intent on intercepting her at the top.
She had to get out of the tower now, before the agents reached the upper platforms. She was on the level of the gargoyles. With the silver key digging into her palm and the memory of Dubois's casual betrayal fresh in her mind, Elara found the nearest window aperture.
It was narrow, cold, and offered a terrifying view of the illuminated city street far below. Right next to the aperture, staring impassively into the Parisian night, was the very stone figure that had given her the clue: The Sleepy Gargoyle.
She didn't hesitate. She threw her legs over the ledge and began the precarious descent onto the rough, ornamental stone of the tower's exterior, heading for the quickest possible drop to the ground. The Hourglass Key, Vance's legacy, was already leading her to ever greater dangers.