Isabelle's Apartment — Later That Evening
The fire had died down in the hearth, leaving only a faint glow that flickered against the carved wood and velvet drapes. The perfume of jasmine from Isabelle's room still lingered faintly in the air.
Mary sat stiffly in her chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap, while Thomas stood near the window, looking out at the lamplit street with an expression somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
"I just don't understand it, Mary," he said, voice tense. "This… friendship with her. You defend her as though she's some misunderstood artist when she's just—"
He turned, gesturing around them. "She's a performer in a second-rate bar. She lives in a place that smells like old smoke and sin. And you're sleeping under her roof."
Mary looked away, ashamed of how her voice trembled. "She offered us kindness. She gave us a place to stay."
"Kindness?" Thomas scoffed. "She's clever. I'll give her that. She has a way of pulling sympathy from anyone who glances her way. And you—you're falling right into it."
Mary's throat tightened. "She's not manipulating me."
Thomas stepped forward. "Then what is this, Mary? You've barely looked at me since we arrived. You rush to speak for her. You blush when her name comes up."
Mary opened her mouth, but the words caught. There was so much she wanted to say—but everything felt like it might crack the fragile lie she'd been forced to live inside.
Thomas's eyes narrowed.
"You're not the girl I remember from the garden parties and the parlor halls. That Mary would never be so... so careless."
She stood then, quickly—too quickly.
"I'm not being careless," she said, though her voice wavered. "I'm just... thinking. Sorting things."
"Well," he said, brushing his coat with a sharp flick, "think quickly."
He turned toward the door, then stopped.
"We should leave," he said plainly. "Tomorrow. First train. This city is... no place for people like us. And certainly not for people like her."
Mary's lips parted, but no sound came.
She just stood there, staring at the place where he had been, heart thudding painfully in her chest, as the walls of the life she was supposed to want began closing in again.
Behind her, the shadows whispered the truth she was too afraid to speak aloud:
She didn't want to leave.
She didn't want to lose Isabelle.
She didn't want this life of pretending anymore.
Mary stood near the door, her packed bag trembling ever so slightly in her gloved hand. Thomas stood a few steps behind her, coat on, lips pressed in firm impatience.
They were just about to leave.
Mary's eyes drifted once more toward the hallway that led to Isabelle's room—a last, helpless glance—when a knock echoed sharply through the apartment.
Three slow raps.
It was too early for visitors. Too heavy a knock for a friend.
Mary stepped forward and cautiously opened the door.
There, in the hall, stood a tall, well-dressed man in a double-breasted wool coat, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He looked to be in his late forties, clean-shaven but with that ageless weariness around the eyes that came from years of smoke, late nights, and power.
He didn't smile.
His gaze scanned the room behind Mary before landing squarely on her with a look so cold it made her shoulders stiffen.
She tried to keep her voice polite, steady.
"Good morning. May I ask who you are, sir?"
Thomas moved closer behind her, sensing the energy shift.
The man took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled, and finally spoke.
"I'm here for Isabelle Moreau."
His voice was gravelly, quiet, like a man used to getting what he wants without raising it.
Mary blinked. "I'm sorry, she's not home at the moment. May I tell her who came—"
He cut her off with a look—sharp, almost scornful—and said flatly:
"You're not her sister or anything right. Are you any new girl here for serving me?"
Mary's breath hitched.
Thomas stepped forward now, placing a protective hand near her arm. "Sir, I suggest you speak with more respect. Whoever you are, we don't appreciate—"
The man chuckled, low and humorless. "Ah, so this is the gentleman she spoke of."
He looked Thomas over with distaste, then turned his gaze back to Mary with a curl of the lip.
"Didn't think you'd fall for her spell too. You look… polished. But here you are. In her den, all the same."
Mary bristled, trying to steady her voice. "If you've come to insult, I suggest you leave."
He flicked his cigarette on the ground, stepping on it slowly.
"No. I've come to collect a debt," he muttered. "One way or another. Let her know that Jacques hasn't forgotten."
The name landed like a slap.
Jacques.
Even Thomas looked slightly shaken now, the weight of something unspoken tightening the air.
Before either could respond, the man turned sharply and walked away, coat sweeping behind him like a shadow vanishing down the hallway.
Mary stood frozen in the doorway, staring after him, her heart thudding hard in her chest.
Who was he really? What debt? And how did he know them both?
Thomas touched her arm.
"Mary," he said quietly, "this is exactly why we need to go."
Mary didn't reply.
She was no longer thinking of Thomas.
No longer thinking of the train.
Only Isabelle—and whatever danger had just knocked on their door.