Elara pressed herself against the cold, damp stone of the alley wall, trying to regulate her ragged breath. The charcoal-suited man reached the mouth of the alley, his eyes sweeping the area with the cool, practiced efficiency of a hunter.
He was fast, but Elara knew the narrow, winding veins of the 5th Arrondissement better than any map. She glanced up. A wrought-iron fire escape, old and rusting, offered a perilous vertical escape.
As the man took his first step into the alley, Elara darted forward, grabbing the lowest rung. She scaled the ladder silently, her historian's skirt catching on the metal only once. She reached the first landing just as the man looked up.
"Stop!" he called, his voice flat and devoid of Parisian warmth. He started climbing, but his speed was hampered by his tailored suit and polished shoes.
Elara knew she couldn't outclimb him for long. She leaped onto the narrow ledge of the adjacent building, crossing to a rooftop cluttered with chimney pots. She scrambled down the back stairs of a restaurant, smelling the rich aroma of dinner service, and burst onto the far street, unrecognizable to the man still scrambling on the fire escape.
She flagged a taxi and gave the driver a distant address, sinking into the seat, her hands trembling. She was no longer a scholar; she was prey.
When she finally felt safe enough to return home, a small, sealed envelope was tucked beneath her door. It bore the crest of the Sorbonne, slipped there by Professor Laurent.
Elara tore it open. The Professor's handwriting was shaky, but the message was clear:
I have it, Elara. Only the first line. The code is ancient, powerful, and requires extreme care. I will not keep it here any longer than tonight. Meet me tomorrow at the museum—the restricted manuscript vault—at 8:00 AM. Do not be late.
Here is the translation of the first line. Be careful what you seek.
"The Key rests where the Archduke weeps."
—L.
Elara read the line again. The Key. The Archduke. Tears. It sounded like poetry, but she knew it was a location.
Her mind immediately raced through Parisian landmarks. The Arch of Triumph? The Porte Saint-Denis? She dismissed them. Vance, the alchemist, would have used something subtle, something tied to historical grief or a forgotten royal marker.
She pulled out her antique silver letter opener—the one that had discovered the journal's hiding place. She held it in the moonlight. Could this be the "Key" the cipher referred to, or was it the destination?
She forced herself to sleep, knowing she needed a clear head for the morning.
At 7:55 AM, the restricted manuscript vault—a room of climate-controlled silence and heavy iron bars—was bathed in the morning glow filtering from the high windows. Elara entered using her key card, her nerves taut.
Professor Laurent was not there.
Instead, waiting by the large central table, was Monsieur Dubois. He was impeccable, as always, his grey suit perfectly pressed, his face radiating professional concern.
"Elara, my dear. Thank heavens you are here. I apologize for the early summons, but Laurent had a moment of indiscretion." Dubois gestured to a small wooden stool that had been overturned, as if in haste. "He called me in a panic twenty minutes ago. Said he was being followed, insisting he had found a major discovery in the Baron's texts—something about a 'weeping archduke' and a key. He begged me to secure the area."
Dubois walked toward her, his expression softening into the kind, paternal look Elara had always trusted.
"Now, the police are sweeping the area near the Sorbonne, but it's clear he was quite agitated. Did he, perhaps, give you anything for safekeeping?"
Elara's mind screamed: He knows. He knows the words. She realized the chilling implication of Laurent's warning in the previous chapter.
She looked at her mentor, her heart sinking with crushing disappointment and dawning horror.
"No, Monsieur Dubois," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline pumping through her veins. "Professor Laurent only told me he was close to translating the entire text. He said he would meet me here to review the inventory."
Dubois tilted his head, a faint, almost imperceptible line of impatience forming between his eyes. He stopped a few feet away.
"A pity. Well, we shall wait for him, then."
He offered her a chair. Elara took it, her mind racing. She was alone with the chief suspect, the first clue burned into her memory, and the man who was supposed to be her protector was now missing.