The small, fenced-off square containing the Obelisk of Public Spirit was deserted, nestled between the imposing 19th-century buildings that had replaced the medieval chaos of Les Halles. The Obelisk itself was a plain, grey granite column, perhaps eight feet tall, entirely unremarkable and forgotten by the modern city.
"It's the perfect place," Elara murmured, pulling her coat tight against the cold November wind. "A monument to a lie, erected by the man who rejected the truth."
They scaled the iron fence easily. Jules pulled out a small, dark lantern, casting a minimal glow on the Obelisk's smooth surface.
"Argent was a magistrate. Magistrates love paperwork and perpetuity," Jules whispered. "He wouldn't hide it in a stone carving. He would hide it in the cornerstone, a foundation document for his own corrupt philosophy."
They searched the base. The front plaque bore a meaningless dedication to "Public Virtue." Elara ran her hands along the foundation stones, searching for the same subtle jointing she had found at the fountain.
"Wait," she said, stopping at the back side, facing the darkest alley. "Look at this mortar. It's newer. And there's a small, almost invisible carving here."
Jules held the lantern closer. Scratched lightly into the foundational stone was a tiny, faded carving of a broken vase—an ancient symbol often associated with memorializing failure or irreparable damage. The symbol of Loss.
Elara pushed against the stone next to the carving. It gave way with a silent, sliding motion, revealing a small, dry recess.
Inside, resting on a bed of century-old velvet, was the object from the locket sketch: a small, dark iron key. It was simple, heavy, and tarnished, bearing the indelible mark of a broken circle on its bow. It looked common and utilitarian, completely worthless to a collector—exactly as Vance's note had predicted. The Second Key.
Elara snatched it and slipped it into the same inner coat pocket as the locket.
"We have it. Let's go, before—"
She didn't finish the sentence. A sharp, rhythmic click, click, click echoed from the entrance of the square—the unmistakable sound of polished shoes on cobblestones.
Three dark figures entered the square. Henri, easily identifiable by his height, led the charge. They must have been watching Jules's known associates or simply following the historical trail they assumed Elara would take.
"Mademoiselle Dubois. You are proving to be quite the nuisance," Henri called out, his voice echoing menacingly. "I must insist you return what you took from the Obelisk. It belongs to us."
"They know we're working together," Jules hissed, pulling Elara behind the Obelisk. "They were waiting for me to lead them to the spot. My cover is blown."
"We need a distraction, Jules."
Jules's eyes scanned the square. There was only one small garbage bin near the fence. He reached into his coat and pulled out a handful of his disorganized press notes—flimsy, highly flammable paper.
"You run. You have the key. You stick to the shadows and get back to my place. I'll buy you ten seconds."
"Jules, no—"
"Go!"
Jules lit the corner of his papers with a match and tossed the flaming bundle into the bin. The dry paper caught quickly, sending a column of fire and thick, black smoke billowing into the quiet square.
The agents, momentarily blinded and disoriented by the unexpected flare, stopped. Henri shouted an order, half-choked by the acrid smoke.
Elara didn't look back. She plunged through the smoke and sprinted toward the far fence line.
She heard a loud grunt and the sickening sound of a solid impact. Jules had been intercepted.
"Grab the girl!" Henri barked. "The reporter is secondary!"
Elara vaulted the fence and disappeared down a dark street, the frantic shouts of the agents fading behind her. She had the key, but the bitter taste of fear and guilt choked her. Her search for a dead alchemist's secrets had just cost her the freedom, and possibly the life, of her only living ally.