The journey from Madame Eva's house to the residence of Magistrate Valerius was short, but the change in atmosphere was palpable.
Catherine was no longer a candidate on trial; she was a trophy being delivered. Valerius did not escort her personally a man of his importance had lackeys for that but his presence permeated everything.
The carriage was his, the guards were his, and the very air seemed to vibrate with his satisfied arrogance.
Valerius's residence was less a house than a monument to his own ego.
Less elegant and discreet than Madame Eva's, it was of a crushing and ostentatious opulence.
Marble columns flanked the entrance, statues of mythological beasts snarled from niches, and every surface seemed polished to reflect the greatness of its owner.
Catherine was led directly to the heart of the Magistrate's power: his private study.
It was a large room paneled in dark wood, dominated by a massive desk on which documents and maps were stacked.
A fire crackled in a huge stone hearth, and the walls were lined with leather-bound books.
Upon entering, Catherine let her vision sweep the room. It was a nest of snakes woven from invisible threads.
Threads of blackmail in a sickly green clung to certain ledgers.
Threads of bribery in a greasy gold connected locked boxes to important names in the city. And everywhere, threads of a vain, self-centered pink emanated from every object Valerius had personally touched.
Valerius stood by the fire, a glass of wine in his hand. He dismissed the guards with a gesture, and they withdrew, closing the heavy door behind them.
They were alone.
"Approach, my Oracle," he said, his voice like honey. He poured her a glass of wine without asking her preference and held it out to her.
"The finest wine from the southern valleys. Only the finest things have a place in this house."
Catherine accepted the glass, her fingers brushing against his.
A deliberate contact.
She felt the thread of the collector's desire intensify, a shiver of possession.
She did not drink, merely held the glass, her calm a contrast to Valerius's smug energy.
"Your little performance at Eva's was... amusing," he began, settling into his large leather armchair. "Corbin is a fool, and his secrets are an open secret. But I do not pay for parlor tricks. I pay for utility. I have a problem. A rival on the council, Lord Merceron, is blocking one of my business proposals. He is stubborn and, by all accounts, incorruptible. Tell me, my Oracle, where is his weakness?"
This was the real test.
A concrete question.
A real problem.
Catherine set her glass down and slowly approached the desk, letting the silence hang in the air.
She stared at the map of the city spread across the wood, but her gaze saw much further.
She saw Valerius's threads, his anxiety about Merceron, but above all, she saw the much darker, deeper knot that was eating away at him: his dependency on his financier, Silas.
"You worry about the wolf scratching at your door, Magistrate," she finally said, her voice a whisper that nonetheless seemed to fill the room.
"But the termites are already in the foundations of your house."
Valerius frowned. "What do you mean? Speak plainly."
"Lord Merceron is merely a symptom. A rock in the stream. The real danger threatening your enterprise does not come from him." She lifted her gaze from the map to fix on him.
"It comes from the man who holds your purse.
A chain of debts is a leash, Magistrate.
And even the master of the hound can himself be chained."
The color drained from Valerius's ruddy face.
Catherine had not named Silas, but she didn't need to.
She had described the exact dynamic of his most secret fear: his precarious power relationship with his creditor, and the suspicion that Silas himself had weaknesses.
She had seen past the problem he presented to her and struck directly at the heart of his true anguish.
He was silent for a long moment, looking at her with a new respect, tinged with fear.
The collector had just realized that his new art object could see right through him.
"Extraordinary," he breathed at last.
He stood and walked toward her, his mood having changed completely. He was no longer the client testing a psychic.
He was a believer. A believer who had just found his ultimate weapon.
"You are everything they promised, and more."
He now stood very close to her.
The scent of wine and expensive cologne enveloped her. His gaze was no longer just possessive; it was hungry.
"An intellect so sharp… a gift so profound…" He raised a hand and brushed her cheek, his thick, warm fingers on her skin.
The thread of physical desire, a raw, pulsing magenta, ignited, joining the golden thread of covetousness.
"I must discover if your other talents are just as… rare."
His thumb stroked her lower lip. It was a declaration of ownership, a clear advance.
The moment Catherine had anticipated, the moment the strategic game threatened to become physical.
She did not pull back.
She did not flinch.
She simply met his gaze, her face a blank canvas, letting her silence and stillness be a question in itself.
A question that challenged him, invited him to make the next move, never for a moment suspecting that he was merely following the path she had laid out for him.