The key Valerius had given her was made of black iron, heavy and old. It was an object of great mundanity, but for Catherine, it represented the most concrete power she had ever possessed.
The power to shut a door on the world. Accompanied by a silent servant who showed her the way, she arrived at a discreet door in a seldom-used wing of the manor.
The servant handed her the key, bowed, and left, leaving her alone.
She inserted the key into the lock.
The sound of the turning mechanism was the sweetest of music. She pushed the door open and entered, immediately closing it behind her.
The click of the bolt sliding into place was the sound of freedom.
She found herself in a circular library, a sanctuary of silence and forgotten knowledge.
Dark wood shelves rose to a high, vaulted ceiling, laden with thousands of books whose leather bindings were cracking with age.
A thick layer of dust covered everything, sparkling in the rare moonbeams that pierced a grimy overhead oculus.
The air smelled of paper, time, and neglect. In the center of the room stood a large globe and a massive reading table, also covered in dust. It was a time capsule, an island of solitude in the heart of her jailer's fortress. It was perfect.
It was her headquarters.
But it was missing the most essential thing: her weapons.
The file on the Great Dock Fire was still hidden in her first room, the luxurious suite where Valerius could enter as he pleased. Leaving it there was an unacceptable risk. She had to retrieve it.
She spent the rest of the day observing, listening.
From the library's small private entrance, which opened onto a secluded part of the gardens, she studied the comings and goings of the servants, the rhythm of the guards' patrols.
She learned the choreography of the household, waiting for the intermission, the moment when the house would hold its breath in the deep sleep of night.
As she waited, the thoughts she had so brutally suppressed tried to resurface.
The name, Anne. The concept, sister. Waves of grief and rage threatened to wash over her.
She felt the pressure behind her eyes, the temptation to let herself sink into the pain. But she resisted. She could not afford it.
Grief was a luxury for those who were safe. She was a soldier in enemy territory.
She took these emotions, acknowledged them coldly, and used them to sharpen her focus.
Every spike of pain became a reminder of the stakes, every wave of rage, fuel for her determination. It was a monstrous process, and she felt a part of herself, the part that could cry, become cold and brittle as glass.
In the darkest hours of the night, when the manor's silence was nearly absolute, she made her move.
Dressed in dark clothing, she slipped out of the library, moving with a silent grace she had perfected in the alleys.
She used her vision not to read souls, but to perceive the physical world with supernatural clarity. She saw the consciousness-threads of the sleeping guards, faint bluish glows.
She sensed the recent passage of a maid in a corridor, a thermal wake that her eyes perceived as a trail of heat.
She crept through the sleeping gardens, a shadow among shadows, and re-entered the main building through a service door she had noted.
The corridors were deserted. She reached the door of her former room. It was locked, of course. But locks were only obstacles for ordinary people.
A hairpin, purloined earlier, did the trick in a few seconds of expert manipulation.
She entered the room. It was exactly as she had left it. No one had come to clean it yet. She went straight to the tapestry, removed the stone, and her fingers closed around the leather package.
A silent, deep sigh of relief escaped her. She put everything back in its place and left the room, a ghost returning to her tomb.
Back in the safety of her library, she locked the door and lit a single candle. The flickering flame cast dancing shadows on the walls of books.
She unwrapped the file and spread the parchments out on the large table, creating her first true conspiracy board.
She was no longer just the Oracle who felt things; she was the investigator who analyzed facts. Her mind worked with formidable speed and clarity. She cross-referenced the information.
On one side, the list of victims and the ruined: the Elmers, the Solari, the Van Der Meers. On the other, the list of those who had prospered, gleaned from her conversations with Valerius: Silas's family, and the two other noble houses. Between them, the secret report.
And in that report, the two key names, the two threads left dangling, waiting to be pulled.
Lars Jensen, the witness who had been bribed into silence and had disappeared. Finding him would be nearly impossible, a task for later.
And Captain Jun-Ho Park.
The man who had stifled the case. A man of the city watch. A man whose name must exist in official registries. A man who, if he was alive, must have secrets to protect.
A man who had been either threatened or paid. In either case, he was a weak link. He was the first crack in The Rook's fortress, a thirty-year-old crack, but a crack nonetheless.
Catherine placed a finger on the name written in faded ink.
A cold, absolute certainty settled in her. She had her next step. She knew what Mathieu had to look for. She no longer needed to guide him with vague concepts. She could give him a target.
Her gaze was lost in the candlelight, but she was seeing the face of Mathieu, then Kenji, then Valerius. Pawns, obstacles, tools.
And at the center of it all, the scarred face of The Rook, the man who had orchestrated everything.
She whispered the name in the silence of the library, both a vow and a condemnation.
"Jun-Ho Park. There you are. The first thread to pull."