Read Chapter 13: The Reflection's Price

Verne’s office smelled of old paper and rain, the kind of damp that clung to the prefecture’s bones no matter the season. Julien stood at attention across the desk, the Moreau ring cold against his finger beneath his glove, the shard in his pocket radiating a low, insistent warmth that he did his best to ignore.

Verne hadn’t looked up from the file in front of him for the better part of two minutes. The silence was a tool, Julien knew—a way to make the accused fill it. He didn’t.

“You understand the position this puts us in,” Verne said finally, sliding a photograph across the desk. It showed the warehouse interior, flooded with Section 13 forensic light. The mirrors hung like dead silver eyes. A chalk outline marked where Julien’s cousin had fallen—not that Verne knew that. The official report listed the victim as an unidentified auction broker killed during a raid gone wrong. “Three dead. Two of them ours. And no archivist recovered.”

“The glaceur took her through a mirror,” Julien said. “I told you that.”

“Through a mirror.” Verne repeated the words without inflection. He closed the file and looked up, and for the first time Julien saw something behind the bureaucratic mask—a weariness that looked old, almost inherited. “And you expect me to put that in the report.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth is a difficult currency in this building, Moreau.” Verne leaned back. His office was cluttered with artifacts Julien had never fully catalogued—brass instruments, a painting of a bridge that didn’t exist, a clock that ran backwards. “Do you know why you were assigned to Section 13?”

“Because I see through illusions.”

“You see through illusions because you’re a Moreau. The bloodline is not a secret to everyone, Julien. It’s a bureaucracy. There are files within files, permissions that require permissions.” Verne’s fingers drummed on the desk. “Your family’s name appears in our archives more than any other civilian surname. Did you think that was coincidence?”

The pocket watch pulled east, a faint tug against his chest. Julien resisted the urge to reach for it.

“You know what happened in that warehouse,” Julien said slowly. “You’ve always known.”

Verne’s jaw tightened. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a thin folder, bound in dark leather with no markings. He held it for a moment, then slid it back without opening it. “I know that your grandfather requested a meeting with Section 13 in 1975. I know he was denied. I know he died nine days later, and that the official cause was listed as cardiac arrest despite the fact that his heart was removed from his chest.”

The room went still.

“I know your mother requested a transfer to Lyon in 2009, and that her file was flagged by the Archivist’s office and denied.” Verne’s voice dropped. “I know she died in a bakery fire six weeks later, and that the investigation was closed in nineteen hours.”

Julien’s hands were fists at his sides. The shard in his pocket pulsed, hot enough to burn through the fabric. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’m forbidden to tell you anything else.” Verne’s eyes met his, and there was a genuine pleading there, a man caught between orders and a conscience he didn’t entirely possess. “There’s a word in the old files. *Conciles.* Counselors. Your family was meant to be something. But the duty was abandoned, and the records were sealed by a directive that predates the Section itself. I cannot open them. But you are a Moreau. You don’t need permission.”

The shard flared. Julien flinched, his hand going to his pocket. Verne’s eyes dropped to the movement, sharp and knowing.

“What’s in your pocket, detective?”

“Nothing.” The lie was thin. The warmth had spread, traveling up his wrist like a slow tide. “A memento from the warehouse.”

Verne’s gaze lingered. He had the look of a man deciding whether to reach for a weapon. Instead he sat back, exhaling slowly. “The internal review will be opened this afternoon. Standard procedure after an incident with multiple casualties. They’ll ask you about the mirrors, about the man you chased, about why you entered a classified crime scene without backup.”

“I had backup. Romy was there.”

“Your partner’s testimony is being weighed against the fact that she used unregistered magical equipment during the operation.” Verne’s tone was flat. “She fabricated a mirror-interrogation charm. That’s a violation of Section protocol. They could pull her credentials for it.”

Julien’s blood went cold. “She was helping me.”

“I’m aware.” Verne opened his own desk drawer, retrieved a brass key, and placed it on the blotter. “The review is scheduled for 14:00. Be there on time. Wear your gloves. And Julien—” He paused. “Whatever you’re carrying, whatever you found in that warehouse, don’t bring it into the building again. There are things that walk these halls that are not on the payroll.”

Julien picked up the key without asking what it opened. He turned to leave.

“One more thing.” Verne’s voice stopped him at the door. “Your grandmother is still alive. Rue des Lilas, the 14th. She was the last Moreau to serve the Conciles before the duty was abandoned.” A pause. “You didn’t hear that from me.”

Julien left without responding. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of the corridor swallowed the sound.

Romy was waiting at the end of the hall, arms crossed, her coat still stained with warehouse dust. She pushed off the wall when she saw him. “Well?”

“Internal review at two.”

“And?”

“Verne knows more than he’s saying. He told me my mother’s file was flagged by the Archivist’s office. He told me my grandfather’s heart was removed from his chest.”

Romy went quiet. Then she said, “That’s not nothing. That’s a trail.”

“It’s a leash.” Julien pulled the shard from his pocket. It pulsed through his palm, a soft heartbeat of silver light. “This thing—it showed me my mother. Alive. Trapped in a clockmaker’s shop. It knows where she is.”

Romy stared at the shard, her face unreadable. “Julien, I need you to hear me. What happened in that warehouse—the mirrors, the glaceur, the names carved back to 1874—that was a battlefield. You walked out of it with a weapon that drinks blood and shows you visions. You don’t know what that costs.”

“I don’t care what it costs.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “The Section has three rules. First: don’t let them see you bleed. Second: never make deals with what you don’t understand. Third: your family is not your case. You’re breaking all three, and if you keep going this way, the internal review won’t be the thing that ends you.”

The shard pulsed again, a rhythm like a heartbeat.

“She’s my mother, Romy.”

“I know.” Her voice softened. “And I’m your partner. Which means it’s my job to tell you when you’re walking into a trap with your eyes closed.” She looked at the shard, then back at him. “You found it in a mirror carved with a Moreau name. The same kind of mirror the glaceur used to escape. What if it’s not showing you where she is? What if it’s showing you what it wants you to see?”

Julien slid the shard back into his pocket. The warmth spread up his arm, settling in his chest like a second heartbeat.

“It showed me my mother,” he said. “That’s enough.”

He walked past her toward the stairs. He didn’t look back.

Outside the prefecture, the sky had turned grey, a low mist settling over the boulevard. Julien stood at the edge of the curb, the pocket watch pulling east with steady insistence. The ring on his finger was cold, but he could feel it humming now—a resonance he hadn’t noticed before, as if his hand was the socket and the ring was a key meant to fit it.

He flexed his fingers. A faint shimmer danced along his knuckles, a reflection, like a man passing a mirrored storefront. His own gaze stared back at him, just for a second, older than he remembered.

A woman’s voice rose from the shard in his pocket, faint but unmistakable.

*Julien.*

His mother’s voice. He stood still, heart hammering.

*Don’t come for me yet,* the voice said. *He will expect that. Find the book first.*

The warmth faded. The street returned to noise, traffic, the hum of Paris going about its day. The shard lay dormant in his pocket, heavy as a stone.

Julien turned toward the 14th arrondissement. Rue des Lilas. His grandmother’s address.

He hailed a cab, and when the driver asked where he was going, Julien gave the address he’d never spoken aloud. The cab pulled into traffic, and the mirrors of the passing shops slid across his vision like sheets of silver—each one holding his reflection for a fraction too long, each one watching him leave.