Read Chapter 22: The Scepter's Heist

The chapel felt smaller in the dark, its vaulted ceiling pressing down like the lid of a tomb. Élise counted her breaths beneath the tapestry, her father's voice in her memory—*the iron door is behind the third saint, the one with the chipped halo*. She'd found it within minutes. The door itself was rusted, the hinges weeping brown streaks, but the lock had been oiled recently. Someone else knew this passage existed.

She worked the pick from her sleeve, the metal cold against her fingertips. The lock gave with a soft *click* that echoed shamefully in the silence. She slipped through, pulling the door shut behind her, and descended into blackness.

The servant's stair was narrow, little more than a spiral of worn stone that corkscrewed downward. Élise moved by touch, one hand on the damp wall, the other gripping her pistol. Dust thickened the air, carrying the faint smell of candle wax and something older—incense, perhaps, from a century of ceremonies above. Her father had served as a footman in this palace before his disgrace, and he'd spoken of this stair only once, after too much wine, in a voice that warned her never to repeat it.

She counted steps. Fifty-three, then a landing. A door to her left, painted the same grey as the wall, led to the treasury's antechamber. She pressed her ear against the wood and heard nothing. No footsteps, no voices. The Feast of the Lily had drawn most of the guard to the outer courtyards, rehearsing the procession that would carry the crown jewels through the capital in three days' time.

Élise pushed the door open.

The treasury was a cathedral of glass and gold. Display cases lined the walls, each holding a relic of the monarchy—coronation robes, jeweled swords, the riding gloves of a long-dead queen. And at the center, on a raised dais of black marble, rested the ceremonial scepter.

It was taller than she'd expected, nearly four feet of gilded silver capped with a fist-sized orb. The orb gleamed even in the dim light, filigree tracing patterns of lilies and laurel around a central band of sapphires. The cipher key, Lefèvre had told her, was in the hollow beneath the orb's cap, hidden in the mechanism that allowed the scepter to be disassembled for cleaning.

She crossed the room with her eyes on the windows—leaded glass, painted with saints, but dark now. No one outside would see her. Still, she felt the weight of observation, that prickle at the back of her neck that had followed her since the monastery. She pushed it aside and climbed onto the dais.

The scepter stood on a velvet cushion, displayed in a glass case of its own. The case was locked with a brass mechanism, old but sturdy. Élise examined it, then smiled despite herself. The lock was ceremonial, designed to impress visitors, not to stop a professional. Her pick worked it in seconds.

The glass lifted silently on its hinges. She reached for the scepter.

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

Élise froze. The voice came from the shadows near the far door, low and male, with the flat cadence of a man accustomed to obedience. She turned slowly, keeping her hands visible.

A guard stood in the doorway, uniform immaculate, rifle held loosely across his chest. His face was familiar—she'd seen him in the palace yard during her morning briefing, a young man with a scar across his jaw and eyes that missed nothing.

"Who are you?" he asked. "The Archbishop's office doesn't send women into the treasury after dark."

Élise's mind raced. Her forged papers identified her as Nathalie Roux, assistant to the royal archivist. But the archivist's office had no business here, and they both knew it.

"I'm here on the King's business," she said. "Direct orders. You can verify with the Grand Chamberlain."

The guard's mouth twitched. "The Grand Chamberlain is a viper, and the King is dying. Neither is giving orders tonight." He took a step forward, the rifle rising a fraction. "But you know that, don't you? You're not a clerk. You move like a soldier."

Élise exhaled. The pistol was in her coat, but drawing it would only escalate matters. She needed time, not violence.

"Captain Élise Moreau," she said. "State Security. I'm investigating a conspiracy against the crown. The scepter contains evidence that can expose the plotters."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Moreau. The one they've been searching for." He paused, his finger hovering near the trigger. "They say you're a traitor. Complicit in the attack on the prince."

"They say a lot of things." Élise gestured at the scepter. "The truth is in there. And if I don't get it, the prince's blood will be on all our hands."

Silence stretched between them, thick as the dust in the stairwell. The guard's jaw worked, his scar whitening as he considered his options. Then he lowered the rifle.

"I was on duty the night the abbey was attacked. I saw the men who came through the gate, the ones who took the prince." His voice dropped. "They wore the King's livery. I reported it to my sergeant, and the next day I was transferred to stable duty. They called me a liar."

Élise studied him. He was young, but his eyes held the weariness of a man who'd learned not to trust his superiors.

"You believe me, then?"

"I believe you're not their puppet." He nodded at the scepter. "Get what you came for. I'll watch the door."

She turned back to the scepter, working quickly now. The orb's cap was set with a seam invisible to the casual eye, but Lefèvre's instruction had been precise. She applied pressure at the base of the sapphire band, and the cap twisted free with a groan of old metal.

Inside, nested in silk, rested a small brass cylinder no longer than her thumb. She lifted it out, feeling its weight—the cipher key, the final piece.

Shouts echoed from somewhere above, distant but unmistakable.

The guard stiffened. "Someone's raised an alarm. They're sweeping the palace." He moved toward her, eyes darting to the door. "You need to go. The servant's stair is the only way out."

He paused, then pulled a coin from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. "If you're caught, this—this is the seal of the Royal Transport Corps. It's only good for one crossing at the river. Use it wisely."

"Thank you." She pocketed the coin and the cylinder, closing the scepter's cap and restoring the case. "Your name?"

"Lefèvre," he said. A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "No relation to your archivist friend. My mother married above herself."

Élise was already moving, crossing the room toward the stair door. Behind her, the guard repositioned himself, his rifle raised to greet whoever came through the main entrance.

She was halfway up the spiral when the screams began.

They weren't battle cries. They were the sounds of men in pain, short and sharp, cut off as quickly as they began. Élise paused, her hand on the cold stone, listening. The treasury door slammed shut below her, followed by footsteps—not the guard's heavy tread, but lighter, faster. Pursuers, already inside.

She climbed faster, her breath ragged. At the top of the stair, the tapestry hung exactly where she'd left it. She slipped through into the chapel, heart hammering, and pulled the door closed just as a voice echoed up the stairwell.

"She went this way. The treasury guard saw her face."

Élise's blood ran cold. The guard had said he'd watch the door. He'd said he believed her. But the voice in the stairwell was the same flat cadence she'd heard moments ago, now laced with a satisfaction that coiled in her gut like guilt.

She'd been sold. The coin in her pocket, the seal of the Royal Transport Corps—it had all been a lie, designed to funnel her into a trap or buy her captor time to reach his masters.

But the cylinder was warm against her palm. She had the key. And if her face was known, then let them watch.

Let them watch her vanish into the crowds of the Feast of the Lily, four days hence, with the proof of their conspiracy burning a hole in her pocket.

The door at her back held, for now. She moved toward the chapel's side exit, and the night swallowed her whole.