Read Chapter 12: The House of Mirrors

The Grand Salon of the Maison des Étudiants glittered like a sugar sculpture, all gilt trim and candlelight bouncing off a thousand crystal drops from the chandeliers overhead. Someone had pushed the furniture against the walls and strung fairy lights through the potted palms, and a string quartet sawed away at something Élodie couldn't name from a corner near the buffet.

She pressed her back against a pillar, nursing a glass of cheap sparkling wine she had no intention of drinking. Margaux had insisted this mixer was mandatory—"networking, Élodie, they can smell fear"—and then had vanished into a knot of senior students within minutes of arrival, leaving Élodie alone and exposed in her only decent dress, a navy thing that suddenly felt like a potato sack.

Élodie watched the crowd circulate. Third-years in velvet jackets, laughing too loudly. A pair of research assistants speaking rapid Latin by the window. She was counting the seconds until she could reasonably flee when a group of them peeled off from the main flow and made straight for her.

Five students. Four men and a woman in her final year, a redhead named Camille who Élodie recognized from the library—she always took the table nearest the restricted stacks, the one with the lamp that never worked.

"Marchand," Camille said, with the warmth of a snake greeting a mouse. "We've heard so much about you. The girl from Lyon with the—what do you call it—the memory tricks?"

"Magic," Élodie said flatly. "It's called magic."

One of the men laughed. He had the face of someone who'd been told he was handsome far too many times. "Is that what they're teaching provincial girls now? Parlor games? My grandmother could read minds better than—"

"Touch me," Élodie said.

Silence. The quartet hit a sour note, or maybe she imagined it.

"I beg your pardon?" Camille's smile sharpened at the edges.

"Your grandmother sounds impressive. But you've been talking about me all week, haven't you? You've been *thinking* about me. Let me show you what provincial magic can do." She extended her hand, palm up, fingers steady. "Touch me, and I'll tell you what you had for breakfast. Or what you told your mother about your marks. Whichever is more embarrassing."

Camille's nostrils flared. But behind her, someone said, "Do it," and the pressure of the crowd's attention was too much. Camille reached out and clasped Élodie's hand for a brief, brutal instant.

The memory hit Élodie like a freight train.

A meeting room. No windows. Dark wood paneling, a long table scarred by generations of nervous pens. Camille sat at the far end, head bowed. Around her, others—the handsome man, the pair of research assistants, a dozen more faces Élodie recognized from the faculty hallway.

At the head of the table, a figure in shadow. But he leaned forward, and candlelight caught the silver edge of his glasses.

Professor Delacroix.

"You understand what we protect," he said, and even in memory his voice was honey over broken glass. "The Order of the Quill has guarded the true history of this institution for two hundred years. The archives must remain sealed. The memory must remain buried. This is our sacred charge. No one may read what was meant to be forgotten."

Camille's voice, trembling with devotion. "And the girl? Élodie Marchand?"

Delacroix's face. Élodie saw it clearly now, the weariness behind his eyes, the calculation. "She's a key. And keys can be turned—or they can be broken. Watch her. Learn what she knows. If she becomes a threat—"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

Élodie tore her hand free as if burned.

Camille was already withdrawing, her smile fixed, her eyes cold and watchful. "Charming," she said. "You'll have to teach me that trick sometime."

But Élodie couldn't speak. Her heart was a caged bird throwing itself against her ribs. Order of the Quill. Delacroix. She'd walked into a net she hadn't even seen being cast.

The handsome man said something cutting, and the group laughed, and then they were drifting away like sharks circling off for easier prey. Élodie stood frozen against the pillar, her skin clammy, her mind racing.

They knew about her. They knew she'd entered the archive. And Delacroix had called her a key.

*Keys can be turned—or they can be broken.*

She had to get out. She had to find Margaux. She had to—

She looked down.

Her collar was empty.

The locket was gone.

Panic hit her like cold water down the spine. She scanned the floor, the glittering marble, the crush of silk and velvet. Nothing. She spun, searching the crowd, frantic hands patting her collarbone, her neck, her chest. Somewhere in the chaos of Camille's grip, in the violence of that stolen memory, the chain must have snapped. The locket had fallen somewhere in this sea of strangers.

No. No, no, no.

She dropped to her knees, heedless of her dress, crawling beneath the buffet table, sweeping her hands across the marble. A heel nearly caught her fingers. Someone cursed. She heard Camille's laugh from across the room, bright and cruel.

The locket. Lucien's warning. The only key to the archives. The memories of her grandmother.

Lost.

Élodie pushed herself upright, breathing hard, tears burning in her eyes. The room had gone blurry. She stumbled toward the doors, pushing through the crush of careless bodies, and made it into the cool night air of the courtyard. She leaned against the cold stone wall, pressing her palms to her eyes, willing herself not to break.

Somewhere behind her, someone was picking up a small silver chain from the floor. Somewhere behind her, Camille was watching her flee.

And somewhere in the dark, the Order of the Quill had just been handed the very key they were trying to break.