Read Chapter 24: The Paper's Proof

The newspaper hit the student common room tables like a dropped stone. Élodie didn't see it herself—she was hiding in the Catacombs Club's candlelit hideout beneath the old chemistry building—but Margaux brought a copy down through the forgotten service stairwell, her face the color of ash.

"Le Provençal," Margaux said, dropping the broadsheet on the upturned crate that served as their table. "Page three. There's a syndicated version running in Lyon tonight, too."

Élodie didn't want to touch it. The cheap newsprint smelled of ink and accusations. But she picked it up anyway.

The headline read: *First-Year Linked to Library Victim by Forged Letter*. Beneath it, a facsimile of her own handwriting—the letter, the one she'd never written, the one that supposedly invited Camille to the restricted archives on the night she was drained. The article quoted an "anonymous university source" confirming the letter had been found in the victim's possession.

"That's the letter Delacroix faked." Élodie's voice came out steady, which surprised her. "The one I saw in the Dean's office that first time. He must have planted it on Camille before—before whatever happened to her."

Margaux sat down on a stack of moldering philosophy texts. "The whole campus has read this, Élodie. People are saying—"

"Let me guess. That I used my memory magic to lure her down there. That I wanted her memories for myself."

"Something like that." Margaux hesitated. "Bastien texted me. There's a formal summons. Disciplinary hearing. In an hour."

Élodie laughed, a brittle sound that echoed off the limestone walls. A few members of the Catacombs Club looked up from their scattered books—the thin girl who brewed illegal coffee in a silver spirit-kettle, the boy with the limp who claimed to hear the walls whispering. None of them spoke.

"I was expecting the Dean to come with the wardens," Élodie said. "Instead they're doing it by the book. They want it to look fair."

Margaux's dark eyes narrowed. "You don't have to go."

"I have to. If I run, I confirm everything. And we're locked down anyway—there's nowhere to run that Delacroix can't find me." Élodie stood, brushing dust from her trousers. "But I'm not going in unarmed."

The hearing took place in the Salle des Actes, a wood-paneled chamber that smelled of beeswax and centuries of bureaucracy. Three faculty members sat behind a raised table: the Dean in his high-collared robes, a stern woman from the Department of Material Conjuration whom Élodie had never spoken to, and Professor Delacroix himself, wearing the face of a kindly academic forced to do unpleasant duty.

Élodie stood alone at a small lectern facing them. Behind her, the gallery was packed—students and faculty alike, drawn by scandal. Margaux sat in the second row, front and center. No sign of Constance. No sign of Dr. Roux.

"Miss Marchand," the Dean began, his voice carrying the papery weight of authority. "You've seen the article?"

"I have." Élodie placed her palms flat on the lectern. The wood was cool, familiar—she'd practiced this speech half the night, memorizing it the way other students memorized theorems. "And I've also seen the letter it's based on. I never wrote it."

The Dean raised an eyebrow. "It bears your handwriting. Our examiners have verified the consistency with your coursework submissions."

"I'm not denying it's my handwriting." Élodie paused. "I'm saying it's my handwriting because Professor Delacroix compelled a memory mage to reproduce it. The Order of the Silenced Sun uses forged documents for one purpose—to make their enemies look guilty before they're disappeared."

A murmur rippled through the gallery. Delacroix's expression flickered—something cold passing behind his eyes like a fish under ice—before settling into patient concern.

"Extraordinary accusation," he said mildly. "I assume you have proof?"

"I do." Élodie reached into her coat and withdrew the cracked memory sphere, the one containing Delacroix's order for her execution. She'd considered saving it, preserving it for a moment when she could present it whole. But this was the moment. "This sphere contains a memory of you, Professor Delacroix, instructing a senior faculty member to kill me. It was taken by Dr. Roux and nearly stolen by your raven. It's fragmentary—I won't pretend otherwise. But when I touched it, I could feel the truth of it."

She set the sphere on the lectern's small dish. The Dean leaned forward, curiosity warring with something else—fear, perhaps, or recognition.

"Spin it," Élodie said. "Show them."

The Dean touched the sphere, and the room dissolved into projected memory. Élodie watched it re-form around her: Dr. Roux's office, late evening, the smaller office at the back of her suite. Delacroix standing with his back to a window of violet glass, speaking in that measured voice.

"—cannot be allowed to continue her research. The girl has already proven dangerously resourceful."

The memory flickered. Delacroix's jaw moved, but the words became a blur of static, like a skipping record. The image trembled, fragmented, and reformed with Delacroix handing something to Roux—a folded letter, sealed in wax.

"—the forgery has already been completed. Plant it on the girl from Lyon. The newspapers will do the rest."

The memory broke. The room snapped back to reality.

Élodie's heart dropped. The memory was incomplete, garbled—the connection that made it whole was missing. She'd known the sphere was damaged, but she'd hoped—she'd *prayed*—

"Miss Marchand." The Dean's voice had hardened. "What we just witnessed was a fragmented memory projection, possibly fabricated, showing a man—who, for the record, resembles Professor Delacroix only in the vaguest sense—discussing a forged letter. There is no clear instruction to harm anyone. There is no face we can identify with certainty."

"That's not what the memory contains," Élodie said. "I could feel it when I touched it. The full version exists. It's the same memory that shows Delacroix ordering Camille drained—the same pattern, the same—"

"Fragments," Delacroix said softly. "Fragmentary evidence, fragmentary accusations, fragmentary memories. You'll understand, Miss Marchand, that we approach such claims with caution."

"Is there anyone who can confirm what the lost portion of the memory contained?" The woman from Material Conjuration spoke for the first time. "Someone who touched this sphere before it was damaged?"

Élodie opened her mouth. And paused.

Dr. Roux had touched it. Dr. Roux was the one who'd shown her the memory in the first place. But Roux's true allegiance was uncertain now. If she denied what she'd shown Élodie—

"I touched it." Margaux's voice rang out from the gallery. Élodie turned, shocked. Margaux's face was pale, but her chin was set. "After the attack on—after the damage occurred. I saw fragments of the original. A man ordering a woman to kill Élodie. Enough."

Delacroix smiled. It was a patient, devastating smile. "Miss Laurent. You are known to be Élodie's closest friend. Your testimony will be weighed accordingly."

He had them. Élodie understood it in that moment with perfect clarity. The broken sphere was useless. Her testimony was compromised. Delacroix had worked with what he had, and he'd won.

"Given new evidence of a conspiracy to defame a senior faculty member," the Dean said, his voice heavy with finality, "I am adjourning this hearing while we launch a full investigation into Miss Marchand's activities, associations, and magical practices. Until then, Miss Marchand—you are suspended from all classes and barred from the library."

The room erupted. Élodie barely heard it. Her eyes were on Delacroix, who was gathering his papers with schoolmasterly tidiness, looking up just long enough to meet her gaze.

The look in his face was warm. Paternal. Triumphant.

She turned to the gallery, to Margaux—but the crowd was surging, voices rising in accusation. Someone shouted "murderer." Someone else shouted "fake."

And out in the corridor, Élodie thought she saw a flash of movement. A figure in a hooded jacket, whose shadow for just a moment had wings.