Read Chapter 15: The Impostor's Trail

The vault’s air was thick with dust and forgotten magic, but Camille’s nose caught it beneath all that—a thread of scent so faint she almost missed it. She had been turning the dead master’s diary over in her hands, its pages brittle as autumn leaves, when the perfume rose from the binding like a ghost.

She froze.

“Laurent,” she said, her voice low. “Come here.”

He was across the vault, running his lantern over rows of vials that glittered like trapped stars. He crossed to her in three long strides, his boots echoing off the stone. “What is it?”

“This diary,” she said, holding it up. “It’s been handled recently. Not just by Eudora—by someone else. Someone who wears jasmine and amber, with a base of sandalwood so old it’s almost smoked through.”

Laurent’s brow furrowed. “You can tell all that from the binding?”

“I can tell more than that.” She closed her eyes, bringing the diary closer to her nose. The scent was layered: the leather’s own tanning oils, the ink’s iron gall, and beneath it all, that other presence—a woman’s hand, warm and deliberate, leaving traces of herself behind. There was something else, too. Something sharp beneath the sweetness. “And I’ve smelled this before.”

“Where?”

Camille opened her eyes. The memory clicked into place like a key in a lock. “Three nights ago. Outside the guild hall. A woman was standing across the street, wrapped in a dark cloak, watching the windows. I thought she was just a mourner—someone who’d lost a loved one to the river and came to stare at the place where the guild meets. But she turned when she saw me, and the wind carried her scent.”

“Jasmine and amber?”

“And that sharp note. Like bitter almonds.” She set the diary down carefully, her hands trembling with the weight of the realization. “She was no mourner. She was watching the guild. And she handled this diary after Eudora went missing.”

Laurent’s jaw tightened. “Can you track her?”

“I can track the perfume, if it’s fresh enough.” She lifted her head, testing the air above the vault’s still atmosphere. The scent was old here, days old at least, but it had been left on the diary’s leather like a signature. “She didn’t just touch this. She read it. Pages are creased where she lingered.”

“Then she knows about the Resurrection formula too.”

“Or she’s looking for it.” Camille’s mind raced. “Violetta said Yvette wanted the formula for herself. But this woman—whoever she is—she was here first. She may have already taken what she came for.”

Laurent moved to the vault’s entrance, scanning the tunnel beyond. “We need to find her before she vanishes into the city.”

Camille nodded, but as she stepped toward the ladder, something caught her eye—a smear on the vault’s floor, barely visible in the lantern light. She knelt, running her fingers over the stone. A residue, faintly oily, with a scent she hadn’t noticed until now because it was so faint.

Bitter almonds. And something else. Something floral that didn’t belong.

“She was here last night,” Camille said. “The residue is too fresh to be older. She came back.” She looked up at Laurent, a chill running down her spine. “She knows we found this place.”

They climbed out of the vault and back into the guild’s cellars, replacing the floorboards with practiced silence. The guild above was quiet—Violetta’s death rites had emptied the halls, drawing everyone to the chapel for prayers Camille had been forbidden to attend. Yvette had made sure of that.

But as they slipped out through the service door and into the alley behind the guild, the night air hit Camille’s nose with a clarity that made her stop short.

“There,” she said, pointing down the narrow street. “She walked this way. Not long ago.”

Laurent followed her gaze. “How can you be sure?”

“The rain last night washed the streets clean. Any scent older than a few hours would be gone. But this is strong—she passed through here within the hour.” Camille’s heart hammered. “She’s close.”

They moved through the back alleys of the guild quarter, Camille leading with her nose while Laurent kept watch for threats. The trail twisted through the maze of old buildings, past shuttered shops and sleeping residences, until it emerged onto a broader boulevard lined with streetlamps.

And there, at the edge of the light, stood the iron gates of a prison.

Laurent stopped. “La Prison des Femmes.”

“The women’s prison?” Camille stared at the building. “Why would she come here?”

“Maybe she’s not here for the prisoners.” Laurent’s voice was grim. “Some of the wardens pay for information from inmates. Women who’ve been locked away for years often sell secrets to buy their freedom.”

“Or their memories,” Camille said, an idea crystallizing. “A perfume that calls back the dead requires ingredients only certain women would know. Women who studied forbidden arts before being imprisoned for them.”

Laurent’s hand went to the pistol at his hip. “We go in together. I’ll use my badge. You stay close and keep your nose working.”

The night warden was a tired, gray-faced man who didn’t question an inspector’s presence at such an hour—especially not when Laurent dropped the name of a magistrate who owed him favors. They were led to a cramped visiting room, its walls stained with decades of despair.

The inmate they found was a gaunt woman with wild hair and eyes that seemed to look through them rather than at them. She sat on the other side of a wooden table, shackled at the wrists, and she grinned when Camille and Laurent entered.

“Another one,” the woman said, her voice cracked. “They always come asking about the pretty lady with the jasmine smell.”

Camille’s blood ran cold. She forced herself to sit, keeping her face neutral. “You met her?”

“Met her?” The woman laughed. “I sold her my memories. The worst ones—the ones that kept me waking up screaming. She paid in silver and promises.” She leaned forward, and the chains clinked. “I figured I was getting the better deal. But you know what I learned?”

“What?” Camille asked.

“You can’t sell a memory without leaving a hole behind.” The woman tapped her temple. “And whatever she wanted them for, it wasn’t good. I saw it in her eyes. Same eyes as the old ones, back in the blight years, when they made masks from the dead.”

Laurent stiffened. “What did you say?”

But the woman was already retreating into herself, her gaze going distant. “Jasmine and amber,” she whispered. “She wears them like a cloak. But underneath, she smells like blood and old magic. Like she’s been wearing someone else’s face for so long she’s forgotten her own.”

Camille felt the diary in her pocket, its weight suddenly heavier. “This woman—did she say anything else? Anything about a formula? A perfume?”

The prisoner’s eyes snapped back into focus. “She asked about the Resurrection. Why they all ask about the Resurrection?” She cackled. “I told her what I knew. The guild’s old secret. That the true formula is locked in the memory of the land itself, not written in any book. That it can’t be stolen.” Her smile faded. “She didn’t like that answer.”

The woman leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She told me she had one of the masters already. Trapped her soul in glass. Said she’d find a way to make her talk, even if it meant peeling her spirit apart one memory at a time.”

Camille’s blood turned to ice. “Eudora.”

The prisoner shrugged. “I don’t know names. But the woman—she’s not done here. She’s coming back for the rest of what she needs. And when she does,” the woman’s eyes rolled back to white, “she’s going to put on a face that will open every door in Paris.”

A low moan escaped her lips, and then she slumped forward, unconscious.

Laurent was already on his feet. “Camille, we need to go. Now.”

“She has Eudora,” Camille said, the words barely audible. “She’s not an impostor trying to replace Eudora. She’s holding Eudora hostage. And if she can peel her memories—” She looked at Laurent, the horror dawning. “She’s not wearing a face yet. But she will be. And it will be Eudora’s.”