Chapter 14:
The Invitation
The touch of his hand became a new, persistent memory, a brand on her skin that she replayed long after he had left the library. The following day, Friday, hummed with a new, unspoken energy. When Luc arrived, the customary nod was accompanied by a look that was deeper, more intimate, as if the connection forged over the catacomb sketch had permanently altered the frequency between them.
He worked with a renewed vigor, the creative block shattered. But today, his focus seemed to be on a different kind of architecture. He spent less time writing and more time sketching in his notebook, his eyes frequently lifting to scan the library itself—the curve of the wrought-iron staircase leading to the mezzanine, the intricate corbels supporting the ceiling, the way the light fell through the arched window above the philosophy section.
During his afternoon espresso break—a new habit where he would stand by the window, looking out at the rue des Écoles for exactly five minutes—he didn’t retreat into his own thoughts. Instead, he turned to her.
“This building,” he began, his voice thoughtful.“It has a rhythm. A cadence that most people wouldn’t notice. The proportions of the windows, the flow from one room to the next… it was built by someone who understood more than just structure. They understood atmosphere.”
Élise felt a surge of pride, as if he were complimenting a member of her family.“It was built in 1892 by a man named Hugo Lafleur. He was a banker who loved books more than money. They say he designed much of it himself.”
Luc’s eyes lit up with interest.“Really? Are the original plans here? In the collection?”
“I believe so,” Élise said.“They’re in the archives. We have Lafleur’s personal papers, actually. They’re not fully cataloged.” She lowered her voice.“Monsieur Deschamps is rather protective of them.”
A slow, intrigued smile spread across Luc’s face. It was the look he got when he’d found a new, fascinating puzzle.“The archives,” he repeated.“I would give anything to see them. To see the mind that conceived this space.”
He looked at her, the storm in his eyes replaced by a bright, captivating intensity.“Could you? Would it be possible to… see them?”
The request was a significant one. The archives were off-limits to the public, a sanctum sanctorum even within the library’s hallowed halls. It would require a special dispensation from Monsieur Deschamps, and it would place her in a position of considerable trust.
But the eager, almost boyish hope on Luc’s face was irresistible. He wasn’t asking as a researcher or a historian. He was asking as an artist, a kindred spirit who saw the soul in the stone and plaster.
“I… I can ask Monsieur Deschamps,” she said, her heart beginning to race.“I can’t promise anything.”
“That’s all I can ask,” he said, his voice soft with gratitude.“Thank you, Élise.”
For the rest of the day, the idea hung between them, a thrilling secret. The library was no longer just a setting for their quiet encounters; it was about to become the subject. He wanted to peel back its skin, to study its bones, and he wanted her to be his guide.
After Luc left, Élise gathered her courage and approached Monsieur Deschamps’office. She found him at his desk, peering through a magnifying glass at an illuminated manuscript.
“Monsieur,” she began, her voice slightly unsteady.“I have a… a rather unusual request.”
The old man looked up, his eyes magnified and owlish behind the glass.“Oh?”
“It’s about Luc. The writer. He’s… fascinated by the architecture of the library. He asked if it might be possible to see the original plans. Hugo Lafleur’s papers.”
Monsieur Deschamps was silent for a long moment, setting down his magnifying glass. He steepled his fingers, his gaze knowing.“The archives are not a tourist attraction, Élise.”
“I know, monsieur. But he’s not a tourist. He sees it. The way you do. The way I do.”
The old man studied her face, reading the earnest plea in her eyes. He sighed, a soft, rustling sound.“His interest seems… deep. And specific.” He paused, then gave a slow, deliberate nod.“Very well. On Monday, after we close. You may supervise. For one hour. The papers are fragile, Élise. You know the protocols.”
Relief and excitement flooded through her.“Of course! Thank you, monsieur!”
She practically floated back to the main desk. She couldn’t wait to tell Luc. It was more than permission; it was an invitation into the very heart of her world, a sharing of its most intimate secrets. The library was about to reveal its blueprint, and she would be the one to hold his hand as he read it.
Chapter 15:
The Blueprint of a Sanctuary
The weekend stretched before Élise, an interminable expanse of two days. She filled the hours by writing in her blue sketchbook, the words flowing more easily now. She wrote about the light in the library, the weight of a forgotten book, the quiet architecture of a shared glance. She was, as Luc had named her, a raconteuse, and her subject was the world he had helped her see anew.
Monday arrived with a sky the color of bleached linen. The day passed in a blur of suppressed anticipation. When Luc entered at 2:07, he didn’t even make it to his table. He came straight to the counter, a silent question in his raised eyebrows.
“Monsieur Deschamps has given his permission,” she whispered, a conspiratorial thrill in her voice.“After closing. For one hour.”
