She pulled a magnifying glass from a drawer—not for the elderly or vision-impaired, but the kind serious archivists used when examining fine detail in historical documents. Held it over the first sketch, studying the line work with professional intensity.
“The curves here,” she said, tapping the glass above a spiral pattern. “That’s not standard decorative work. Too precise. Too intentional.” She moved to the next sketch. “And thesesymbols in the corners—they’re not maker’s marks. They’re . . . something else.”
Light caught the edge of the magnifying glass as she tilted it. For just a moment, refracted brilliance played across her face, and Bastien saw it—a shimmer around her eyes, gold-silver like sunrise on water, there and gone so quickly he might have imagined it.
But he hadn’t imagined it. The network recognized her. Even through second-hand documentation, even filtered through his deliberate simplification, Charlotte’s work called to Charlotte’s soul.
Delphine set the magnifying glass down, blinking. “That’s strange.”
“What is?”
“I just had the strangest feeling. Like déjà vu, but stronger. Like I’ve seen these before, or . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Bastien’s voice was gentle. “The symbols do that sometimes. To people who are sensitive to . . . older things.”
“You mean magic.”
“I mean history with weight. The kind that leaves impressions.”
She studied him for a long moment, and he could see her deciding whether to push the question or let it rest. Finally, she returned to the sketches, but her expression had changed. More guarded. More aware that he was still keeping secrets.
“I’ve seen something similar,” she said. “In a collection of church records from St. Louis Cathedral. Decorative work commissioned for confessionals in 1765. Same style. Same attention to geometric precision.” She pulled out her phone, scrolling through reference photos she’d taken during previous research. “Here. Look.”
The image showed carved wood panels, each inset with small mirror fragments arranged in patterns that echoed the pentagonal structure Bastien had been mapping. Not identical, but close enough to confirm what he’d suspected—Charlotte’s network had extended beyond private property into public spaces, into places where the Church’s protection should have been absolute.
“These are from confessionals?” Bastien asked.
“Specifically from confessionals that were decommissioned in the 1840s. The records say they were removed because penitents reported . . . unusual experiences. Visions. Voices that weren’t their own.” Delphine’s finger hovered over one of the mirror fragments. “The Church blamed demonic influence, but the descriptions don’t match traditional possession accounts. It sounded more like people were experiencing memories that didn’t belong to them.”
“Echo bleed,” Bastien said quietly.
“What?”
“A phenomenon where reflective surfaces retain emotional or sensory impressions. Under the right conditions, those impressions can be experienced by others.” He met her eyes. “It’s rare. But when it happens in places designed for confession—for truth-telling and vulnerability—the effect can be particularly strong.”
Delphine was quiet, absorbing this. “You’re saying these mirrors were collecting confessions. Not just reflecting them. Storing them.”
“I’m saying someone designed them to do exactly that.”
“Charlotte Lacroix.”
“Most likely.”
“And now someone’s trying to reactivate that network.”
“Yes.”
He told her about the mirrors—some of it. How the reflections slipped, how memories lingered in glass, how nothing holy should bleed through that easily. He did not elaborate on the tether. Or about what Gideon might be trying to prove.
“You’re still holding back,” she said, not accusing, just certain.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to take the woman I a.m. enamored with to dinner. And I’d rather not bring damnation to the table.”
Delphine showed just a hint of a blush as she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Bastien reached out a hand to her.
