For now.
“All right,” she said, pulling out the chair beside him instead of staying across the table. “Let’s find your five addresses.”
They worked through the first ledger in comfortable silence, the only sounds the fan’s oscillation and pages turning. Delphine had organized her research into three stacks—confirmed residences, business properties, uncertain locations. She’d already eliminated two addresses that had seemed promising but led nowhere: one had been sold before Charlotte’s death, another turned out to be a shipping warehouse with no residential history.
“Here.” Twenty minutes in, she tapped a page. “1761. Property acquired, Rue Chartres.” She flipped forward. “And here—another one. Royal Street, 1762.” Her eyes narrowed behind her reading glasses. “These weren’t developed. Just purchased and left alone.”
Bastien checked his map. Both matched his marked intersections. “Keep looking.”
She pulled out an 1863 fire insurance claim, cross-referenced it with an 1871 city directory, made a note on her pad. Found the third address—Bourbon Street—buried in an 1889 probate inventory. The fourth appeared in a property tax record from 1847, Dauphine Street, listed as “vacant lot, family use.”
“That’s four,” she said. “If there’s a fifth?—”
“There is.” He was already reaching for his phone to photograph the pages. His own notes from Charlotte’s journals had mentioned five anchor points, though she’d never specified locations. Now Delphine was proving what he’d only suspected.
She flipped through a 1902 sale notice, stopped. “Here. Decatur Street, purchased 1762, never developed.” She sat back, pulled off her reading glasses. “Five properties. All bought within two years. All designated for family use but never built on.”
“Charlotte was planning something.”
“Question is what.” Delphine stood, walked to the windowsill, and grabbed the 1880s city map she’d been using for reference. “Hand me that pencil.”
He passed it to her. She spread the map across the table, pushing ledgers aside, and marked the first address—Chartres. Looked at him expectantly. “Where’s the second?”
“Royal. Two blocks south.”
She marked it. They worked through the remaining three together, Delphine plotting while Bastien called out locations.When she connected the points with straight lines, both of them went still.
A perfect pentagon.
“Five-point anchor.” Bastien studied the shape. “Energy distribution. If one node goes down?—”
“The others compensate.” Delphine stared at the map. “But is that normal? For one family to own properties in such a specific geometric pattern?”
He chose his words carefully. “It could be coincidence. Wealthy families often held multiple properties in the Quarter. But the precision suggests intentional planning.”
“Let me check acquisition dates.” She grabbed the ledgers again, flipping pages. “All purchased between July 1760 and March 1762. Two-year span.” She looked up. “That’s not random.”
“No. It’s not.” He pulled a ruler from the supply drawer, began measuring distances on the map. “Equidistant from Jackson Square. Within a block’s margin of error.”
Her analytical excitement was visible in the way she leaned forward, tapping her pen against her teeth. “Investment strategy? They bought on the perimeter of some central point?”
“Jackson Square used to be Place d’Armes,” Bastien said, still measuring. “Military drill ground. Before that?”
“Before that . . .” She pulled out another reference book, flipped pages. “Drainage land. Considered spiritually neutral by local practitioners according to this.” She read aloud, “‘Neither blessed nor cursed ground, making it suitable for work requiring balance.’“
Her eyes lit up. “Perfect foundation for ritual work.”
She was too good at this. Too close to understanding. And he couldn’t stop her without revealing why he needed her to stop. Their eyes met over the map.
“You already knew this would be here, didn’t you?”
“I suspected.” He held her gaze. “You proved it.”
Late afternoon light slanted through the windows at a steeper angle now. The Archive had grown quieter as other staff left for the day, leaving just the fan’s hum and distant traffic sounds filtering through old glass.
Delphine leaned closer to examine the angles, tracing lines with her finger. Her shoulder pressed against his. “These aren’t random proportions. Look at the ratios.”
He did look, but he was also aware of her nearness. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean. The warmth radiating from her bare arm three inches from his. Neither of them moved.
