Bastien closed the journal. The leather binding felt warm with active magic, not any sort of residual energy. He’d warded his apartment specifically against remote observation of any kind. Three separate containment fields, each using different theoretical frameworks. All of them had failed against glass-based penetration.
His apartment wasn’t secure. His research couldn’t be private. Any polished surface had become a potential window for observation, communication, infiltration. The city was built from materials that could betray him.
He needed Maman’s assessment before paranoia overwhelmed analysis.
The driveto Maman Brigitte’s took fifteen minutes in the rush hour traffic. He could have walked there in the same amount of time but thought he may need his vehicle later on. Bastien navigated residential blocks where renovation existed alongside decay, wealth and abandonment separated by property lines invisible to those who didn’t understand the city’s economic geography.
His rearview showed normal traffic patterns. Side panels displayed passing architecture without temporal lag or impossible geometry. Everything looked exactly as it should. Which meant nothing anymore.
Maman’s shop occupied a building whose facade carried two centuries of character—brick darkened by weather and soot from gas lamps that lined the street, shutters painted green for protection that extended beyond superstition. The entrance sat three steps below street level; the wooden door frame carved with symbols most visitors mistook for decoration. Iron hinges bore marks of countless openings, metal worn smooth at contact points.
She waited behind her reading table when he entered, coffee already poured into cups that predated the Civil War. The interior wrapped around him—ceiling pressed low by exposed beams and walls lined with shelves reaching into shadows the electric lights never quite dispelled. Jars containing substances defied categorization and crowded every horizontal surface. Worktables scattered throughout bore evidence of ongoing projects: half-drawn sigils in chalk and silver, candles that burned without wicks, polished surfaces showing places that didn’t exist in normal geography. Should customers arrive, they’d only see meaningless drawings meant to look like sigils for show.
Sage and protection scented the air. Herbs hung in corners where shadows pooled deeper than physics allowed but next tothe activated were a display of ordinary sage and other dried herbs and plants for sale.
“Sit, cher,” she said, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “And show me what’s got you looking like you spent the night wrestling demons.”
Bastien set the shard on the table between them. Three candles’ flames bent toward the artifact with motion that suggested attraction rather than air current.
“Temporal Echo,” he said. “Confirmed visual playback storage. Remote message delivery through condensation. And whoever’s doing this can write in my journal while I’m documenting in real time.”
Maman leaned closer without touching the fragment, examining details invisible to mundane perception. “Lord have mercy. That’s not just optical magic—that’s network architecture. This thing’s connected to every polished surface in range, treating them as nodes in a communication system.”
“How large a range?”
“Depends on the anchor artifact. Could be city block. Could be the whole Quarter. Could be…” She stopped speculating and withdrew a vial from beneath the table, uncorking it with care that suggested dangerous contents and she wanted to limit exposure. Three drops of amber liquid fell onto the shard’s surface, spreading in geometric patterns that followed invisible channels.
Maman muttered something quietly and gestured with her hand, passing over the piece of mirror. The liquid ignited. No flame, no smoke, just hot, blue illumination that revealed the structure beneath the artifact’s surface. The shard contained layers—dozens of them, glass compressed and fused through techniques that the required sustained heat normal forges couldn’t possibly achieve. And within those layers, symbols.Glyphs that reminded Bastien of Charlotte’s theoretical work but these had been refined through implementation.
“Reflective network topology,” Maman said quietly. “Each layer corresponds to the polished surface it’s synchronized with. Count the layers, you get the size of the surveillance grid.”
Bastien counted visible layers. Sixty-seven before compression made deeper structure impossible to distinguish. Sixty-seven connected panes, each functioning as sensor and transmitter, feeding information back to this central artifact.
“How do I disable it?”
“You don’t. Breaking one node doesn’t collapse the network—it just triggers redistribution to remaining surfaces. You’ll just send it elsewhere.” She corked the vial, expression grim. “Whoever built this system understands distributed architecture. They knew you’d find the shard. Probably wanted you to, so you’d understand exactly how exposed you are.”
This wasn’t surveillance—this was demonstration. Proof that privacy was illusion. Gideon wanted him to know exactly how exposed he was.
“The message said reflections tell truth while viewers lie,” Bastien said. “What does that mean?”
“Means someone’s playing philosophical games while they spy on you. Using your own research methods against you.” Maman paused, choosing words with care. “How much do they know about Delphine?”
“They invoked the Lacroix bloodline in the original note. They understand Charlotte’s work well enough to reference specific techniques. And they threatened her directly.”
“Then they know about the tether. They know about the soul-binding. And they’re watching to see what you’ll do now that they’ve made their presence obvious.”
Outside, the city continued normal routine. Delivery trucks navigated narrow streets. Tourists photographed architecturethey didn’t understand. Street performers set up in Jackson Square. And somewhere in that mundane landscape, every window, every puddle, every polished surface had become potential surveillance point.
“I need to know who else practices optical magic at this level,” Bastien said. “Who has Charlotte’s knowledge, or access to her original research.”
“That’s a short list, cher. Most practitioners work with basic reflection—scrying, communication, simple glamour. What you’re describing requires understanding of dimensional overlap and temporal mechanics. Theory Charlotte herself developed and maybe three people living could implement.”
“Give me names.”
Maman moved to a filing cabinet whose contents spanned decades of intelligence. She kept paper files rather than digital records, storing information in formats that couldn’t be hacked or remotely accessed. She withdrew a folder thick enough to represent comprehensive research.
“Gideon Virelli,” she said, laying the folder on the reading table. “Published extensively on optical symbolism in medieval spiritualism. European education, independent means, known to collect rare occult manuscripts. Disappeared from academic circles fifteen years ago, resurfaced in private collector networks. Last confirmed sighting was New Orleans, eight months ago.”
