The fire that now burned in Catherine was of a new nature.
Ambition was a cold fire, a blue flame that illuminated a calculated path to power. Vengeance, however, was a brazier.
A furnace that threatened to consume her if she did not learn to master its heat, to channel it into the forging of her plans. Every morning, in her gilded prison, she awoke with her father's name on her lips and the image of a wax seal engraved behind her eyes.
Valerius saw her as his Oracle, his precious thing. He did not realize he was harboring a Nemesis.
For several days, she played the role to perfection. She was attentive, insightful, and her nights were entirely devoted to soothing the Magistrate's ego and appetites.
She became his addiction, an intoxicating mixture of mystical wisdom and earthly pleasures. Every bit of her attention, every "vision" she shared with him, was designed to make him more dependent, more trusting, more malleable.
She lulled him with words about his destiny and greatness, all while using him as a living encyclopedia, extracting information about old families, old grudges, and the city's power structures.
But to move forward, she needed the physical proof. She needed the file Mathieu had found. Arranging a meeting was her next great challenge.
She waited for the opportune moment.
One evening, as Valerius was boasting of a particularly devious political maneuver, she took on a grave and distant air, her unfailing technique for capturing his absolute attention.
"The threads of the past are restless, Magistrate," she murmured.
"My vision of the Fire is becoming clearer. I now see an object. A file, sealed and buried in the dust of the Dead Archives. It contains the first link in the chain that shackles this city. My instrument at the Scriptorium, the clerk Mathieu, has found it for us."
Valerius sat up, his interest immediately piqued. "He has it? That little runt actually found something?"
"Destiny sometimes chooses humble hands to bear great burdens," Catherine replied, her tone full of ancient wisdom.
"But the file is imbued with the echoes of death and betrayal. For me to read its history, for me to extract the secrets that will serve you, it must be brought here. To this study. To the center of your power. Far from the porous walls of the Scriptorium where the rats have ears."
The idea of physically possessing this secret, of having it under his own roof, excited Valerius's possessive nature.
He could already see how he might use it. It was his secret now, discovered thanks to his Oracle.
"An excellent idea, my dear," he said. "I will send a trusted man to retrieve it immediately. Gregor can handle it."
"No," Catherine interrupted gently.
Her hand came to rest on his arm, a light but authoritative touch. "Gregor is a soldier.
This is a mission that requires discretion, not force. Furthermore, the object is... psychically fragile.
To preserve the integrity of its psychic echoes, the transfer must be made from the hand of the instrument to mine.
Only my touch can shield it from the contamination of the outside world until we are ready to read it."
It was absurd mystical jargon, but delivered with the utmost seriousness, it was irresistible to a man who wanted to believe in the marvelous. He was the master of an Oracle, after all. He had to respect her methods.
"Very well," he conceded, savoring the drama. "But how to arrange it? You cannot leave this house. I will not allow it."
"I do not need to. Have him brought here. To the gardens. Tomorrow, at midday. I will meet him in the gazebo by the west wall. It will be discreet, quick. He will hand me the file, and I will bring it to you. No one will know a thing."
Valerius considered, his mind weighing the risk against the reward. The prospect of uncovering his rivals' secrets won out.
"So be it. But you will not be alone. I will send the captain of my personal guard to supervise the exchange. He will ensure your safety and the discretion of the operation."
He rang a bell, and a few moments later, a man entered. He was of average height but moved with an economy of motion that hinted at a lethal power.
His features were fine, his eyes dark and alert, and his black hair was pulled back into a small, tight bun.
He was from the Eastern Isles, a foreigner in this city, which likely made him immune to local bribes and allegiances.
"Kenji," Valerius said.
"Tomorrow, you will escort a clerk from the Scriptorium to the west garden gazebo. My lady here needs to speak with him. You will ensure no one disturbs them and that the clerk leaves the property immediately after. Understood?"
The man, Kenji, simply bowed his head, his face impassive.
The threads surrounding him were of steel blue, the color of absolute, sharp-edged loyalty to Valerius. He was a far more dangerous obstacle than the simple Gregor.
The next day, the sun was high in the sky. Catherine waited in the white stone gazebo, an elegant structure overrun with climbing roses.
She wore a simple day dress of a cream color, a deliberate choice to appear less intimidating, softer. She was the Oracle at rest, not the priestess on duty.
The light breeze stirred the leaves, and the scent of roses filled the air, but beneath this pastoral scene, an electric tension vibrated.
Then, she saw them. Kenji, in his sober captain's attire, walked with a steady pace. Beside him, almost trotting to keep up, was Mathieu.
He was pale, his eyes ringed by nights of work and fear. He clutched a leather-wrapped parcel to his chest as if it were the last and only treasure in the world.
As they approached, his gaze met Catherine's. The fear in his eyes instantly morphed into an ardent devotion, a quasi-religious fervor. He was the faithful, finally arriving in the presence of his goddess.
Catherine felt a shiver of pure power run through her. She had orchestrated this. She had bent the will of one of the most powerful men in the city to arrange a secret meeting with her agent, right under her jailer's nose.
Kenji stopped at a respectful distance, his eyes never leaving the scene, a hawk observing two sparrows.
Mathieu walked forward, trembling, and stopped before her, short of breath. He saw only her face, his goddess, his salvation.
He did not see the hawk watching them, nor the threads of the complex web in which he was only a captive.
Catherine smiled at him, a soft, encouraging smile.
It was time to retrieve the key to her past.