Rain streaks the tall windows of the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, blurring the golden lights of the courtyard into wet smudges. Sidonie Aubert tilts a heavy crystal flacon toward the desk lamp, her thumb tracing the cold, hand-cut facets of the glass. The liquid inside is the colour of old honey, thick with a century of sediment and secrets.
"The authentication must be absolute," Madame Florey says, her voice as sharp as the silver letter opener she taps against the blotter. She slides a heavy brass key across the mahogany. "Mercier’s group is circling. They want the 1923 formula for their industrial lines, but they don't have the nose for it. You will move your kit to the Aubervilliers archive tonight. It is the only place secure enough for a legacy of this... volatility."
Sidonie tucks her brass loupe inside her silk blouse, the metal cold against her skin. Aubervilliers. The name carries the weight of dust and locked iron. She reaches for the key, her sleek chestnut hair shifting against her jaw as she nods. Outside, the rain intensifies, a rhythmic drumming against the pane that masks the silence of the hallway.
A shadow passes across the frosted glass of the office door, pausing just outside.
