The tires moved off the smooth asphalt of the highway and began to crunch over thick gravel. The sound vibrating through the floor of the cabin. Rafaela stood up from her seat before the vehicle had even come to a full stop. Her legs were stiff, her muscles coiled from three hours of sitting.
She looked down at Élisabeth strapped beneath the harnesses. In the dim cabin light, she looked incredibly fragile. Her skin was the color of damp parchment, and the dark tortoiseshell sunglasses her mother had given her were still perched on her nose, shielding her sensitive eyes from even the weakest light.
"We are here," Rafaela said. Her voice was a low rasp that seemed to startle the silence.
Julien, the medic, erupted into motion. He had been a blur of energy for the entire drive, a contrast to the cold interior of the cabin. He checked his bright yellow watch, the plastic band popping against his dark sleeve, and then leaned over Élisabeth with a wide, toothy grin that seemed too big for his face. He moved with a flourish, his head tilting like a curious puppy as he counted the beats.
"The fortress of solitude," Julien announced, his voice bouncing off the metal walls. He patted the side of the transport chair with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that made Rafaela’s jaw tighten. "I expect gargoyles. I expect a moat. I expect a very handsome butler to carry me across the threshold because my legs have officially gone on strike."
Élisabeth let out a small laugh despite herself. It was thin and exhausted, but it eased something in Rafaela’s chest.
Rafaela turned toward the rear doors, her hand hovering near the locks. Outside, she could hear the muffled shouts of the security team fanning out. They were at the Sologne estate, a sprawling stone manor surrounded by dense forest, miles from the nearest neighbor. It was supposed to be safe. But as Rafaela looked at the dark wood of the doors, all she could think about was how easily the hospital’s walls had crumbled.
The memory of that morning came rushing at her. She could still see the young porter in the wrinkled blue uniform holding that dense, cloying bouquet of dark crimson carnations. She remembered the way the spicy, cloying scent of the dark carnations had filled the corridor until the air itself felt sick. She had watched the porter walk away, realizing in a cold flash of clarity that the hospital was no longer a safe.
Rafaela closed her eyes for a second and drew the Sologne air into her lungs. The air was cold and tasted of damp earth and wet pine, cutting through the lingering memory of hospital bleach. She held the breath until her chest ached, letting the silence of the woods settle over her. When she finally exhaled, her breath misted in the floodlights. The stone manor was surrounded by greenery that seemed to press in from all sides. Even with guards fanning out across the gravel, the forest made the whole group look small.
"Sevika? You still with us, or did you enter a trance?"
Rafaela snapped her eyes open. Julien was staring at her, his eyebrows arched so high they disappeared into his messy bangs. He was leaning against the transport chair, tapping a pen against his thigh. He had started calling her "Sevika" an hour into the drive, a reference to some fictional bodyguard he insisted she resembled.
"I am fine," Rafaela said shortly.
"But you look so broody," Julien said, pointing a finger at her. "Ten out of ten for atmosphere though."
He turned back to Élisabeth, his expression softening into something less energetic. He reached out and gently adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, his fingers moving with a surprising tenderness that belied his loud personality.
"Don’t mind her, Élisabeth," he whispered loudly. "She’s just processing her inner turmoil. Now, let’s see those pupils. Give me those big, beautiful eyes. No cheating."
He pulled a small penlight from his pocket and clicked it on. Even through the sunglasses, Élisabeth winced, her hands tightening on the armrests of the chair. Rafaela watched the way Julien’s face changed when he saw her pain. He talked to her constantly, a stream of nonsense about the quality of hospital coffee and his dreams of opening a bakery in Marseille.
Rafaela stepped back, feeling that strange heat rise in her chest again. She had felt it when Élisabeth spoke about Claudine at the Louvre, and she felt it now, watching Julien navigate the space around Élisabeth with such ease. It was an irrational emotion. She forced it down, locking it far away.
As Rafaela watched them, the phantom hum of the road still vibrated in her bones. Standing here on the quiet gravel of the estate, her mind drifted back to the three hours they had just spent trapped in that metal box. The drive had been a gauntlet of silence and paranoia.
The drive had started with the rhythmic humming of the tires acting like a heavy sleeping pill. She watched the fight drain out of Élisabeth as they cleared the Paris city limits. The sharp lines of pain on Élisabeth’s face had smoothed out as sleep started pulling her under.
Julien had lost his smile the second he saw her eyes close. He had tapped two fingers firmly against Élisabeth's shoulder.
"Élisabeth," Julien had said in a softer tone. "No sleepy sleepy."
"I am just resting them for a minute," Élisabeth murmured, turning her head weakly away.
Rafaela remembered leaning forward then, resting her elbows on her knees to close the distance. She knew barking orders wouldn't work. She reached for the tablet and pulled up the files Margo had sent.
"Will you tell me about your maps?" Rafaela had asked. "What do the colors mean?"
It was a trick, a way to force Élisabeth’s mind to engage with her work, but as Rafaela pulled up the files Margo had sent, she found herself genuinely drawn in. She had spent some time looking at these maps back at the hospital. She had been mesmerized by the meticulous, obsessive detail Élisabeth had poured into the tracking of artifacts.
"The yellow lines," Élisabeth had whispered, her eyes fluttering as she tried to focus. "They... they represent the 'Ghost Ships.' Vessels that have had their transponders turned off. They move through the safe corridors because the syndicates in Geneva have already paid the port authorities to look the other way."
"The syndicates," Rafaela prompted, watching the way Élisabeth’s hazel eyes cleared just a fraction. "Like the ones Durand works for?"
"Durand is just a broker," Élisabeth said, her voice gaining a tiny bit of strength. "They don't just steal history, Rafaela. They erase it."
Julien watched the exchange, his head bobbing back and forth like he was watching a tennis match.
Rafaela stayed close, mesmerized by the intensity Élisabeth brought to her job. Even in her state, she was a force of nature when it came to her research.
She remembered the feeling of holding Élisabeth in the hospital room—the way the woman’s bare skin had felt like silk and fire beneath her hands as they changed her clothes while her own heart threatened to beat out of her chest.
"You're doing well," Rafaela had heard herself whisper.
That feeling hadn't gone away. It had followed her into the van, into the dark, and now into the shadow of this stone manor.
But the memory of the maps wasn't what was making Rafaela’s heart race now. It was what happened twenty minutes before they hit the forest road.
Thomas’s voice had crackled in her earpiece, breaking the quiet of the cabin. The driver’s calm voice had been replaced by a thread of tension.
"Rafaela," he had said. "We have a tail."
The air in her lungs had turned to ice, her hand moving instinctively to the grip of her sidearm.
"Status," she had ordered.
"A black SUV," Thomas replied. "No plates visible in the rain. It’s been exactly four car lengths behind us for six kilometers. I took the hard shoulder for a second to see if they’d pass. They didn't."
Rafaela had spent the next five minutes staring at the grainy black-and-white monitors in the back. She watched the pair of headlights in the distance, a shadow that refused to go away. She had looked back at Élisabeth, who was watching her with a dazed, questioning expression.
"Can you spot the plate number?"
"Not in this rain."
Rafaela had turned and found Élisabeth staring at her.
"What's wrong?" Élisabeth had asked, her voice a dry whisper.
"Nothing," Rafaela had said, far too quickly.
Julien stopped his humming. He looked at Rafaela, his eyes scanning her face with a look that suggested he wasn't nearly as oblivious as he pretended to be. He didn't say anything, but he stepped closer to the head of Élisabeth’s chair.
"Rafaela," Élisabeth said. "Tell me."
Rafaela leaned forward, resting her hands on the metal rail of the transport chair. She needed to ground Élisabeth, to pull her back from the edge.
"We are just being careful," Rafaela said, keeping her voice steady and low. "That is all."
Élisabeth had swallowed hard and given her a small nod.
The SUV had eventually turned off onto a dirt track leading into a sunflower farm. Thomas had said it was probably just a local heading home, but the paranoia had already taken root. Nobody drives that steady in a rainstorm unless they are counting the seconds.
A sharp, piercing bird shrieked in the distance, pulling Rafaela back to the present.
The vehicle finally groaned to a halt, the engine cutting out and leaving them in a world dominated by the sound of water. The rain was drumming against the roof of the cabin in a relentless rhythm that made it feel even smaller.
Rafaela unlatched the metal locks and kicked the doors open. The rain lashed into the cabin, a spray of ice-cold mist that coated the floor and dampened her boots in an instant.
Rafaela stepped out and the weather hit her like a physical weight. Within seconds, her jacket was slick and heavy, the water soaking through the fabric at her shoulders. The rain was coming down in thick sheets, turning the harsh glow of the security floodlights into blurry halos of yellow. She felt the water run down the back of her neck in a cold trickle, but she didn't move to wipe it away.
She stepped down onto the gravel, her boots sinking into the wet ground. The estate was a world of grey and black, the stone manor gleaming like a drowned bone under the downpour.
"We need the cover!" Rafaela shouted over the roar of the storm.
Inside the van, Julien was already moving. He pulled a clear plastic sheet from the equipment locker.
"Hold the top!" Julien yelled back.
Rafaela gripped the edge of the plastic as Julien draped it over Élisabeth, tucking it tightly around her frame. Underneath the clear shield, Élisabeth looked like a specimen trapped in ice. Her hazel eyes wide, watching the raindrops hammer against the plastic inches from her face.
"Stay still, Élisabeth," Rafaela said, her voice raised to compete with the wind.
She grabbed the handles of the chair and felt the vibration of the rain. As they hit the ramp, it became a struggle of muscle against gravity and mud. The ramp was slick, and Rafaela had to dig her boots into the shifting gravel to keep the heavy chair from sliding.
Water streamed off her forehead and into her eyes, blurring her vision. Every few feet, a gust of wind caught the sheeting, threatening to rip it away and expose Élisabeth to the freezing deluge. Julien stayed glued to the side of the chair, his hand shielding Élisabeth’s head, his own dark hair plastered to his forehead. He looked less like a medic now and more like a man drowning on dry land, but his grip on the chair never wavered.
"You're sure it'll keep her dry?" Rafaela called out as they neared the stone steps.
"The seal is holding!" Julien shouted back, his voice strained. "But her heart rate is climbing. We need her inside, now!"
They reached the massive oak doors just as two of the security guards stepped forward to help heave the chair over the threshold. As the doors swung open, a slice of warm light spilled out onto the wet stones, cutting through the grey gloom of the storm.
Rafaela gave one final, powerful shove, and the chair rolled into the grand entrance hall.
Rafaela stood in the foyer, her chest heaving as she drew in the air. She was soaked to the bone. Her hair was a matted weight against her head, and her boots left dark, muddy pools on the polished floor. She watched Julien immediately drop to his knees beside the chair, stripping away the wet plastic with practiced hands.
"You're okay," Julien whispered to Élisabeth, his voice finally returning to its usual soothing cadence. "You're dry. See? Not a drop on you."
Élisabeth let out a shaky, jagged breath. She looked up at Rafaela, her gaze moving over Rafaela’s dripping clothes and the water still streaming off her chin.
Rafaela turned back toward the open doorway, looking past the guards and out into the dark line of the woods. The rain was so thick now that the forest was nothing but a wall of black static.
The SUV was long gone, but as the wind whistled through the open door, carrying the scent of wet pine and old stone, the feeling of being watched didn't wash away with the rain. It stayed with her—a cold pressure against her ribs.
"Close it," Rafaela ordered.
The heavy oak doors groaned shut, the thud of the locks echoing through the house, finally sealing out the sound of the storm.
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I look forward to each chapter. Thank you