Chapter 4

Henri did not mention the camera until evening.

The day had folded itself into a quiet rhythm—dinner taken in the soft glow of gaslight, conversation drifting easily between trivialities and careful omissions. Claire spoke of acquaintances at the Exposition. Henri commented on logistical delays with the calm irritation of a man who expected the world to function efficiently and was mildly offended when it did not.

I listened more than I spoke, still adjusting to the cadence of their lives, the weight of the air, the absence of anything resembling the constant hum of modernity.

It was only when Claire excused herself and the maid cleared the last of the dishes that Henri leaned back in his chair and regarded me with a more focused expression.

“I made discreet inquiries,” he said.

My pulse ticked upward.

“About the camera?” I asked.

He inclined his head slightly. “Your ... optical device, as it has been described.”

I almost smiled at that.

“And?”

“It has been transferred,” he said, “from the police station to a secured storage facility associated with the Exposition.”

That surprised me. “Why?”

“Because it is unknown,” he said simply. “And anything unknown, at present, is of interest.”

Of course it was.

“The Exposition is not merely a celebration,” he continued. “It is also an opportunity. Governments observe one another. Engineers examine foreign innovations. Industrial advantages are ... noted.”

“And my camera looks like an innovation,” I said.

“It looks like something no one can explain,” Henri corrected. “Which is far more dangerous.”

I exhaled slowly, absorbing that.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“In a storage annex near the exhibition grounds. Restricted access.” He paused, studying my reaction. “It will not be easy to retrieve.”

“I didn’t expect it to be.”

Silence settled between us for a moment.

Henri tapped a finger lightly against the armrest. “You believe this device is ... connected to your arrival here.”

“Yes.”

“You are certain?”

“No,” I admitted. “But it’s the only thing that behaved ... abnormally.”

He nodded once, as if that were sufficient.

“Then we proceed carefully,” he said. “I may be able to arrange access, eventually. Under the proper pretext. But not immediately. Too much attention would be ... unwise.”

“I understand.”

And I did. The last thing I needed was to draw scrutiny back onto something already suspicious enough to land me in custody.

Henri rose from his chair.

“Rest,” he said. “You will need a clear mind for what comes next.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure rest was something I could manage.

The house settled into quiet as the night deepened.

Somewhere below, a door closed softly. Footsteps faded. The faint clink of glass and porcelain gave way to stillness.

I lay on the narrow bed in the guest room, staring up at the ceiling. The plaster was smooth, faintly uneven in places. Gaslight from the street filtered through the curtains, casting a soft amber glow across the room. Shadows shifted gently as carriages passed outside.

It should have been peaceful. Instead, my mind refused to slow.

The Tower. Elise. The sketchbook. The name.

Elise Dubois.

The echo of recognition lingered just out of reach, like a word on the tip of my tongue that refused to form.

And beneath it all, a deeper unease had begun to take shape.

I closed my eyes. For a moment, there was nothing. Then—I coulod feel a faint sensation stirring in my chest.

I frowned and shifted slightly on the mattress. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t even discomfort, exactly. It felt like ... vibration.

Subtle at first. Easy to dismiss. Like the ghost of a sensation rather than something real.

I pressed a hand flat against my sternum.

There it was again. A low, internal hum. Not audible, but felt—like static beneath the skin. Like standing too close to a live wire and sensing the charge without touching it.

My breath caught. I sat up slowly.

The room remained unchanged. The same dim light. The same quiet. No movement beyond the soft sway of shadows.

But the sensation persisted. A pulse. Not in rhythm with my heartbeat. Something else. Something ... out of sync.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. The floorboards were cool beneath my feet. I crossed to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

Paris stretched out before me in muted tones—rooftops layered against one another, chimneys exhaling thin streams of smoke into the night air. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower rose dark and immense against the sky, its silhouette etched in faint light. Solid, unyielding, and real.

And yet ... the vibration intensified for a brief moment, sharp enough to make me inhale forcefully.

The world flickered. Not visibly—not in the way it had before—but in perception. As if something beneath the surface had shifted slightly out of alignment. A pressure behind my eyes. A whisper of something just beyond hearing.

I gripped the edge of the window frame.

“What is that?” I muttered.

No answer came. Only that strange, internal resonance—like two frequencies trying and failing to match.

Time.

The thought surfaced unbidden. Not time as a measurement. Not hours and minutes. Time as ... structure. As something that could be stable.

Or not.

I swallowed hard. Whatever had pulled me here—whatever force had fractured that moment during the eclipse—hadn’t settled cleanly. It hadn’t closed.

I was here. But not entirely ... anchored.

The sensation ebbed, fading back to something barely perceptible.

I stood there for a long moment, listening to the distant rhythm of the city, the faint creak of the house around me. Then, slowly, I let the curtain fall back into place.

As I returned to the bed, one thought pressed itself into sharp, undeniable clarity. If time itself wasn’t finished with me, then this wasn’t over. Not even close.

Henri never said the word permission.

He didn’t need to.

“The annex is lightly staffed at night,” he had mentioned earlier, almost in passing, as he adjusted his cuffs. “Inventory is conducted during the day. If one wished to avoid ... unnecessary questions, evening would be the more practical time.”

He hadn’t looked at me when he said it. That had been enough.

The warehouse loomed at the edge of the Exposition grounds, set slightly apart from the grand pavilions and illuminated walkways. It wasn’t meant to be admired. It was meant to hold.

A single lantern burned near the side entrance. I slipped inside.

The air changed immediately—cooler, heavier. The smell hit first: oil, burlap, aged wood, and the faint metallic tang of machinery. Dust hung in the air, visible in the thin shafts of lamplight that cut down from high windows set near the ceiling.

The space stretched upward farther than I expected. Iron rafters crisscrossed overhead, disappearing into shadow. Their geometry echoed the Tower outside, but here it felt more skeletal—pure function, stripped of spectacle. Crates filled the floor in long, orderly rows. Some were small, stacked three high. Others were massive, reinforced with iron bands. Stenciled markings covered their sides—French, German, English. Seals from different nations. Inventory numbers. Warnings.

The entire world, packed into wood and rope.

My footsteps sounded too loud. I slowed, listening.

Nothing.

No voices. No movement beyond the faint creak of the structure settling and the distant murmur of the city beyond the walls.

I moved deeper into the warehouse. Henri’s description had been precise. Third row from the west wall. Mid-level crate. Recently transferred. Marked as optical apparatus—foreign origin.

I found it faster than I expected. It didn’t belong here. Even before I saw the marking, I knew.

The crate was slightly different from the others—not in construction, but in presence. As if the air around it had a different density. A subtle wrongness that tugged at my awareness.

I stopped a few feet away. My pulse began to climb.

“There you are,” I whispered.

The words sounded too loud in the vast space. I stepped closer.

The crate was reinforced, lid secured with simple fasteners rather than nails—meant to be opened, examined, resealed. A paper tag hung from one side, handwritten notes in French I didn’t fully read.

My hands hovered over the lid, and then stopped, as a flicker of hesitation ran through me. It wasn’t a fear of being caught, but something else.

Opening it meant confirming something I wasn’t ready to confirm. Pressing that power button made the future real.

I swallowed. Then, slowly, I unfastened the latches. The wood creaked softly as I lifted the lid.

Inside, wrapped in coarse cloth, was my camera. Exactly as I remembered it. And at the same time, not at all as I remembered it.