Chapter one

Chapter One: The sketchbook and the stranger

A fine, misting rain fell over Valmont’s oldest quarter, blurring lamplight into soft haloes that danced along the slick cobblestones. Illustrator Isabelle Montrose paused beneath the curved awning of the Café de Minuit, shaking a few stray droplets from her auburn hair. Inside, warm amber light spilled through leaded windows, beckoning with the promise of a steaming espresso and a dry seat by the hearth. She shouldered her leather satchel, its straps damp, and stepped through the door.

The café’s low ceiling and polished oak beams wrapped her in a familiar embrace. Monsieur Laurent, the proprietor, lifted his gaze from behind the counter and gave a gentle nod. His round spectacles caught the glow of lanterns behind him, and he offered a welcoming smile.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Montrose,” he said, voice rich with years of storytelling. “You look as though you’ve chased every raindrop in Valmont tonight.”

Isabelle forced a small laugh. “Inspiration’s been as elusive as sunshine, Monsieur.” She slid onto a stool at her usual perch a corner table near the window overlooking Rue des Larmes. Her sketchbook lay open before her, pages still blank save for a few tentative lines where fog shrouded rooftops had once teased her pencil.

Laurent poured dark espresso into a chipped china cup and set it before her. “Perhaps you need a change of perspective,” he suggested, wiping his hands on a flour dusted apron. “Try looking up, or down… or into someone else’s story.”

Before Isabelle could reply, the café door swung open again, and in strode a tall figure she recognized at once. Alexander Vale. His broad shoulders were draped in a charcoal gray coat, still glistening from the rain. He paused under the doorframe, closing an umbrella the color of ripe cherries with precise, practiced motions. His dark hair cut close at the temples was damp but neatly in place. Isabelle’s breath caught: Alexander’s presence always felt like the measured arc of an archway he might design, strong and yet unexpectedly graceful.

Alexander glanced around, his gray green eyes landing on Isabelle. A flicker of surprise passed across his face someone else in the café at this late hour and then he offered a polite nod. He made his way to a small table by the fire, unfolding himself into a chair with quiet ease.

Monsieur Laurent bustled across the room, reappearing moments later with a steaming mug of spiced tea. He set it before Alexander. “For you, Monsieur Vale. The usual?”

“Merci,” Alexander replied, voice low but not unkind. He drew his coat tighter around him and reached for a book perched beside his teacup, a slender, leather-bound volume of architectural sketches.

Isabelle watched him for a heartbeat before looking away, cheeks warming. She returned her gaze to the blank page of her sketchbook, tried to summon the courage to speak. Instead, the patter of rain against the window and the crackle of firewood filled the silence.

A slow tension built in Isabelle’s shoulders: this was an odd intersection of worlds architect and illustrator sharing the same space, both longing for something neither quite understood. The lamplight flickered, and for a moment their reflections overlapped in the glass: her pencil poised mid-air, his hand resting atop the sketchbook of spires.

She cleared her throat. “You come here often?”

Alexander looked up, surprised by the question’s casual familiarity. He closed his sketchbook gently. “These streets hold the stories of generations,” he said. “I suppose I find… comfort in returning.”

“Comfort.” Isabelle echoed the word in her mind, its warmth unraveling some of the cold tension she’d carried all evening. “I could use some of that.” She slid her espresso across the table toward him. “Care to share?”

He paused, then accepted the cup, rolling it between his palms. “Only if you’ll tell me what you’re drawing.”

Isabelle swallowed. “I—haven’t started yet.” She forced a laugh that seemed too bright. “My mind’s as blank as this page.”

Alexander inclined his head. “Perhaps ideas come when you least expect them.” He sipped the espresso, then slid the cup back in front of her. “Try looking at the city differently.”

They sat, side by side, sipping in silence as rain traced rivulets down the window. Outside, a lantern swayed on its iron bracket, casting dancing shadows that played across Isabelle’s sketchbook. Her pencil hovered. She glanced at Alexander—his gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the hearth, as though studying their movement—and then at the window, where dripping eaves formed miniature waterfalls.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the café’s exterior, followed by low thunder. The rain intensified, hammering against the glass. Isabelle jumped, her heart fluttering. Alexander looked up, meeting her eyes. She hesitated, then drew the first confident stroke: an archway of stone, vines twisting along its columns. He watched as the lines multiplied, a spiraling staircase appearing beneath them.

“They’re beautiful,” he said softly. “I can almost feel the cool granite beneath my fingers.”

Isabelle’s pulse quickened at his praise. She let the pencil flow, capturing the swell of motion in a billowing cloak, the warmth of lamplight spilling around a doorway. With each mark, the emptiness of the page receded, and in its place, something alive took shape.

A sudden knock at the back door snapped their attention.

Monsieur Laurent frowned. “Excuse me—who could that be at this hour?” He lifted the latch and swung the door open. A figure, draped in a heavy cloak, stood silhouetted against the rain, their face hidden beneath a low hood.

The stranger stepped inside, casting dripping footprints across the worn wooden floor. Laurent frowned deeper, glancing between the newcomer and the two absorbed patrons.

Isabelle’s breath caught. Alexander straightened, tensing as though bracing for an unseen memorial

The cloaked figure lifted a hand, revealing the glint of a small, brass key between their fingers. A hush fell over the café, broken only by the susurrus of rain.

Monsieur Laurent swallowed. “You have a message?” he asked.

The stranger’s voice was low, barely above the storm’s roar. “For Miss Montrose.”

Isabelle sat frozen, pencil still in mid-air, as the figure stepped closer revealing nothing but the glint of that key and the promise of something long buried.

Outside, thunder rolled once more. The candle flames trembled. In that suspended moment, every unanswered question in Isabelle’s mind flared to life: Whose key was this? What door did it unlock? And why now on the night her story finally began?