Chapter two

Chapter Two: The key in the fog

Isabelle awoke to the soft tap of rain against her attic window, the morning light pale and lavender-tinted. Her sketchbook lay open on the easel by the narrow sash pages still half-full from last night’s inspired frenzy. She ran a fingertip over the newly drawn archway and staircase, recalling Alexander’s praise and the hush that fell when the cloaked stranger delivered a brass key.

A thrill of anticipation shot through her before she remembered: the key. Heart pounding, she hurried to her desk and found the small envelope Laurent had tucked inside. It bore no postmark, only her name in flowing script. She slit it open to find a single card of heavy, cream colored stock: on one side, an embossed key motif; on the other, three words in the same elegant hand:

“Meet me—Midnight Bridge.”

Her pulse quickened. Midnight Bridge: the old stone crossing over the canal where she and Alexander had first sketched together. The place felt sacred now, as though memory itself had carved the stones. But who had sent this message? And why involve her?

A sudden rap at her door startled her. She slipped the card into her sketchbook and opened the door to find Monsieur Laurent’s warm smile framed by his flour-dusted apron.

“Pardon the intrusion, Mademoiselle,” he said softly. “Your coffee, and…” He held out a small parcel. “Something else arrived.”

Isabelle accepted the package, noting the careful wrapping in lavender tissue paper, sealed with wax bearing the same key emblem. Inside, she found a slender brass key identical to the one the stranger had held and a folded note:

“Trust only the art. The rest will follow.”

Laurent cleared his throat. “I wished to ensure you received this safely.” His dark eyes held concern. “If there’s anything you need”

She managed a tight smile. “Thank you, Laurent. I… I appreciate it.”

He nodded and departed, leaving her alone with the mysterious key and cryptic instructions.

All day, Isabelle struggled to focus on her work. Each time she dipped her pen into ink, she imagined the key’s cold weight in her palm and the hush of Midnight Bridge at moonrise. She finished a few sketches studies of lamplight reflecting on rippling water but her mind strayed back to that rendezvous.

As dusk fell, she packed her satchel with sketchbook, pencils, and the brass key tucked safely in an inner pocket. Bundling into her coat, she hurried through the rain damp streets, the city’s gaslit arches shimmering with promise and shadows.

At the bridge’s worn stone parapet, she found no one. The lantern overhead flickered in the damp breeze. She approached the center of the span, heart thudding. Under the low drizzle, the canal below gurgled, carrying fallen leaves in swirling eddies.

A soft footstep startled her. She turned to see Alexander emerging from the fog, hands in his coat pockets, umbrella folded at his side. Relief and annoyance warred in her chest.

“Isabelle?” he asked. “I received your note-“

She held up a hand. “I didn’t send you anything.”

His brow furrowed. “But I found a card in my coat pocket,” he said, extracting the same embossed card she’d received. His voice was hushed, as though speaking louder would shatter the fragile moment. “And I knew… it must be for you.”

Isabelle’s gaze darted to the canal’s dark water. “I got one, too. And a key.” She revealed the brass key in her hand. “I don’t know who wants to meet me here.”

Alexander stepped closer, concern softening his features. “Do you think someone’s playing a prank?”

She shrugged, uneasy. “I don’t know. But the note said ‘Trust only the art.’”

He glanced at her sketches, propped against the parapet. The architectural arches and lantern lit doorways seemed to beckon. “Claude Monet said, ‘Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.’ Maybe the sender means you should follow your instincts?”

Isabelle’s heartbeat steadied at his words. “Maybe.” She slipped the key into the locking mechanism of the railing an old practice run, though she knew the key wouldn’t fit. “Something tells me it’s not about a physical door.”

A sudden gleam caught her eye: at the bridge’s far end, a lone lantern burned brighter than the rest. Footsteps echoed across the stones. The fog parted to reveal the cloaked stranger from the café, holding out their hand.

Isabelle’s breath caught. Alexander instinctively reached for her arm.

The stranger drew back their hood, only to reveal a familiar face: the barista from Café de Minuit, Elise, whose quiet kindness had brightened Isabelle’s first days in Valmont.

“Elise?” Isabelle whispered.

Elise’s dark eyes met hers. “Forgive the secrecy,” she said, voice low. “But I found something in the café yesterday,something that belongs to you.” She held out a slender sketchbook bound in deep rose leather. The cover bore Isabelle’s initials.

“The café’s archives,” Elise continued. “Monsieur Laurent… he asked me to keep it safe until I found you.”

Isabelle hesitated, then took the book. Its pages were filled with sketches she didn’t remember drawing: landscapes of forgotten city streets, hidden courtyards, and lantern-lit arches—visions of a Valmont she’d never known.

“Wh-where did these come from?” her voice trembled.

“Elise said they were found among Monsieur Laurent’s old collections,” Alexander supplied. “He mentioned they belonged to someone important.”

Isabelle opened the sketchbook to reveal a final page: a detailed drawing of Café de Minuit itself, lantern light spilling through every pane, and beneath it, a single word:

“Return.”

My mind raced. These sketches were they hers, or someone else’s? And why was Laurent safeguarding them?

A harsh crack of thunder rolled overhead as rain intensified, drumming on the lantern above. The bridge’s lantern flickered and went dark.

In the sudden gloom, Isabelle felt Alexander’s hand close over hers.

“Elise, will you stay with us?” Isabelle called into the mist.

Elise nodded, stepping forward. “There’s more you need to see.”

Lightning split the sky, and in its flash Isabelle spotted movement on the canal’s far bank ,a figure disappearing into the fog.

She swallowed hard. “We have to follow.

Alexander drew his coat tighter. “Together.”

Elise held up the sketchbook. “Then you must look inside. The next page will tell you where.”

Isabelle’s heart pounded as she turned the leaf—and froze at what she saw.