The wait was a new form of torture for Catherine.
In her library, she was a caged goddess, omniscient in theory, but blind in practice.
She had sent her most unpredictable agent into the den of her most secret enemy, and now, she could do nothing but wait, staring at the large map of the city as if she could divine an answer from it.
Every hour that passed was an hour in which her plan could fail in a thousand different ways. Thorne could betray her. Milo could discover the deception. Park could die of fright.
Valerius visited her in the afternoon, full of questions about her progress with the spirits.
She played her part with an expert weariness, telling him of confused voices and spiritual seals she had to break.
She let him comfort her, accepting his caresses as a necessary tribute, her mind leagues away, in a sordid alley in the Rook's Nest.
She had become a master of dissociation, her body accepting one man's intimacy while her soul waged a silent war. It was a fractured existence, and she felt the pieces of her former self drifting further and further away, like continents adrift.
It was not until late in the evening that Leo, the kitchen boy, knocked on her door, his face pale and his eyes wide. He handed her a thick envelope, sealed with neutral wax.
"From… from the doctor, My Lady," he stammered before fleeing as if the envelope burned him.
Catherine locked the door, her heart beating a little faster. She broke the seal with precise fingers and pulled out several sheets of parchment covered in Aris Thorne's neat, clinical script. It was a report.
She began to read, and the outside world faded away.
"To my anonymous employer,
Initial infiltration mission accomplished. Here is my preliminary report.
Access to the residence was guarded, as expected, by a single individual. Name: Milo. My assessment places him as an adept of the Pathway of Pride, Sequence 8: Architect. His physical strength and resilience are abnormal. He possesses an instinctive perception of threats, but his mind is rigid and not inclined toward improvisation. I gained access by presenting my visit as an urgent medical necessity, creating a conflict in his orders (Protect the subject vs. Keep the subject alive) that his doctrinaire mind could not quickly resolve. He yielded. He is the true jailer of the house, never letting the subject out of his sight.
The subject, Jun-Ho Park, is in a state of advanced mental degradation. He presents all the symptoms of severe paranoid psychosis, exacerbated by chronic guilt. He is physically frail but his state of constant terror makes him unpredictable. He is obsessed with shadows, noises, and constantly mutters fragments of incoherent sentences. He is, from my professional point of view, an empty shell waiting to shatter. He is highly susceptible to suggestion, provided one can pierce his layer of panicked terror.
The house itself is a psychological fortress. Few physical traps, but the atmosphere is imbued with a suppressive aura, typical of Fortress-adepts. It is designed to instill fear and a sense of insignificance in any intruder. A highly controlled environment.
I was able to administer a powerful sedative to the subject under the pretext of 'calming his nerves.' It had the desired effect. He is now in a calmer state of stupor. I have established my credibility as his physician and have obtained Milo's permission for a second visit tomorrow, to 'monitor the progress of his treatment.'
The situation is stable. The subject is contained. The objective is accessible.
Regards,
Dr. A.T."
Catherine reread the report a second time, using her vision on the paper itself. She felt the threads attached to Thorne's words. The gray of clinical analysis was pure and precise.
The dirty gold of his avarice was a bright, demanding thread; he was expecting his payment. And she felt another thread, one of professional curiosity and personal ambition.
Thorne was not just fulfilling a contract; he was intrigued. He was a player who appreciated the complexity of the game. For now, he was reliable.
She had succeeded. She now had a way in. A doctor who could come and go, who could administer medicines... or truth potions.
She could begin to dismantle Jun-Ho Park's mind, piece by piece, until he gave her the name of The Rook.
She was about to fold the report, a cold smile on her lips, when she noticed a final line, a postscript added to the bottom of the last page.
"P.S. The subject, in his delirium under the effect of the sedative, became more loquacious. He repeated a name several times, like a litany. It was not The Rook or Milo. He kept whispering the name Anne. Does this name have any meaning for you, Oracle?"
The cold that washed over Catherine was more intense than that of Mathieu's curse.
The world seemed to tilt, the library floor giving way beneath her. Anne. Her sister. The old man who had participated in the massacre of her family was haunted by the ghost of the most innocent victim.
Thorne. This unscrupulous doctor, this amoral adept, had just, by pure chance, put his hand on Catherine's only true secret.
Not her plans, not her power, but the heart of her hatred, the source of her vengeance. He thought he was asking a professional question, a simple request for information to better understand his patient.
But what he had done was take a hostage. He now held her sister's name, and he didn't even realize the value of what he possessed.
He had become the greatest threat to her exposed soul.
Catherine stared at the note, her breath catching in her throat. The advantage she thought she had had just vanished. Dr. Thorne was no longer just an asset.