Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 6: A Lazy Man’s Alibi

83 Avenue Foch, Underground Vaults.

Adelaide de Molay walked toward the iron interrogation seat, her leather riding boots clicking with a slow, rhythmic finality. She stopped inches from Julian, towering over him with an aura of absolute dominance. Her eyes were cold, searching for a tremor, a beads of sweat—anything that would prove her husband was the ghost she was hunting.

Vivienne and the junior Milice officers held their breath. The tension in the room was so thick it felt like a physical weight.

(Adelaide: Hmph. Let's see what clever words you can scrape together today, Julian. I’ve waited two months to see you break.)

Julian looked up. His expression was a void, his eyes meeting hers with a frighteningly calm intensity. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of its usual stuttering scholarly warmth. It was ice.

"Yes, Section Chief de Molay," he said. "It all makes sense now."

Adelaide’s brow arched. Julian continued, his voice rising with a controlled, bitter edge. "It’s because you loathe me, isn't it? You never trusted the man your mother chose for you. I was a fool to think Madame Claire ordered those lilies out of a sense of family tradition. It was a snare. A trap set by my own wife."

He turned his gaze to Vivienne, who shrank back slightly. "You just claimed that I entered the 'rendezvous point' at the exact moment the contact was due?"

Vivienne stammered, caught off guard. Julian’s logic was shifting the ground beneath her. "I... yes. The timing was exact."

Julian chuckled darkly. "Well, I’m sorry to ruin your theory, Madame. But if I hadn't succumbed to the luxury of an extra hour of sleep this afternoon, I would have been at that flower shop long before your 'contact' time. I would have been home before the first bell rang."

He leaned forward, the light reflecting off his glasses. "Therefore, my arrival at the 'exact moment' wasn't the result of a spy’s precision. It was the result of a lazy man’s nap. A coincidence. Nothing more."

Vivienne’s heart hammered. If he had arrived early, he would have missed the window entirely. She had no counter-argument. Had she been bluffing about the time? Or was this man simply a master of excuses?

Adelaide’s face was a mask of gloom. Julian didn't stop. He had found the jugular.

"So," Julian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Without Madame Claire’s prompting, I never would have stepped foot on Rue de Seine. I would have picked up Elodie and come straight home."

BANG—

Julian slammed his fist onto the wooden tray of the interrogation chair. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the vaulted room. Adelaide actually flinched.

"Section Chief de Molay!" Julian shouted, his eyes blazing. "It is one thing to humiliate me. It is one thing to treat your husband like a common criminal. But you used Elodie! You threw your own sister into a cage with a British terrorist to test me? Today, she and I nearly died when that Mills bomb was armed. Tell me, Adelaide... does your promotion matter more than her life?"

Adelaide’s face turned so pale it looked like marble. The dominance she had exuded moments ago vanished, replaced by a flickering shadow of guilt. She remembered the report—the live grenade Elodie had been forced to hold. Julian was right. If the timing had been off by a second, her sister would be a memory.

Adelaide took a ragged breath. She snatched her trench coat from the chair, her hands trembling almost imperceptibly.

"Vivienne, come with me," she barked, turning toward the door without looking at Julian. "And you... release them. At once."

Commandant’s Office, 83 Avenue Foch.

Arthur de Molay sat behind a desk carved from dark oak, a glass of fine cognac in his hand. He skimmed the report Adelaide had brought him, a small smile playing on his lips.

"So, Julian showed some grit today," Arthur mused. "Taking a live Mills bomb from Elodie’s hands? That’s more courage than most of our 'refined' officers possess."

He looked at Adelaide, who was staring out the window, her back turned. "What’s the matter, my dear? Twelve rounds of vetting in two months... it’s unprecedented. If he were a spy, he’d have tripped over himself weeks ago."

Adelaide turned, her eyes red-rimmed but her jaw set. "Uncle, if my mother hadn't made me promise on her deathbed, I never would have married him."

"And yet you did," Arthur said gently. "And now he’s passed. Is his personality suited for our work? Perhaps not for your field teams, but look at the logic he used today. He dismantled Vivienne's theory with three points of data. That’s intelligence, Adelaide."

Adelaide pouted—a rare, childish gesture she only showed to her uncle. "He called me 'Section Chief' even when we were alone. He has no heart, Uncle. Just cold, pedantic logic."

Arthur laughed heartily. "A man after my own heart! If I had been vetted like that, I’d be furious too. It’s a pity he ordered those flowers for you only to have them destroyed."

Adelaide curled her lip. "Madame Claire ordered them. That man doesn't have a romantic bone in his body."

Arthur grew serious. "Sit. I’ve made a decision. Julian’s ability to analyze relationships and patterns is wasted as a clerk. I’m moving him into the Analysis Bureau. He has the mind for strategic intelligence."

Adelaide sighed, but nodded. "Fine. As long as he isn't in my Signals department. I can't have him staring at me across a telegraph desk all day."

The De Molay Estate, Evening.

The black Milice sedan pulled up to the gates. Julian and Elodie sat in the back in heavy silence.

Elodie kept stealing glances at her brother-in-law. The image of Julian—calm, steady, taking the weight of the grenade from her shaking hands—kept replaying in her mind.

Julian stared out the window. His EDITH glasses were still active, and the sheer volume of Elodie’s frantic, wandering thoughts was giving him a migraine.

(Elodie: He’s... actually quite handsome when he’s angry. And he saved me. Adelaide treats him like a dog, but he stood up to her. Maybe I should stop calling him a leech...)

Julian ignored her. When the car stopped, he didn't wait. He strode toward the house, his coat fluttering in the cold Paris wind.

"Young Master! Young Lady!" Madame Claire hurried to the door. "You’re so late! What happened?"

"Bureaucracy, Claire. Nothing more," Julian said smoothly, walking past her into the warmth of the foyer.

He sat on his usual spot on the sofa, picking up a copy of Le Petit Parisien. He appeared to be reading the headlines, but his mind was racing. He was waiting for Adelaide and Arthur to return.

Usually, Elodie would vanish into her room until dinner. But today, she sat on the armchair nearby. She took a sip of her tea, her eyes peering at Julian over the rim of the cup.

Julian sensed her gaze but remained a statue. He was in a predicament. Vivienne’s betrayal meant the 'Canvas' cell was being hunted. Margot—The Nightingale—was out there in the rain, and the Milice hounds were already catching the cent. He had to find her before Adelaide did.