Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 5: Surviving the Vault

83 Avenue Foch, Vault Block B.

Adelaide de Molay stepped out of the first vault, a thin, predatory smile playing on her lips as she looked at Vivienne. The traitorous woman—once a leader in the Resistance, now a broken shell—clutched her bruised ribs, her eyes darting nervously.

"Vault Block B," Adelaide said coolly. "Shall we see if the husband is more forthcoming than the sister?"

Vivienne gritted her teeth, her voice a raspy whisper. "One of them is lying, Chief de Molay. The girl is too impulsive to be a sleeper agent, but the man? He is a void. He is exactly the kind of ghost London likes to plant. I am certain he is my target."

Adelaide nodded noncommittally and led the way deeper into the basement.

Inside the second vault, Julian Vance sat under a single, flickering electric bulb. He had already endured two rounds of questioning by junior Milice officers. Using the criminal investigation logic from his previous life, he had woven a seamless web of truths and minor, harmless lies. He had played the "nervous academic" to perfection.

Yet, a cold dread sat in his stomach. What did Margot—The Nightingale—truly mean? She had told him to wait for a "new superior." Did that mean she was being burned? Or was he being traded like a piece of chess? He forced his heart rate to stay steady, knowing the real test was coming.

The iron door groaned open. Julian didn't flinch, even when he saw Adelaide walk in. But his eyes immediately locked onto the woman beside her. She was middle-aged, her face a map of fresh purple bruises and jagged cuts—the unmistakable signature of the Milice’s "interrogation" methods.

Julian’s modern detective mind clicked into place. The mole suspicion was wrong, he realized. Margot wasn't leaked from the inside. She was sold out by her own cell leader.

He watched as the Milice officers stood aside, giving the floor to Vivienne. Julian was now certain: this woman was the traitor.

Vivienne looked at the transcripts of Julian's previous statements, her eyes burning with a mix of exhaustion and envy. She saw Julian—clean, unbruised, and calm—and felt a surge of resentment. Why should she be broken on the rack while this "dandy" sat in comfort?

"Julian Vance," Vivienne began, her voice cold. "What business did you have at the flower shop on Rue de Seine at half-past five?"

"Answer me clearly," she added, leaning into the light. "Or I will personally ensure you experience the hospitality of our basement."

She stared at Julian’s face, hoping to see the fear of a "pretty boy" who had never seen blood.

[EDITH: Diagnosis Mode Activated. Analyzing Target: Vivienne...]

[Psychological State: High Spite. Deflection. Thought Pattern: 'If I am broken, everyone must be broken.']

Julian adjusted his glasses, watching the green text scroll across his vision. The woman's mind was a mess of bitterness. He didn't bother with her threats and replied in his usual, flat tone:

"I ordered a bouquet yesterday. I went to pick it up today. It’s quite a simple errand."

Vivienne slammed her hand on the table. "You are The Nightingale’s subordinate! You went there for a briefing. Admit it!"

(Vivienne's Thought: I don't know what his old codename was, but if he’s 'Lancelot,' he should flinch at the mention of the Nightingale. Masterman transferred her to my 'Canvas' cell for a reason. If I can prove he’s her contact, I might get out of this alive.)

Julian felt a surge of cold anger. So, Margot had been transferred to this woman's cell—the "Canvas" cell—and had been betrayed instantly. He kept his face like stone.

"I don't know any 'Nightingale.' I don't know any 'briefings.' I only know that I wanted flowers for my wife."

Adelaide stood by the wall, stroking her chin, her eyes locked on Julian’s micro-expressions. Vivienne laughed, a harsh, jagged sound.

"Stop struggling, Vance! Margot LeClerc—The Nightingale—is your handler. She took you into the back parlor because you were her contact. You realized the area was swarming with our agents, so you staged that hostage drama to let her escape!"

"The time, the location, the parlor... it’s all too perfect. What excuse do you have for a coincidence of that magnitude?"

(Vivienne's Thought: This boy is a brilliant actor. But there are too many 'accidents' today. He is her ghost, her shadow. I just need to find the crack in his armor.)

Margot escaped! Julian’s heart leaped with relief, though his face remained sullen. He looked at Vivienne through his frames, realizing he had to make a move. Aunt Claire had said today was the "last screening." If he survived this, he would finally be inside the Milice. It was time to show Arthur de Molay his worth.

"I’m sorry," Julian said, his voice dropping the "nervous" edge and becoming sharp, clinical. "I don't quite understand your questions, but I have finally figured out why you are asking them."

He looked past Vivienne and pointed directly at Adelaide.

"Adelaide, there is a limit to this game! No matter how much you despise me, I am your husband. I am a member of the De Molay household!"

The room went deathly silent. Vivienne froze, her mouth agape. The junior Milice officers exchanged wide-eyed looks.

Julian had just shattered the "interrogation" atmosphere by dragging their private life into the cold basement.

Adelaide’s face darkened, her eyes flashing with a mix of embarrassment and fury. She stepped forward, her polished boots clicking like a death knell.

"In this building, Julian, titles are used. You are a suspect, and I am the Section Chief," she hissed, leaning down until her face was inches from his. "You say you understand why we are here? Then prove it. Give me one reason why I shouldn't let Vivienne take your fingernails as a souvenir."

Julian leaned back, meeting her icy gaze with a newfound confidence. "Because the math doesn't work, Section Chief. Madame Claire ordered the flowers—not me. I was sent to pick up Elodie—not by choice. And I arrived twenty minutes late because I took a nap. Unless the SOE is now recruiting lazy clerks who can't tell time, your 'Nightingale' theory is a fantasy built by a traitor who is desperate to justify her own failure."

He gestured to the bruised Vivienne. "She lost her spy, so she’s trying to hand you a husband instead. Is that the quality of intelligence the Milice accepts these days?"

Adelaide stared at him, her silence heavy and suffocating. For the first time, she saw something in Julian that wasn't a "leeched" scholarly weakness. She saw a man who could navigate a minefield with words alone.

"Clear the room," Adelaide commanded.

As the guards dragged a screaming, protesting Vivienne away, Adelaide stood alone with her husband. The screening was far from over, but Julian Vance had just survived the vault.