Shadow Lancelot

Chapter 3: The Flower Shop Kill Zone

The scent of damp lilies and floor wax filled the air of the flower shop on Rue de Seine. This was the moment of the code. According to the SOE briefing, Julian Vance was supposed to reply: "Since the roses are gone, I shall take the amaryllis instead."

Then, Margot (Guinevere) would lead him into the back parlor to exchange intelligence.

But the world had shifted. Julian stood frozen, the EDITH glasses projecting a faint, ghostly green HUD over his vision. Julian knew the "Vance" everyone expected—a timid, pedantic man. That man wouldn't waste a second on flower substitutions; he would simply leave.

Moreover, the Milice—the French Gestapo—were likely watching. They knew a drop was happening, but they lacked the specific code words. They were waiting for the "unlucky soul" who stepped into that back room. That room was no longer a sanctuary; it was a kill zone.

There’s a mole in the London office, Julian realized, his modern detective instincts kicking in. Otherwise, the Milice wouldn't be playing this cat-and-mouse game. They’re waiting for the link to be confirmed.

If Julian hadn't transmigrated, if he didn't have the EDITH system, both he and Margot would be dead by sundown.

Just then, Elodie’s inner monologue flashed across his vision in glowing text.

(Elodie: He actually remembered Adelaide’s favorites—12 lilies and 36 roses. Uncle Arthur’s pet gigolo actually has a heart. If he walks away now, I’ll never let him hear the end of it.)

Julian saw his opening. He looked at Margot and forced a cold, dismissive smile. "No need, Mademoiselle. I’m in a hurry. This half-finished bouquet will suffice."

Margot’s eyes narrowed, but Julian didn’t look at her face. As his hand gripped the stems of the flowers on the counter, his four fingers began to tap rhythmically against the wooden surface.

Tap-tap... tap-tap-tap...

It was Morse code—the universal language of the shadow war. In his previous life as a modern investigator, Julian had mastered it for silent communication during raids. He didn't send a paragraph; he sent a single, devastating number: 8-3.

83 Avenue Foch. The headquarters of the Milice.

Margot’s heart skipped a beat. She didn't know how this "bookworm" knew, but the message was clear: The enemy is here. We are compromised. Her instinct shifted instantly from "contact" to "extraction and protection."

But before she could react, Elodie erupted in a teenage fury.

"Julian, you pathetic coward! You’re already a burden to my sister, and now you won't even wait five minutes for her birthday flowers?" Elodie snatched the bouquet, threw it onto the floor, and glared at Margot. "Shopkeeper! Twelve white lilies, thirty-six red roses. Prepare them properly. I’ll pay the difference!"

(Elodie: If I don't force him to stay, Adelaide will just spend another night crying. I'm doing this for her, you idiot.)

Margot seized the opportunity. "I am terribly sorry, Mademoiselle. It will take only a moment. Why don't you and the Monsieur step into the back parlor for some coffee while you wait? It’s much more comfortable than the street."

Julian’s gut twisted. Don't go into the back room!

But then, Margot’s thoughts flickered through the glasses:

(Margot: 83... he means the Milice is outside. I have to use the girl. She’s De Molay’s niece—a human shield. Julian, follow my lead. If I don't run, you’ll never be cleared of suspicion. I’ll draw them away from the Cub.)

Elodie, parched and stubborn, didn't wait for an answer. "Coffee sounds perfect. Come on, Julian, don't just stand there like a statue."

Julian followed her into the back room. The door clicked shut.

Across the street, on the second floor of a darkened bistro, Adelaide Vance—Julian’s wife and the frost-cold head of the Milice’s Signals Department—held a pair of Zeiss binoculars to her eyes. She wore the sharp, charcoal-grey uniform of the Milice, her face a mask of disbelief.

"Section Chief," whispered Captain Dupont, the head of the Action Squad. "The rendezvous time has passed. The girl entering the shop... it must be a coincidence. Your sister is just being impulsive."

Adelaide lowered the binoculars, her eyes icy. "Operation Nightfall is a go. Action!"

Inside the parlor, the atmosphere changed instantly. The moment the door closed, Margot whipped a Luger from beneath her apron.

"Ah!" Elodie screamed, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Shut up or you're dead!" Margot hissed.

Julian stepped forward, shielding Elodie, playing the role of the terrified husband while his mind raced. Margot forced them into two heavy wooden chairs, shoving them back-to-back. With the efficiency of a seasoned commando, she began lashing their torsos together with hemp rope.

Then, she pulled a small, metallic device from her satchel—a British-made booby trap. She jammed it between their bound hands.

"Hold this," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and resolve. Elodie was sobbing now, but Margot struck her across the temple with the butt of the pistol, knocking her into unconsciousness.

Julian looked up at Margot. He saw the tears in her eyes.

"Lancelot," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Time is short. Stay silent. Do not play the hero. Wait for your next handler."

She leaned in, her eyes searching his. "I’m proud of you today. On the day Paris is liberated, I will take you home."

Before Julian could respond, Margot’s hand moved like lightning. A heavy blow landed behind his ear. As the world faded to black, the last thing his EDITH glasses registered was her final thought:

(Margot: Goodbye, Julian. Even if I have to burn this street to the ground, I will make sure they believe you were my victim. Live... for France.)

The back door of the shop slammed open. Margot vanished into the Parisian fog, leaving the "traitor’s son-in-law" and his innocent niece bound to a live explosive, just as the boots of the Milice kicked in the front door.