Chapter 10 - Smoke in the ChapelThe palace remembered fire.
Its old stones seemed to groan as alarms screamed through the corridors. Red lights flashed along the winter gallery windows. Guests in the Rose Hall began shouting again, but this time palace security moved with disciplined urgency.
Damian’s face hardened.
“Evacuate the guests.”
Mr. Cole spoke into his radio.
“Rose Hall evacuation through the south terrace. Keep everyone away from the chapel wing.”
Elara was already running.
Damian caught her arm.
“No.”
“My father’s testimony is down there.”
“The vault is burning.”
“Then I know exactly why she lit it.”
He looked at her burned palm, at the smoke beginning to curl under the gallery door, at the woman who had twice that night moved faster than fear.
Then he released her.
“I’m coming with you.”
Helena grabbed his sleeve.
“Damian.”
He bent to her.
“I have to.”
Helena’s eyes filled, but she nodded.
“Then bring back what your father failed to protect.”
Elara and Damian ran toward the chapel.
Behind them, Celeste struggled against security, screaming that she had not meant to hurt anyone, that Felix had planned it, that the remote was supposed to destroy documents only.
Felix stood silent.
That silence condemned him more deeply than any confession.
The chapel doors were open. Smoke poured from the stairwell leading to the archive.
Elara tore a linen runner from a side table, soaked it in a decorative fountain, and wrapped it over her mouth.
Damian did the same.
“You’ve done this before?” he asked.
“My mother taught me how to survive cheap apartments with bad wiring.”
They descended.
The upper archive was filling with smoke, but the flames had not reached the main shelves yet. The fire was below, in the lower vault, climbing fast through old packing cloth and wooden crates.
Elara coughed hard.
“Thomas Voss envelope,” Damian said.
“I saw Marianne take the statement upstairs.”
“The cassette,” Elara gasped. “The photo.”
They dropped to their knees where the air was thinner.
Damian swept scattered papers into a leather case. Elara crawled toward the lower steps.
Heat pressed against her face.
For a second she was no longer twenty-eight.
She was thirteen again, standing outside a hospital room while adults whispered that her father had confessed before dying. She remembered her mother sitting very still, as if grief had turned her into furniture. She remembered classmates calling her fire girl.
Then Damian shouted.
“Elara!”
A beam cracked overhead.
She looked down.
On the third step below, half hidden under ash, was the cassette tape.
She reached.
Her fingers brushed it.
The wooden beam fell.
Damian slammed into her, knocking her back as the beam crashed where her arm had been.
Flames spat upward.
The staircase began to collapse.
“The tape!” she cried.
Damian looked once, then reached through the heat and grabbed it.
His sleeve caught fire.
Elara smothered it with the wet linen.
They stumbled back up, coughing, eyes streaming.
By the time they burst into the chapel, firefighters were entering from the north service door.
Marianne met them in the corridor.
“You’re both insane.”
Damian handed her the cassette.
“Can it be recovered?”
She stared at the blackened tape.
“I’ll find out.”
Elara sank against the wall, shaking.
Damian knelt in front of her.
“You almost died for a tape.”
She looked at him.
“My father died for your mother.”
Damian had no answer.
Then a voice came from the end of the corridor.
“Touching.”
Celeste stood there.
No security held her.
Her hands were free.
Blood marked one corner of her mouth where she had fought her way loose.
Behind her, a young palace guard lay unconscious on the carpet.
In her hand was a silver letter opener.
But she was not looking at Damian.
She was looking at Elara.
“You ruined me,” Celeste whispered.
Elara stood slowly.
“No. I interrupted you.”
Celeste stepped forward.
Damian moved between them.
Celeste laughed.
“Still protecting the maid? Careful, Damian. People might think she matters.”
Damian’s answer was immediate.
“She does.”
May you like
Something in Celeste shattered.
She lunged.
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