You lower your voice and whisper, “The lavender burns.”
The woman’s hard eyes soften slightly. She presses her palm to her chest and points—first to the lee of the wrecked forecastle, then to a narrow scramble-path between the boulders that leads away from the beach. “Not many know that pass,” she says. “Come.”
You follow her up toward the little encampment where the survivors have set up—ragged tarpaulins fluttering, a smoky cooking fire, the low growls of something large moving beyond the cove. There, tending a poultice on a wounded seaman, is Éloise Marchand—her hair shorn, clothes patched with leather, the same steady, wary face from the note. She takes the silver heart from your hand without fanfare and holds it to the light. The metal seems to thrum like a trapped thing.
“They say it is bound to the island,” she murmurs. “If you move it past the mouth of the bay, the bind will cry and bring him back. The Germans search for strange devices. Dinosaurs wander the neck at night. We cannot let hunters learn.” Her eyes meet yours. “Tell me—what will you have me do with it?”
Dawn is a cold and colourless thing, like a sheet of pewter pulled over the world. Bowen Tyler’s party moves with the economy of men who have little to spare: three rowboats, six pairs of oars, clipped whispers. Éloise tucks the silver heart into the inside of her jacket and fastens it with a stitch that looks older than the war. “If it calls,” she says, “I’ll carry it where it cannot be moved.” Bowen grunts approval and hands you a length of rope and a small, blunt knife.
“The U‑boat rides low behind the headland,” he says. “Not well guarded, but the surf breaks ugly, and there’s a watch every hour. We go with the tide, and we go between the chimes—quiet as a secret.”
You can smell tar and damp wool and something else—iron and the faint sweet of lavender, like a memory of the phrase. The men sling their packs; the boats rock against the shingle. Your choice now will shape whether you set foot aboard the metal leviathan or remain ashore where the bind may reach.
You crouch behind a boulder and work quickly—an oil‑soaked rag, a sliver of driftwood, a sparker Bowen lent you. Wind favours the point; you dredge up a handful of dried kelp and tuck the lit rag beneath it, tamp it with grit so flames will take but stay low. Bowen’s whisper is a dry thing: “Now.”
The kelp flares. At first it spitters, then a black column of smoke threads up between two hummocks. A gull wheels away, racket of wings, and a German lantern on the headland swings as a silhouette lifts and points. “Feuer!” someone snaps. Footsteps answer—two booted figures hurry toward the blaze. One of them kicks at the sand as if to scatter embers; the other waves a torch to scout for deeper flames.
Éloise curses under her breath and presses the silver heart harder into her jacket. “You’ve bought us a window,” Bowen says. He nods toward the surf where the rowboats bob, faces taut in the dim. From the headland, a single, farther shout rises—an alarm that means other men are stirring. The fire dances higher than you meant; a stray ember skids on the sand toward a tatter of canvas and a pile of dry rope by the survivors’ skiff.
Heat presses on your back. The boats wait in the surf. The watch on the U‑boat slackens as two men leave the pier to investigate, but a runner is already breaking inland to sound the broader alarm.
You drop from the sand and scramble up the slick rocks, every toe finding purchase in barnacle and shale. The surf hisses behind you; the submarine sits low in its berth like a slumbering beast, grey and oily. Two figures linger on the deck—one by the conning tower, a cigarette tip glinting, the other crouched by a hatch, hands busy with a coil of rope. Between them, the metal skin of the boat throbs faintly with heat and the slow patina of machinery inside. Moonlight picks out the names stencilled on the hull in harsh white: SM U‑113.
Your breath is a sound in your own ears. Below the hatch, you can see the ladder into the dark, and the little porthole nearest the stern shows a blurred silhouette pacing the interior. The guard by the tower smokes and hums a warning tune; the hatch‑man is distracted, throat working as he knots a line. The deck is slick and offers little cover if you are seen.
You press the knife blade into the seam and wedge. The hatch grinds, then gives with a muffled creak—old metal and oil-smell, not made for gentle hands. A ladder leads down into a low, narrow passage where every footfall echoes twofold. Faint green light slips through seams (as if filtered through the Emerald City itself), and somewhere below, a steady, rhythmic ticking and the soft sigh of steam mark the living heart of the machine.
As you drop into the corridor, the hatch snaps and latches behind you with a dull click. The air is warm and smells of hot iron and tea. Ahead, a fork: to the left, a thicker roar grows (engine room); straight ahead, muffled voices and the clink of cups (galley and quarters); a steep ladder up a short way leads toward a small deck hatch where shadowed silhouettes move. You have one small knife, your wits, and the thin hope that the Witch or some mechanical guardian has not noticed your entrance.
You slip into the shadow of the alcove; the corridor’s faint glow makes the darkness thicker than velvet. Your fingers trace along the rough stone, and a leather pouch gives beneath a rusted nail. Inside lie three keys—one small and ornate, stamped with a fleur‑de‑lis; one larger and blackened as if for a stout door; and a slender, curious key whose bow bears the Cardinal’s cypher. Folded beneath them is a dispatch sealed with black wax and a brief sketch on a scrap showing the internals of the vessel: the galley, a powder‑store, a cabin marked “Capitaine,” and an upward arrow to the hatch you came through.
A muffled step passes above; voices continue ahead, low and unsuspecting. The lamp at the corridor’s far end flickers as if counting the moments.
