Mathieu's gaze was a mixture of confusion and interest. Catherine saw it as clearly as if she were reading an open book.
The dull gray of despair that enveloped him was pierced by a new thread, a bright silver of curiosity. A murky pink glow, the color of basic male desire, flickered for a moment, but the silver thread was stronger, purer. It was his mind, not his body, that was captivated.
The first test was a success.
He hesitated, visibly wrestling with years of timidity and the recent fear of attracting attention. He cast a circular glance, as if to ensure no one was watching him.
Catherine remained perfectly still, her expression neutral, offering him an ocean of calm in which he could choose to swim or drown.
Finally, with a sigh that was both resignation and decision, he made his way to her table. She noted the way he straightened his shoulders, a conscious effort to appear more important than he felt.
When he arrived, he stood for a moment, awkward. "Pardon me, madam, but this place is... unusual for a lady of your... quality."
Catherine's voice, when she replied, was low and steady, a striking contrast to the tavern's hubbub. She hadn't used it for a real conversation in so long that she felt almost like a stranger in her own throat. "Is a person's quality determined by the seat they occupy, or the horizon they aim for?"
It was a direct hit.
She saw the mold-green thread of his ambition ignite, vibrating at her question. He was caught off guard, expecting a polite rebuff or a flirtatious encouragement, but certainly not a philosophical question that struck at the heart of his frustrations.
"I... I'm not sure I understand," he stammered.
"Sit down, Mathieu," she said softly.
The sound of his own name, spoken by this stranger, made him startle. Suspicion, a bitter yellow thread, appeared briefly, coiling around the silver thread of curiosity. It was dangerous, but necessary.
She had to destabilize him, to force him out of his usual patterns of thought. He sat, his gaze fixed on her, a mouse fascinated by a serpent whose nature it could not comprehend.
"Who are you? How do you know my name?"
"Names are the least interesting thing about people," she replied, ignoring the second question. She took a slow sip of wine, giving him time to digest his unease.
"I am interested in games. And this city, more than any other, is a great chessboard. Don't you think?"
"A chessboard? I am a city official, madam, not a player."
"That is what most of the pieces believe," Catherine murmured. Her eyes never left him, making him feel as though she could see far beyond his tunic and his flesh, directly into the architecture of his fears.
"They think they move of their own will, follow the rules, earn their little promotions. They never realize they are being moved by hands they cannot see, for strategies they cannot understand."
Every word was chosen, polished like a stone.
She was speaking of him, of Silas, of his entire life. The black thread of his debt seemed to darken, as if acknowledging the truth of her words. The crimson hatred for his creditor pulsed with a renewed glow.
"You speak in riddles," he said, but his voice had lost its confidence. He was hooked.
"No. I am speaking of power," she corrected. "True power. The kind not found in titles or salaries. It is the power to know which hand moves the pieces, and to become the hand in turn."
She had said all that was needed. The seed was planted. To continue the conversation any longer would be a mistake, risking the dilution of the mystery. She set down her glass, the delicate sound of crystal on wood sealing the end of their meeting. She rose with a calculated fluidity.
Panic painted itself across Mathieu's face. "Wait! You're leaving? I don't even know... how can I find you again?"
Catherine leaned slightly toward him, her scent of lavender and sandalwood enveloping him for a moment.
Her gaze left his face and settled on the leather satchel resting on the table, no doubt containing documents from the Scriptorium. She did not brush his hand, but the worn leather of the satchel, an indirect contact with the heart of his ambition and his misery.
"Names are cages, Mathieu. Knowledge is the key," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Using his name a second time was like the twist of a knife.
"You spend your days among secrets set down on paper, but you only read the black ink. True power is found in the margins, in the contracts not yet signed." She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. "And in the debts not yet recorded."
On that final statement, which struck him like a thunderclap, she turned and walked through the tavern. She did not look back, but she didn't need to. She could feel his gaze fixed on her, a mixture of terror, confusion, and most importantly, a glimmer of fierce, nascent hope.
She had cast her line into the dark waters of his soul. And she could already feel the tension on the line. Mathieu would not try to forget her. He would try to understand her.
And in doing so, without knowing it, he would begin to dance in the palm of her hand.