Thank you Ranger_Red, Mium, Microraptor, AlexZero12, Blitzo, Dekol347, George_Bush_2910, Porthos10 and Shingle_Top for the support!
Thank you for taking the time to leave a review and share this novel.
Here is a new chapter!
Enjoy!
-----------------------------------------
The following morning, Adam jolted awake with the unsettling sensation of falling. Luckily, the feeling lasted only a fraction of a second.
When he opened his eyes, he was still there — lying in his bed, warm beneath the multiple layers of sheets and blankets, and above all, dry.
Overhead, the rain was drumming mercilessly against the roof, making a dreadful noise. From time to time, like dying waves crashing on a beach, it lashed against the small windowpanes of his room.
Adam slowly turned his head in that direction.
Behind the old curtains, he caught a glimpse of a gray, low-hanging, and menacing sky. Water streamed abundantly down the thick, uneven glass like a waterfall, though it failed to wash away the grime caked onto the surface.
The dirt had been there for far too long and was too deeply embedded to come off so easily. It added yet another veil to the window.
It was bright enough to make out the modesty of the little rented room, but in truth, the weather was so gloomy outside that one might have thought night was already falling.
A stronger gust rattled the window, and a thin, icy draft crept toward the young man, whose skin looked unnaturally pale.
Adam felt warm, and yet he shivered as if he were lying naked in the snow.
"Cough, cough, cough... Damn."
His throat was dry and rough, like sandpaper, and a heavy pressure pulsed against his forehead. It felt as though his skull had been clamped in a vise, and some careful hand was slowly turning the screw, drawing out the torture for as long as possible.
Even the faint light filtering through the tired old curtains seemed unbearable to him. He rolled onto his side and buried his face beneath the thick, burgundy wool blanket.
Almost at once, his eyelids began to ease and relax.
But the comfort came at a price — the heat quickly became suffocating. Muttering under his breath, he stretched one arm and one leg out from under the blanket.
A fragile balance settled in.
"Cough, cough!"
There was no need to call a doctor to understand: he'd caught a cold, no doubt during his nighttime outing through the streets of Montreal.
His limbs felt heavy, as though even the bedclothes weighed a ton. Strangely, the sensation was almost comforting, as if nothing in the world could reach him.
Ugh… My head's a mess.
Adam clenched his teeth and lay still for a long while, listening to the rain hammering the roof of Madame Boileau's house. He had no idea what time it was.
If he concentrated hard enough, he could just about guess what was happening in the rest of the building. Oddly, the floor below seemed unusually quiet that morning.
At last, he forced himself to move, fully aware he couldn't just lie there rotting away all day. Not after what he'd seen the night before.
The cart had left Montreal, and all he'd been able to do was stand and watch. The bitter taste of failure rose in his throat.
"COUGH, COUGH, COUGH!"
A violent coughing fit bent him double over the edge of the bed, triggering a brutal migraine so sharp it felt as if a nail had been hammered straight into his forehead. The pain lingered for a full minute before it began to subside, though it never truly went away.
Dressed only in his nightshirt, Adam could feel the cold air seeping deep into his bones. For a moment, he wondered if this was what it felt like to bleed out.
His gaze drifted to the pile of clothes he'd left crumpled on the worn wooden floor between the door and his bare feet. There was no need to check whether they were still damp.
Tch, I bet that wet-dog smell's coming from there. If only I had a radiator... I could've hung them up to dry.
He sat up slowly, his stiff back cracking as he moved. Lifting his head, his eyes were drawn to the exposed beams supporting the roof.
They looked sturdy and well-made, with their thick, dark wood. A few spiders had clearly made themselves at home there — delicate silver webs swayed gently in the draft, which seemed to seep in from who knew where.
When he finally felt ready, Adam stood.
It took only a few moments to realize his legs weren't nearly as steady as the day before. The slightest effort, even just keeping his balance, made them tremble.
His muscles felt about as reliable as a cardboard house.
"Great..." he muttered, dragging himself toward his clothes — not the damp bundle on the floor, but another set, freshly washed by Madame Boileau along with his uniform.
The uniform, at least, had regained a bit of its former whiteness, though it hardly looked new. It was simply a little less gray, a little more white — and it smelled much better now.
He pulled on a pair of black breeches, white stockings, a crisp white shirt, a gray waistcoat, and finally, his black coat. For shoes, he chose the pair that went with his military uniform.
They weren't all that different from the ordinary shoes worn by most civilians. Made of leather — though thicker, to withstand long marches, mud, and bad weather — they had a fairly thin, studded sole.
If he wore them out on the street, hardly anyone would notice they were military issue.
Just as he was about to head out, he grabbed his fine tricorne hat, still damp but otherwise holding its shape, and settled it on his head. The moment he did, he felt his headache ease ever so slightly.
He left his room, carefully closing the door behind him, and stepped into the narrow hallway that served the upstairs rooms. Not a sound. It seemed all the other tenants had already gone out.
He headed down to the lower floor and crossed paths with a prostitute, probably well past forty, plump and heavily made-up, holding onto the arm of a scruffy-looking client with grey hair and a crooked jaw.
The man seemed rather impatient, and despite his limp, he walked fast enough to reach the woman's room a little sooner.
When their eyes met, the man let out an unsettling chuckle and gave him a mischievous wink.Adam watched them go by, pulled a grimace, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
He didn't stop on the first floor and quickly made his way down to the ground floor. Of course, he didn't walk directly into the shop.
He stepped right out onto the street and was greeted by a sight that was anything but cheerful. The street had turned into a stream, dragging along all kinds of debris on its way to the Saint Lawrence River.
There were few passersby, and those who dared brave the downpour hurried along, huddled beneath their coats, as if the torrential rain might dissolve them.
"Cough, cough, cough! Ah, what bloody awful weather," he muttered.
The sky stretched out in a uniform grey all the way to the horizon, endless and offering no hope of a break. Nothing in that gloomy canvas suggested the rain would stop anytime soon.
A soaked dog wandered past, head low and looking utterly miserable. The poor creature seemed to be searching for something — a scent, maybe — already lost and washed away by the downpour that drowned out all smells.
I really don't feel like going out...
Technically, nothing was forcing him to — not right away, at least. He could very well start by looking into Captain Chamoine.
The question, he thought, is whether he's even here. Maybe that kid who works for Madame Boileau knows something.
He stepped out into the street and felt the rain crash down on him instantly. Each drop hit so hard he could've sworn it was hail.
Adam made his way to the door next to his lodgings — the entrance to Madame Boileau's shop. A large window on the left let passersby see the kind of wares she sold.
Ding!
A little bell chimed overhead as he pushed open the door. Unsurprisingly, the place was empty.Madame Boileau lifted her head from her ledger and raised a finely arched eyebrow in surprise at the sight of him.
"Ah, Captain Boucher, good morning! Is there a problem with your room? Or do you need something?"
Adam hadn't prepared any excuse for this visit, so he didn't answer right away. He simply looked around the shop, feigning absent-mindedness.
"Hmm, good morning, Madame Boileau. No, no issue with the room. I just realized I haven't stopped by your shop yet to see what you've got for sale. I've browsed quite a few places around town but somehow forgot the closest one: yours."
A merchant's smile brightened her red lips, delighted to see a potential customer on such a dreary day. She stepped away from the counter and moved closer to Adam.
If she could sell him something, so much the better — she'd only had three customers since opening that morning.
"Oh, that's true! Well, lucky for you, it's not too late. Your leave is almost up, isn't it?"
"October 30th. I've still got some time, but I'll have to leave before then. I'm expected back with my regiment by that date."
"Oh... Of course," the stout woman replied with genuine disappointment.It meant she'd soon lose a tenant — and a chunk of her income along with him.
"Well then, have a look. Over here is everything related to needlework. That's the core of my trade, as you can see. And over this way, I've got everything else. Common goods at very reasonable prices — some even come straight from France."
Adam nodded absentmindedly, hardly interested. His eyes were scanning the shop for young Thomas Dupuis, Madame Boileau's apprentice.
He spotted the boy cleaning shelves at the back, perched on a wooden stepladder just high enough for him to reach the upper shelves.
Not wanting to seem suspicious, Adam pretended to browse the items on display. There was nothing extraordinary about them — laughable, even, compared to a modern shop.
But comparing the two would've been as unfair as comparing their cities or daily lives, separated by two and a half centuries.
Gradually, casually, he wandered toward the back of the shop, drawing closer to the boy.Madame Boileau had returned to her work behind the counter.
Perfect.
"Ahem! Pretty quiet this morning, huh?"
The boy, startled, flinched on his stepladder and nearly fell. As he caught himself, he knocked over a ball of thread as grey as the sky.
Adam bent down to pick it up and handed it back to him.
"Ah! You scared me, sir!"
"Sorry. So, um, has it been like this all morning?" Adam asked again, feigning a casual tone to ease into conversation.
"Yeah. Same as yesterday. When it rains like this, people don't really feel like coming out to shop. Plus, they've got work."
"Makes sense," Adam nodded, glancing discreetly over his shoulder. "Cough, cough! Sorry, I've been a bit under the weather. Slept in this morning to rest up. It did me some good. And the house is pretty quiet at this hour. I only ran into one of the... uh, one of the ladies from the second floor."
The boy, his hair tousled, nodded gently.
"Ah, that was probably Madame Rougier. She's nice. She always says hello when she sees me. Was she wearing a lot of makeup and a big hat?"
"That's the one. So, not everyone says hello, huh?"
"Oh, no! Some folks head off to work without saying a single word. Sometimes, they even shove past me if I'm in their way, and they don't even bother to apologize! There used to be one like that, but luckily he moved out! Nobody liked him anyway."
Adam listened to the boy, keeping a serious expression. The direction this conversation was heading in wasn't bad at all — it could easily be steered where he wanted.
"I see. I don't care much for people like that. Are all the ladies nice to you?"
"Oh yes! Although sometimes Madam Rougier pinches my cheek. I know she doesn't mean to hurt me, but it does hurt anyway."
Adam allowed himself a faint smile, then, keeping his tone neutral, asked the real question.
"And the captain who lives upstairs — does he say hello?"
The boy scratched his head, then tiptoed to reach the highest shelf in the left-hand corner of the room.
"Not always. But most of the time, yes."
"And this morning," Adam added, feigning indifference, "did he say hello? Not exactly the kind of day that puts you in a good mood."
The boy chuckled.
"That's true. But yeah, he did, when I was cleaning the floor."
Adam smiled inwardly.
So that bastard was here this morning. Good!
"I haven't had the chance to speak with him these past few days. We've only crossed paths. He seems... polite."
The kid shrugged, not very convincingly.
"I don't really know him. He was already living here when I arrived. We don't talk much, just a couple of words in the morning and sometimes in the evening, if he doesn't get back too late. That's all."
"I get it," Adam mumbled, as if he truly did. "So, he's gone off to work, then?"
"Yes."
That was all Adam needed to know. He politely thanked the boy and slowly walked away, passing a large crate filled with rolls of cloth — enough to make several sets of clothes, whether for men or women.
He left the shop and slipped back into the lodging area of the building. His footsteps echoed softly on the staircase as he climbed toward the upper floor.
Up here, he wasn't supposed to run into anyone.
The hallway was narrow and stretched along the entire floor. At the end, a small window set in a worn wooden frame let in what little daylight could reach it, although the neighboring building cast its shadow over the window for much of the day.
There were several doors on both sides of the hallway, but nothing indicated which one led to the corrupt officer's quarters. Maybe the landlady had split her apartment in two, using the hallway as a divider. Or perhaps she'd divided the floor lengthwise.
Adam grimaced.
Below his feet, he heard a bell ring — a customer had come in. Madam Boileau's voice, loud even without much effort, rose up to him.
Damn, this floor's thinner than a sheet of paper! I've got to keep quiet, or she'll know someone's up here!
On tiptoe, as if walking through a minefield, Adam crept to the first door on his right. He reached for the handle and gave it a try.
Clack clack clack.
He didn't push it any further — the door was locked.
Adam turned to the door across the hall.
Clack clack clack.
Locked again, he thought with growing frustration, dreading the idea that the same might be true for all the other rooms.
A few steps farther, the rustic wooden floor let out a loud creak — so loud Adam froze on the spot, listening carefully for any reaction from below.
He held his breath, waiting anxiously.
Luckily, nothing happened.
Adam moved on and reached for the handle of another door.
Clack clack clack.
He closed his eyes and silently cursed the landlady for putting locks on every single door.
Fortunately, the next door wasn't locked. The reason was obvious: it was a small kitchen.
The place was modest, simple, practical, and unpretentious, just like every other room in this house — or at least, the ones Adam had seen. The only thing that stood out was that it was separate from the living quarters. Adam didn't have anything like that in his own place.
He shut the door again, figuring he wouldn't find anything useful there.
The next room was unlocked as well. This time, it looked like a storage room for personal belongings.
By inspecting the items stacked inside, Adam quickly deduced that everything here belonged to Captain Chamoine. He stepped cautiously into the room, scanning it for any signs, clues, or proof that might have been carelessly left behind.
Of course, there was nothing.
If there's anything to find, it'll be in his bedroom!
Adam bit his lower lip. A cough threatened to rise, and his pounding headache returned with a vengeance.
Fuck! Not now! Later, fine — but not now!
Fighting the urge to cough, as if someone were strangling him, he managed to hold it back, but there was nothing he could do about the migraine. Feeling weaker by the second, he forced himself to focus.
L-let's finish this...
He headed for the last door at the end of the hallway. As his hand touched the doorknob, Adam muttered a quick prayer.
Come on, please... be open.
Clack clack clack.
Shit.
He didn't even know why he'd thought the result would be any different. It was simple logic.
Who would leave their room unlocked with all their belongings inside?
Adam already knew the main entrance was locked at night — he had a key himself — and figured the captain must have asked for one too, to lock his own room. After all, it could contain sensitive documents or valuables.
He hadn't thought of that.
Ah! The landlady probably has a key for every room, not just for her own place!
It made perfect sense — and yet it hadn't crossed his mind until now.
But his brief spark of hope vanished as quickly as it had come, because getting hold of that key — or keys, if there were more than one — without being caught would be almost impossible.
She must carry them on her at all times, Adam concluded, heading back.
His options were growing fewer by the minute, and he feared soon there wouldn't be any left.
Worst of all, time was running out. He wanted solid evidence to present to his superiors — enough to alert the Governor, assuming he wasn't involved, or better yet, the King himself.
This mess was serious enough to reach that high.
I need to think... and close my eyes for five minutes.
He left the hallway and the floor, returning to the attic, paying no attention to the sounds drifting up from the second floor. As he reached his room door, another thought crossed his mind.
The lock... Could it be picked?
He stared at the dark hole, but couldn't see much. Stepping inside, he lit a candle and checked the lock from the inside, trying to avoid any awkward situations.
"I need some tools... or just a metal rod. Or two, I don't know," he muttered under his breath.
He had no real lockpicking skills, just what he'd seen online, in movies and video games — more like mini-games than actual simulations. He had a rough idea of what the inside looked like.
But how different could an 18th-century lock be from a modern one?
With some luck, it'll be really simple!
Knowing full well he wouldn't find anything useful in his modest room, he wisely decided to head back downstairs and bought a set of needles directly from Madam Boileau — the same needles he intended to use to force the locks of her own house.
He immediately began practicing on his own room's door and soon realized that just because this was the 18th century didn't mean people didn't know how to make a decent lock.