Page 35 of The Shadows Beyond
His father was right. They’d gone too far this time, with three people dead, many more injured, and a treasured building obliterated.
How could Elliot and Darcy possibly think that Béatrice had been involved with them? She’d once cried when she stepped on a snail, for fuck’s sake. The possibility of her writing‘Jour J’into her diary with the intention of supporting the Arcane Purifiers in literally murdering people was ludicrous.
Once he’d left the scene to head to his first task, he encountered a subdued atmosphere on every street. People appeared to be walking slower, physically burdened by the events two days prior.
It was a relief to reach Eleanor’s office.
He knocked, pushing open the door without waiting for her invitation. After all, he didn’t have an appointment. Poking his head around the door, he smiled at Eleanor, who raised one dark eyebrow in return. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“It’s just a quick one,” he promised, closing the door behind him.
Eleanor’s office was truly a reflection of the woman herself. Monotone, sparse furniture with a sprinkling of decoration, each chosen and placed with evident, deliberate design. The only thing he approved of was her taste in art—she had several captivating Rothko canvases proudly hung on her wall, their colour gradients and subtle complexities adding a refined allure that he itched to add to his own collection.
Perhaps if he complimented them enough, he’d be left them in her will.
As he sat down opposite her on a burgundy leather wingback chair, Eleanor’s face remained expressionless, stoic. Not a single strand of hair was out of place, not even in her box fringe. A fraction of understanding of why others found her intimidating struck him.
“I just wanted to check in with you about my reference. I had a letter this morning from MEET saying they were still waiting for it.”
His promotion to a permanent position as a lead project coordinator within Mote-Enhanced Engineering and Technologies was practically an assured deal. After all, he’d been a junior associate there for years, working on various projects alongside world pioneers, several of whom had already submitted outstanding references for him.
When he’d filled in the character reference information box, Julien had thought writing ‘Madame Eleanor Sinclair’ had been a stroke of genius. The icing on the cake of an exceptional application. He’d presumed she’d already written and sent it.
“It’s two weeks late,” he added.
“I’m aware,” she said simply.
Julien dug his fingernails into his palm.
“I’m still finalising it.”
He relaxed, infinitesimally.
“However, to be honest, Julien, I’m not convinced it’s the right path for you.”
Julien rapidly blinked at her. Not the right path? Was she joking?
“You were such a skilled channeller, back when you practised.”
Julien pressed his lips together before saying, “You know I don’t like talking about that. For very good reasons.” What was Eleanor playing at?
“And you know that I think your reasons for not channelling are nonsensical. It baffles me that someone as intelligent and as reasonable as you still blames themselves for something that was—”
“Anyway,” interjected Julien, dragging the conversation away from dangerous territory. “MEET is part of my ten-year plan to enter the field of quantum mote engineering.” She knew this. His career path had been discussed many times with Eleanor around the dinner table, his father often being the one to bring it up.
For a moment, he almost considered bringing his father’s expectations into the conversation—he wasn’t sure what he would make of Eleanor writing anything but a glowing recommendation for the man who was practically a nephew to her. What stopped him was the determination to get where he needed to go all by himself, without any purposeful use of his family name.
References from friends of the family aside.
Peering at him over her glasses, Eleanor said, “Did you know that your mother tried to leave your father when you were five?”
Julien choked on his own saliva. “Excuse me?”
Eleanor stood up to wander over to her floor-to-ceiling window. The view from her tenth-floor office had always impressed Julien—the majority of Auri’s awe-inspiring buildings were visible, each one its own work of art. Eleanor proceeded to stare out at the view as she continued, “One night, she met with me, the two of you in tow. Béatrice wouldn’t stop screaming, but you were oddly quiet, with puffy eyes. She told me she’d had enough, and that the next day she planned to tell your father she was divorcing him and taking the two of you. She wanted my support. Financially. Practically.” She expelled a breath so large, it misted the glass. “Emotionally.”
“And what did you say?” Julien had no recollection of this event, but that didn’t surprise him. There were many, many gaping holes in the tapestry of his childhood.
“I told her to think about her decision very carefully.”
