Chapter 3 Whispers in the Wardrobe Room

Elias extinguished the lantern with a swift twist of his wrist. Darkness swallowed the shop, save for the watch's faint glow and the eerie chorus of ticking clocks.

"Stay close," he said, already moving.

Elara followed, ducking past a stack of teetering atlases and a shelf that smelled like mildew and moonlight. Elias reached a tall, battered wardrobe near the rear of the shop, its double doors carved with strange runes.

"This way."

"You want me to hide in a closet?"

"I want you to stay alive," he replied, swinging the doors wide.

Inside: no coats. No shelves. Just shadow and the scent of old cedar. Elias reached into the darkness and pulled.

The back of the wardrobe *moved*-swung inward like a hidden door. A gust of air, warm and dust-sweet, blew across her face. Beyond it lay a staircase, narrow and winding, lit by brass sconces.

"Go."

Elara stepped in. The hidden door shut behind them with a soft click.

They emerged into what looked like an underground tailor's workshop-if tailors dealt in secrets instead of silk. Mannequins lined the room, each wearing a different decade's fashion. Corsets. Bell-bottoms. Military jackets. A flapper's dress shimmered beside a World War II trench coat.

A woman stood at a worktable, threading a fine silver needle.

She didn't look up. "You're late, Elias."

Elara blinked. The woman had storm-colored eyes and sharp cheekbones. Her dress was Victorian in silhouette, but made of fabric Elara swore was shimmering *through* colors, like oil slick on water.

"She's early," Elias said. "Arabella's already made her move."

That got the woman's attention.

She looked up, gaze locking onto Elara.

"You're Eliza's blood."

"I'm... Elara."

"I know."

The woman crossed the room in three slow steps. "Your face is hers. But your aura is... unsettled."

"Forgive my manners," Elias said dryly. "Elara Quinn, this is Madame Lys. Seamstress of time. Knows more about the fabric of history than anyone breathing."

Madame Lys gave a small, regal nod. "And less about patience."

She turned to Elias. "If Arabella's hunting her already, we must assume she's sensed the fracture."

"She's not just sensing it," Elias said grimly. "She's shaping it. She's already pulled two Anchors off their lines. If she finds the Chrono Needle..."

"Chrono what now?" Elara cut in.

Madame Lys returned to her silver thread. "The Chrono Needle. An artifact said to stitch time-literally. With it, you could undo events, resew memory, patch history to your whim. Dangerous even in steady hands. In Arabella's..."

"Apocalypse," Elias muttered.

"And you think she's looking for it now?"

"She *knows* it's tied to the Quinn line," Elias said. "And now that Elara's activated the watch-"

"The balance tilts," Madame Lys finished. "Of course."

Elara's brain swirled. "Okay. That's *a lot* to unpack."

"Time doesn't wait for comfort," Madame Lys said.

"But it *does* wait for tea," Elias added, flashing a tired grin.

The moment broke the tension like a snapped thread. Elara let out a laugh-a dry, shell-shocked sound-but welcome. Elias poured steaming water into mismatched cups from a kettle that hadn't been plugged into anything.

Madame Lys passed her a biscuit. "Eat. You'll need the strength. Memory is heavy food."

Elara bit into it. Crumbly. Not sweet. But grounding.

"Why did my grandmother stay here?" she asked.

"Because she fell in love with this time," Madame Lys said simply. "And with someone in it."

Elara blinked. "You mean-?"

Elias didn't look at her. "She chose this world. Chose to fight for it."

Elara looked down at the journal again-her grandmother's sketches of Elias. In some, his expression was laughing. In others... haunted.

"Did she love you?"

Elias met her eyes then. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to *me*," Elara said, voice low.

He sighed. "Yes. She loved me. Once."

"And you?"

"I loved the version of her that wasn't afraid," he said quietly. "Before she became too much a part of the war."

Elara's fingers curled around the watch.

Madame Lys stepped away, returning with a cloth bundle.

"Eliza left this for you," she said. "Said you'd need it if the time ever came."

Inside: a pair of gloves stitched with faint silver thread, a coin engraved with a phoenix, and a folded note.

Elara opened it. Her grandmother's writing again:

> *If you're holding this, it means you didn't listen when I said not to fall in love with him. You always had my fire, Elara. Use it. Burn the lies down. But don't lose yourself in the smoke.*

Elara closed the note with shaking hands.

Outside, the earth trembled faintly. The lights flickered.

Madame Lys tensed. "She's here. *Now*."

Elias cursed under his breath. "Elara-we move. Madame, stall her."

"I'll give you ten minutes," Lys said.

"You always were generous."

She rolled her eyes. "Go before I change my mind."

Elias grabbed Elara's hand and pulled her toward a hidden corridor. Her pulse was a thunderstorm in her veins.

"Elara," he said, eyes meeting hers as the ground rumbled again. "You asked why your grandmother didn't tell you. Maybe she wanted you to have a choice."

"I don't feel like I have one," she whispered.

"You do now. And it starts here."

He pressed a panel. A secret door opened to a cold tunnel sloping downward.

"Where does this go?" she asked.

Elias gave her a crooked smile.

"To the last Watchmaker. And the first fracture."