Paris stood in winter.
And within it stood another: Claude.
The door closed on November, and he walked through the alley. A blue chord was strung behind him, trailing from his waist; it left a chill note in the air.
He disappeared into the evening.
The church had been buried beneath the snow, and when Claude entered it, silence hushed him. He felt the movement of the rope behind him, still swaying from side to side, but otherwise the building rested in a deep sleep. Claude moved to the altar.
Placing his hand on it, he felt the stone. It was cold.
Marie appeared.
"Marie," he acknowledged.
"Claude," she began, drawing a breath.
"No,"
She hesitated.
"Master," called Lucien, his figure emerging from the dark. Marceau followed behind.
They bowed.
He began.
"Time has erased our identities, but our work is far from done," Claude faced the group and waited, "We have a new target. His name is Blanchard."
"Pére Blanchard," Marceau confirmed.
"A priest?" Lucien wondered.
"A bishop," Marie answered.
"Either way, we need information," Claude continued, "let us find it."
Notre Dame inhaled the chill of winter into its stone lungs: a deep breath that caressed its pillars and swept through its body.
The monks sung. Their full, bass voices resonated in a lush echo. The deep tones sunk in the church as they proceeded, heads bowed in humble prayer.
Candlelight wavered, and shadows followed.
The monks' procession entered the main hall, and their chant flooded the knave. At the altar stood a bishop, his eyes looking over the monks' heads with a line of sight above the humble prayers.
The monks kneeled.
Shadows climbed the walls, resting behind the flickering lights.
"A sad sight," the bishop sighed, his many chins rolling over one another, "The best congregation of France? Non, je ne pense pas..."
"Enrolment in the academy is down," relayed a small, slight monk behind the bishop's large girth, "Napoleon takes our young boys to war, not to church."
"He forgets his place," the bishop huffed, his costly crimson robes stretched over his width.
Shadows watched the bishop pace past the monks, his enormous size hindering his speed. The small monk followed behind him, rattling on.
"However we have been able to make progress with the poor,"
"Damn the poor!"
"Our library is growing, as well, with the ability to reproduce books at a greater speed,"
"Damn the books!"
"And our Christmas service will soon be held, with you as our honorary guest,"
"Damn the service! What sort of message are we sending to Paris?" the bishop boomed, his hands thrown into the air, "A pitiful congregation that kneels to the poor and sits quietly reading all day, where is the awe? Where is the uniform? Where is the power!" His voice leapt through the church and cut off all sound, an abrupt silence falling over the shadows, causing them to shift and exchange a glance.
"Your grace," the monk sputtered, his pale complexion becoming rosy, "I did not mean to anger you so,"
"Be quiet!" he snuffed, his nose lifting into the air, "I've had enough of this. I will be making the arrangements for the Christmas service tonight, and I don't want your miserable brothers disturbing me. Eat your dinner, then go to the dormitories! This church must be quiet for me to think in it."
"Of course," the monk nodded and bowed, "I will make the arrangements."
"We will be an example for Paris," the bishop dictated, "We will be a single body, an obedient, ignorant servant to the Father. That is how we are meant to be: subservient."
The monk nodded weakly, his eyes darting from side to side.
"Go!" Blanchard bellowed, and the monk stepped back in alarm. Then, with a quick gesture, the monks dispersed from the cloisters and trickled out of the church.
The shadows followed.
"He will be attending the Christmas service at Notre Dame, and he will be busy preparing for the next two weeks," Marceau began. Claude listened intently, " We must eliminate him after the service, and do so quietly. A conspicuous murder would be destructive to the people."
"We could poison him," Marie suggested.
"Poison is unreliable, if he survives a day more, it will be too late," Claude argued, "He is departing for the Vatican after Christmas, and once he is traveling we would never be able to catch him,"
"How about we break his neck," Lucien interjected, "we would place him at the side of the building-it would look like a fall."
"No bishop would be on the roof of Notre Dame," Marceau replied.
"But he might be on the stairs to the tower," Marie murmured," what if we suffocate him, and leave his corpse at the foot of the tower. It will seem like a fall, and if we must, we could break his bones to leave nothing to the imagination."
Claude thought.
"It seems like our only option," Marceau agreed.
"Then so it is," Claude nodded, "we will infiltrate the church after midnight mass. Marie and Luciano, you two will be responsible for distracting the guards away from the tower. I will watch the roof. Marceau, I will leave Blanchard to your hands."