Rain argued with the morning and won. It didn't fall so much as lean—a slanted patience that turned every window into a quiet confession. Thibault called it parapluie weather and knotted Thomas's scarf like a sailor's line.
"Rules for today," he said. "One: keep your hands. Two: keep your exits. Three: keep your story."
"What story?" Thomas asked, which sounded like "tor-ee," too small for the number of questions behind it.
"The one where we were always supposed to be where we are," Thibault said. "Ready?"
They left by the back stairs; the courtyard's damp had learned their names. Christian locked the workshop with the modest pride of a man whose lock had recently misbehaved and been forgiven. Patricia kissed hair and cheek with equal disregard for protests. The door accepted them into the street like a city taking attendance.
Les Passages stitched the district together—iron ribs under panes like held breath. Shops pretended to be private rooms that happened to sell things. Oilcloth awnings blinked rain back into the day. The smell was varnish, paper, and bread trying to be brave.
"First lesson," Thibault said, swinging their hands. "Stand like you're waiting for someone, and everyone forgives you for being somewhere interesting."
Thomas tested it. Hands behind his back; chin pared down to curiosity. The world made room.
He counted exits without looking like numbers were on sale. Left: stair curling to a shuttered mezzanine, damp on the fifth riser. Right: service door with a hinge that preferred oil and a scrape from crates taller than their carriers. Ahead: the bright rectangle of a café that smelled like people pretending coffee could fix time.
"Exit two is good," Thomas said, "ek-sit," which made a hatter hide a smile behind pins.
"Correct," Thibault said. "If it sticks, kick where the hinge sulks first—but look sorry about it."
Near a pillar, two men in brass badges stood in the unofficial posture of people who had learned too much from doors. One held a folder that looked like a tax bill; the other wore a smile issued by a supervisor who thought smiles could be standardized. They handed papers to shopkeepers: Règlement sur l'Usage des Pouvoirs en Public. The letters were tired but official; the ink smelled married to a deadline.
A chalk-dusted tailor watched with the private relish of someone who enjoys baskets falling off wagons. "Syndics will love this," he told a neighbor. "More rules to sell. More fingers to count coins with."
"Syndics?" Thomas asked, filing the taste of the word.
"Guilds," Thibault said. "Of a sort. People who have decided the city is better when it asks permission."
"Is it?" Thomas asked.
"Depends who's asking," Thibault said—and pulled him toward a pastry cart with the solemnity such matters deserve.
They practiced story while they chewed. If asked, they were coming from the bookbinder; if asked again, on their way to the watchmaker; if asked a third time, they asked for the lavatory and escaped during indignation.
"Memory loves three," Thibault said, sugared. "So does lying."
A delivery boy wrestled a crate past with the brave optimism of someone who hadn't learned what corners do to ambitions. The crate caught on a plank lip; the boy swore with the original poetry of the very young. Thomas didn't reach. He pressed—not at the crate, which would create apology and attention, but at the offending plank. The edge remembered a smoother self. Wood yielded a fraction. The crate slid on with a grunt that sounded like getting away with it.
The boy searched for a saint or accomplice and found neither. He decided grace visits everyone once a week and kept moving.
Thibault squeezed Thomas's fingers. "Keep your hands," he reminded—the kind of rule that saves you twice.
They took the dimmer run of the passage where gaslight made puddles of permission. At a seam where two passages shook hands—ironwork overlapping, panes arguing about whose sky this was—Thomas traced the junction with eyes, then attention, then breath. If he needed to run with Patricia in his arms, he could take the stair by the faded mural; if he needed to hide Christian behind a door that locked politely, he could choose the sulking hinge; if he needed loud men to walk slowly, he could let a basket tip and the world would apologize to itself while helping.
[SEQ] Daily (Optional) — Trace two exits from a crowded space.
SEQ] Status: Completed.
[SEQ] Reward: +5 XP.
A chime from the café told the hour the bells would bless later. Inside, a woman with a ledger-face ran saucers like troop movements. Thibault guided Thomas to the threshold without crossing it. "You can learn more from thresholds than from rooms," he said. "Rooms make people lie politely. Thresholds make them hurry."
Two women in tidy coats compared lists with the comfort of people who love fairness until it is inconvenient. "Syndic meeting moved," one said. "After-hours, under the arcade."
"Prefecture will want a cut," the other said, glancing at brass badges.
"Then they can come down and ask the Dames themselves," said a third, smiling the way you smile when you know a joke that wears white.
Thomas put Dames beside Passages in his mental drawer. Words that traveled together deserved an introduction.
They walked the circuit again, slower. Safe stair. Ungreased hinge (splinters at knee height for anyone fast and foolish). Café rectangle (staff shift at the half-hour; less watchful). Shadowed arch where the floor dipped to satisfy a drain (slippery after closing when sweep water runs).
[SEQ] Map updated — Les Passages (Safe Route: Rain).
[SEQ] Notes: Stair (Left) • Service Door (Hinge sulks) • Café (Shift change) • Drain Arch (Slippery).
The standardized-smile prefect stepped into their path with a practiced palm. "Mes amis," he said, because some jobs make you say we when you mean you. "Tell your parents: licenses soon for any… unusual activities."
Thibault's innocence fit perfectly. "Like football?"
The smile faltered. "Like… things that might hurt people by accident."
Thibault opened his mouth—Thomas could feel a joke loading like a spring—
(…to be continued)