a
grey flannel suit. Unlike all the others on the street, he
wasn't hurrying. He was studying Madame Calvert's
building and scribbling in a notebook. Street names?
Numbers? Aubrey tried to get a better look, but the man
snapped his notebook closed and strode off.
He remembered the words of the Scholar Tan. On the battlefield, the enemy will watch you as you watch him. He
snorted. He wasn't on a battlefield; he was on holiday.
His bedroom was sunny, with an angled roof and two
windows, one of which Aubrey had been using for his
reconnaissance. Striped wallpaper, a washstand, a large oak
wardrobe that looked as if it was being strangled by a
thousand wooden vines, a tall, standard mirror, and a brass
gaslight hanging from the ceiling made the room comfortable,
while a door led to a small study with a desk and
a bookshelf full of classic Gallian philosophical works.
A horrible groan made the good spirits shrivel inside
him. He spun and saw George in the doorway, staring at
him with baleful eyes. He wore his favourite old
dressing-gown, and his hair was dishevelled. 'It's a holiday,
old man,' he mumbled. 'Go back to bed.'
Aubrey grinned. He felt good – strong and healthy
after a full night's sleep. It seemed his condition had
steadied, thanks to his innate stubbornness and a small
strengthening spell he'd tried. 'I don't think so. We have
so much to do.'
'Sleep is high on my list, as it should be on yours.'
George went to trudge back to his room.
'Food, George,' Aubrey said softly. 'A Lutetian breakfast
awaits us. Pastries. Fresh bread. Jam and cream. The kind
of hot chocolate that angels weep for.'
George stopped in his tracks. He turned. 'On the other
hand, a man who sleeps too much fritters his life away,
I always say. Which way is breakfast?'
A UBREY BATHED FIRST THEN TOOK THE STAIRS TO THE breakfast room to wait for George. The windows were
open and, along with the sounds of horses' hooves on
cobblestones, Aubrey thought he could smell apple
blossom. It was difficult to tell, as a platter of freshly
baked pastries was waiting on a sideboard. Their aroma
filled the high-ceilinged room.
Madame Calvert was the only other person at breakfast,
even though a dozen other tables were set. She was
sitting at a table by a window, reading and sipping a cup
of coffee.
Aubrey bowed. 'Madame.'
'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam.' She closed her book.
'Is there any news of Monsieur Jordan?'
'Nothing. There rarely is in these cases, or so I hear.'
She gestured at the sideboard. 'Please help yourself.'
Aubrey took a plate and selected a rolled-up chocolate
construction and a curly jam-filled masterpiece. He
didn't have a sweet tooth, normally, but Lutetian baking
was hard to resist. He poured a cup of chocolate and
joined Madame Calvert at her table. 'You don't mind?'
She gave a slight inclination of her head that indicated
she was not inconvenienced by Aubrey's company at
this time, but in other circumstances it may be different.
Aubrey thought it an eloquent – and economical – gesture.
He sipped his very fine hot chocolate. 'You said "these
cases". What did you mean by that?'
Madame Calvert considered her answer before
speaking. 'It is not widely reported, but lately the city has
seen many like poor Monsieur Jordan. People have been
found wandering the streets, assaulting passers-by, and
all as mindless as you saw.' She made an expression of
polite distaste. 'I never thought I'd see one in my establishment.'
'I see. And this is the stuff of rumour?'
She fixed him with a look. 'It is true.'
'And what happens to these unfortunates?'
'A police facility. It was once a hospital. Much has been
tried to cure them, but nothing has worked. They are
monitored, now, that is all.'
'How many times has this happened?'
'Who knows? Dozens, most certainly. Dozens of
people who have been transformed from normal
Lutetians into husks.' She shuddered, elegantly. 'It is
distressing. Monsieur Jordan was a wonderful artist. A
fine watercolourist and
grey flannel suit. Unlike all the others on the street, he
wasn't hurrying. He was studying Madame Calvert's
building and scribbling in a notebook. Street names?
Numbers? Aubrey tried to get a better look, but the man
snapped his notebook closed and strode off.
He remembered the words of the Scholar Tan. On the battlefield, the enemy will watch you as you watch him. He
snorted. He wasn't on a battlefield; he was on holiday.
His bedroom was sunny, with an angled roof and two
windows, one of which Aubrey had been using for his
reconnaissance. Striped wallpaper, a washstand, a large oak
wardrobe that looked as if it was being strangled by a
thousand wooden vines, a tall, standard mirror, and a brass
gaslight hanging from the ceiling made the room comfortable,
while a door led to a small study with a desk and
a bookshelf full of classic Gallian philosophical works.
A horrible groan made the good spirits shrivel inside
him. He spun and saw George in the doorway, staring at
him with baleful eyes. He wore his favourite old
dressing-gown, and his hair was dishevelled. 'It's a holiday,
old man,' he mumbled. 'Go back to bed.'
Aubrey grinned. He felt good – strong and healthy
after a full night's sleep. It seemed his condition had
steadied, thanks to his innate stubbornness and a small
strengthening spell he'd tried. 'I don't think so. We have
so much to do.'
'Sleep is high on my list, as it should be on yours.'
George went to trudge back to his room.
'Food, George,' Aubrey said softly. 'A Lutetian breakfast
awaits us. Pastries. Fresh bread. Jam and cream. The kind
of hot chocolate that angels weep for.'
George stopped in his tracks. He turned. 'On the other
hand, a man who sleeps too much fritters his life away,
I always say. Which way is breakfast?'
A UBREY BATHED FIRST THEN TOOK THE STAIRS TO THE breakfast room to wait for George. The windows were
open and, along with the sounds of horses' hooves on
cobblestones, Aubrey thought he could smell apple
blossom. It was difficult to tell, as a platter of freshly
baked pastries was waiting on a sideboard. Their aroma
filled the high-ceilinged room.
Madame Calvert was the only other person at breakfast,
even though a dozen other tables were set. She was
sitting at a table by a window, reading and sipping a cup
of coffee.
Aubrey bowed. 'Madame.'
'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam.' She closed her book.
'Is there any news of Monsieur Jordan?'
'Nothing. There rarely is in these cases, or so I hear.'
She gestured at the sideboard. 'Please help yourself.'
Aubrey took a plate and selected a rolled-up chocolate
construction and a curly jam-filled masterpiece. He
didn't have a sweet tooth, normally, but Lutetian baking
was hard to resist. He poured a cup of chocolate and
joined Madame Calvert at her table. 'You don't mind?'
She gave a slight inclination of her head that indicated
she was not inconvenienced by Aubrey's company at
this time, but in other circumstances it may be different.
Aubrey thought it an eloquent – and economical – gesture.
He sipped his very fine hot chocolate. 'You said "these
cases". What did you mean by that?'
Madame Calvert considered her answer before
speaking. 'It is not widely reported, but lately the city has
seen many like poor Monsieur Jordan. People have been
found wandering the streets, assaulting passers-by, and
all as mindless as you saw.' She made an expression of
polite distaste. 'I never thought I'd see one in my establishment.'
'I see. And this is the stuff of rumour?'
She fixed him with a look. 'It is true.'
'And what happens to these unfortunates?'
'A police facility. It was once a hospital. Much has been
tried to cure them, but nothing has worked. They are
monitored, now, that is all.'
'How many times has this happened?'
'Who knows? Dozens, most certainly. Dozens of
people who have been transformed from normal
Lutetians into husks.' She shuddered, elegantly. 'It is
distressing. Monsieur Jordan was a wonderful artist. A
fine watercolourist and
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