Heart of Gold

George stood back, trying gauge Aubrey's reaction. 'Nearly two weeks away.'

'I thought it too good to be true, you know.'

'What is?'

'Their letting me go on a holiday like this, by myself.'

'I'm with you, old man.'

'I mean, without them.' Aubrey folded the letter and put back in the envelope. 'He's coming to check on me.'

Four

THE NEXT MORNING, AUBREY DRAGGED OPEN THE curtains, then the windows. Their fifth-floor position may have been awkward for toting luggage, but it did provide a glorious aspect of the city.

The room faced the apartments opposite, but their building was taller so that Aubrey had a clear view south toward the river. Between the river and his vantage point, he could make out the bordering greenery of the trees along the riverside gardens.

When he leaned out of the window, he could see that the city was stirring. In the distance to the south-west, over the river, the Exposition Tower stood proudly. Not far to the east of the tower, he made out the gold spire of the church of St Ambrose. He looked west, trying to find the heights of the Haltain district, but the early morning haze obscured the view. He took in Lutetia, his gaze roaming across parks, bridges and streets crowded with narrow buildings. He itched to grab his guidebook and use the map to work out which stately building was which, where museums, galleries and archives were, the best way across the river to the university, but he decided simply to enjoy the vista, revelling in the unknown, tantalising city spread out in front of him.

Looking closer, he sought the ornate cast-iron entrance of the underground railway on the street corner. Having found it, the river and – by craning his neck and looking south – the university, Aubrey felt oriented.

Below, in front of a tobacconist, he noticed a man in 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?'

AUBREY 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 just starting to become well known. Why, the Society of Artists had even commissioned a photograph of him for their journal.'

George entered, fresh from bathing, his hair brushed, his cheeks ruddy. He rubbed his hands. 'Excellent! Good morning, Madame Calvert.' He arrowed toward the sideboard and stood for a moment, entranced by the variety, before taking a plate and building a tower of pastries.

Madame Calvert rose and clasped her book under her arm. Aubrey stood, remembering to clutch his napkin before it fell from his lap. 'Madame.'

She left. George joined Aubrey at the table. 'Plans, old man?' he said in between bites of a custard-filled delicacy. 'You'll want to do some magic or whatnot to find out what's ailing our Monsieur Jordan?'

'I don't think so. The police seem to have that matter well in hand.'

'That hasn't stopped you in the past.'

'Be that as it may. Today is a day to stroll around our neighbourhood at leisure, enjoying the sights. I need to do some shopping, odds and ends, that kind of thing.'

'You want to see Caroline, don't you?'

Aubrey adopted an expression of what he hoped was haughty disdain. 'If we happen to bump into her, I won't be displeased.'