Heart of Gold

'She is most beautiful,' he said, and he took her hand. 'Won't you be our leading lady?'

Caroline allowed Duval to kiss the back of her hand. She removed it from his grasp, slowly. 'No.'

'No?'

'I'm sorry. I'm far too busy with my studies.' She smiled, and Aubrey thought Duval was about to swoon. 'I will help backstage when I can. And I must have front row seats for opening night.'

Duval thought this a splendid idea and he spent some time introducing Caroline to everyone, calling her the Belle of Albion.

The Albion Friendship Society was apparently a rather recent phenomenon. Waving his hands with excitement, Duval explained that his mother had been an Albionite and he had spent some years there, when younger. 'Now, times are not good,' he went on. 'The Continent is alive with suspicion and fear, so I asked myself, "What can I do?"' He clapped his hands together. 'The answer came to me and I began the Albion Friendship Society to encourage camaraderie between our two nations. We have held lectures and soirees, and now we embark on our first dramatic production. Ivey and Wetherall! So fine, so Albionish!'

'Well, yes. Both of them.'

'And your name,' Duval asked Aubrey. 'What is your name?'

Aubrey hesitated. Would it be better to go incognito in his time in Lutetia? Or was his presence in the city well enough known already? 'Fitzwilliam,' he ventured. 'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'

A stick-thin young woman stared at him. 'You are not related to the Prime Minister of Albion? Sir Darius Fitzwilliam?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I have that honour. I am his son.'

'No,' Duval said, clutching at his chest. 'It is our honour! This will be an event that will be talked about for years.'

Possibly, Aubrey thought, but perhaps not for the reasons you think. 'You're too kind.'

'Now.' Duval gestured grandly. 'We must celebrate the grand alliance of our nations. Friends forever!'

'What about the auditions?' Aubrey asked.

Duval shrugged. 'We will continue them another time.' He eyed Aubrey and his companions. 'How long have you been in our city?'

'George and I arrived yesterday.'

'Impossible! We must show you Lutetia!'

Duval and his friends would hear no objections. Aubrey, George and Caroline were swept up like driftwood in a flood. The chattering, laughing Gallians bore them out of Tontine Hall and into the city.

What began as a high-spirited promenade through the nearby parks and gardens turned into lunch at a café on the edge of a small lake. While couples rowed past and children sailed toy yachts, Gallian–Albionish relations were advanced on several fronts via the avenues of food and drink, with miscommunication simply adding to the hilarity. The sun shone through the trees. The fragrance of wisteria rolled over the café from a nearby arbour where the mauve flowers created a pastel-coloured tunnel. A small band in a corner of the café played dance music.

Aubrey pushed aside his second slice of lemon tart and wondered if he'd ever need to eat again. He looked down the long table and saw George explaining something to two young Gallian ladies. By their expressions, they were baffled by the conversation, but entertained nonetheless.

Duval was sitting on Aubrey's left, with Caroline just to Duval's other side. Duval was chatting in animated fashion, slipping between Albionish and Gallian when it became clear that Caroline was at ease with the language.

Aubrey waited until Duval drew breath, which took some time, and squeezed himself into the conversation. 'Duval, most grateful for your hospitality. Wonderful place.'

With an effort, Duval tore himself away from Caroline. 'Thank you, Fitzwilliam. This café is owned by my uncle. He is famous for his duck.'

'I see.' Aubrey groped for another topic of conversation. 'And how would you say things are between our two countries?'

'We are allies. We are good friends.' Duval's gaze fell to the small glass of coffee he was rolling around in his hand. 'We need to be, of course.'

'Holmland,' Caroline said.

'Yes. The Holmlanders have ambitions. The Housel River is broad, but not so broad that the Holmlanders cannot see across it to Lower Gallia. Coal mines, iron mines . . . it is a rich land, especially if you have large, growing industries.'

Aubrey revised his opinion of Duval. The man was no empty-headed dilettante. 'And is everyone in Gallia afraid of Holmland?'

A shrug. 'Many are. Some dislike Albion more than they hate Holmland. Some do not know what to think; others ignore the obvious.' He sighed. 'The Giraud government is foolish. Prime Minister Giraud tries to be too many things to too many people. He is weak, and this is a bad time to be weak.'

George appeared, beaming. 'Delightful crowd you have here, Duval. Very friendly.'

'We're talking politics here, George,' Aubrey said.

'What? On such a pleasant day with such ravishing company? Shame, Aubrey, shame.'

'Things can be pleasant while unrest lies underneath. Isn't that right, Duval?'

Duval shrugged again. His high spirits seemed to have evaporated.

'Hardly,' George said. 'Lutetia is nigh on perfect, I'd say.' He waved at one of the girls at the end of the table.

'Not so perfect,' Duval muttered. 'Not when the Soul Stealer is abroad.'

The words were so theatrically ominous that Aubrey at first thought Duval was joking. When the Gallian refused to raise his eyes, Aubrey wasn't so sure. 'What is the Soul Stealer?'

'Sounds interesting,' George said, and dragged a chair over from a nearby table.

Duval spread his hands. 'It is not something we talk about. It is distressing.'

'You should. Aubrey's dashed interested in stuff like that.'

Aubrey shrugged. 'We are newcomers to your city, Duval. If there is something we should be aware of, please tell us.'

Duval put his hands palm down on the table and lifted his head, a picture of resolution. 'You are our friends. You deserve to know, for your safety.'

He gulped the last of his coffee and put the glass firmly on the table. 'When the first victims were found, a few months ago, nothing was thought of it. Catatonia, the doctors called it. Catatonia of a strange sort that left the sufferers shambling along the streets, striking out blindly at those around them.' He grimaced. 'It happened to a neighbour of mine, a wine merchant. I saw him blundering along the street and thought he had imbibed too deeply from his own stock.'

Duval gazed over the lake. Two rowing boats had collided, but at such a sedate pace that the couples in their respective craft were laughing instead of arguing.

'The victims increased,' he went on. 'A few, then a few more. Dozens by now, all over the city. There is a terror at work.'

'We saw one,' Aubrey said, and he couldn't help but notice Caroline's quick glance of concern.

'You did?' Duval said. 'Where?'

Aubrey described the encounter with Monsieur Jordan, the artist. 'It was like grappling with an animated corpse,' he finished.