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was
linked through the man’s, but it was a casual linkage.  He was almost turned
away from her, straining toward Eiffel, utterly unaware that he had a goddess
for a wife.  She is his trophy, Rayley thought, but a trophy garnered from a
contest long ago, taken in a victory he barely remembers.
    Eiffel finished to
applause and signaled toward another man, who began to move toward the podium
with a heavy step and palpable dread.
    “Otis,” Graham
whispered. “The elevator chap.”
    Even with his
limited grasp of French and thus French gossip, Rayley knew at once what this meant. 
Whether or not Eiffel would finish the structure on time might be arguable, but
it had been painfully evident for months that his team was unable to engineer
any reasonable means of transporting people up and down the frame of the tower.
It had been a scandal when they’d had to call on the Americans for help, more
specifically this man Otis who was now standing behind the podium.  Rayley felt
for him with his thick, workmanlike coat and his stumbling French, which was
probably scarcely better than Rayley’s own.
    “Why have they had
so much trouble with the elevators?” he quietly asked Graham. 
    “Can’t rise straight
up,” Graham answered.  “They have to run along those strange sloping legs and
go…what’s the word?”
    “Diagonal?”
    “Precisely.  Cables
are engineered to go either up and down or back and forth, not both at once,”
Graham said.  “Even the Paris papers have admitted it’s a slight complication.”
    Rayley frowned. It
seemed more than a slight complication. “So what happens if the tower opens and
there are no elevators?”
    “We climb, I
suppose.” 
    The voice behind him
was as cool and clear as water.  Since Eiffel had concluded and poor Otis had
begun, the crowd was growing restless, seeking trays of food and drink,
chatting right over his speech, turning the mood back into that or a party.  But
Rayley was still stunned to find her here, at his elbow, her lips curved into a
somewhat mocking smile.
    “I suppose you two
know each other?” Graham said.  “Of course you’ve met.  Oh, but you haven’t? 
May I present Rayley Abrams of Scotland Yard.  And Rayley, this is Isabel…Delacroix.”
    His hesitation on
the last name struck Rayley as odd, even in this moment when so many other
things were striking him as well.  For the woman had turned to him and offered
her gloved hand.  Had murmured “Detective…” as if it were a glorious word.  Why
would Graham not know her last name?  She was connected to important people, married
to a man who apparently had strong ties to the Exposition, and besides, Graham
seemed to know everyone in Paris.
    Otis had finished. 
Eiffel stepped back to the podium for a few final remarks, the sort that even
Rayley could understand.  “A new France,” he had bellowed, evidently a scripted
finale, for in the moment when he uttered the final word, champagne corks had
gone flying from every corner of the room.  Within seconds, frothing glasses
were being set up on bars and waiters were stepping forward with trays of food. 
Someone, Rayley thought, with that parenthetical part of his mind that was still
working, has gone to great expense and trouble for this evening.  Someone is
very determined to ensure that all goes well. 
    “Would you like
champagne?” Graham offered.
    “Champagne is always
nice,” said Isabel, and Rayley nodded. Graham left them in search of glasses
and, at least for the moment, the two stood alone, an island in the sea of
bustling, chattering Parisians.
    “We’ve met before,”
she said, her voice so soft he was forced to lean in to catch the words.
    “In a way.  You
sketched me. On the Rue Clairaut.”
    “And did I capture
you?”
    There were many
things he could have said in response to such a provocative verb, but what he
chose was the truth. “I looked sad.”
    She exhaled softly,
turned away.  She had been flirting, he