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condition was deteriorating. It wasn't
simply the tiredness he'd felt since exerting himself to
save Saltin. He had a vague malaise, a deep-seated feeling
that something wasn't right.
    Ominously, he'd also lost his appetite. It had happened
to him before. After the foolhardy experiment that had
torn his soul loose from his body, he'd managed to
reunite them – but not perfectly. The connection had
deteriorated, and as it did, his bodily state grew worse.
Tiredness and loss of appetite were warning signs, a
reminder that his physical condition wasn't what it
should be. In the past he'd been able to rest and steady
himself, restoring his balance. Through spells and willpower
he'd been able to keep the true death at bay – but
it hovered, always there, waiting for him if his hold
should slip.
    Aubrey had heard that the Faculty of Magic at the
University of Lutetia had fallen on hard times. It was
apparently a shadow of its glory days, when it had
attracted magicians from Albion and all over the
Continent. He had hopes, though, that he could find
someone there who could offer help or insight into the
state of half-life, half-death in which he was trapped. He
wanted a remedy, something more permanent than what
he'd been able to cobble together.

    A UBREY FOUND G EORGE ALONE IN THE FRONT DRAWING room. He was surrounded by peacock plumes nodding
from a tall ochre vase and he was absorbed in reading the
newspaper. Aubrey outlined the discussions he'd had, to
George's growing amusement.
    'I can't see what's so funny,' Aubrey concluded. 'I was
looking forward to a relaxing holiday and now it looks as
if it's going to be filled up with traipsing all over Lutetia
for other people.'
    'My thoughts exactly, old man. After this holiday, it
seems you're going to need a holiday.'

Three
    T HE CAB STOPPED AND A UBREY PEERED UP AT WHAT would be their residence for their Lutetian holiday.
George leaned over and stared. 'Looks as if we're not in
Albion any more, old man.'
    It was one of a row of impressive five-storey apartment
buildings just north of the Sequane River, not far from
the centre of the city. The narrow street and equally tall
row of buildings on the other side made Aubrey feel as if
he was at the bottom of a canyon – albeit an architecturally
splendid one. Their holiday residence was on a
crossroad, so the western windows overlooked the intersection
below.
    By the time Aubrey had alighted and joined George
on the pavement, the driver had manhandled the trunks
and boxes from the cab. It was done with some speed and
not much care. Aubrey paid and offered a few Gallian
pleasantries, but the driver didn't linger. He sprang back
into his seat, urging his nag off with a curse and a flick
of his whip.
    George scowled. 'Ah, visit lovely Gallia and see the
friendly folk mistreat their animals.'
    George's large build disguised his soft-heartedness.
Aubrey knew his friend loved animals and hated to see
them being treated poorly. 'Let's see if we can't get some
help with these things,' he suggested and used the bunch-of-grapes doorknocker.
    The door opened. A tall, grey-haired woman stared
down at them as if she'd been walking on the beach and
found something unpleasant. Aubrey thought that she
had once been beautiful, but had now passed through
that into something more intriguing.
    Aubrey doffed his hat and greeted her in his best
Gallian. She nodded. 'Quite good, for an Albionite,' she
said in perfect Albionish, 'but please use your own
language. I like to practise.'
    Aubrey nodded, a little disappointed. 'I'm Aubrey
Fitzwilliam. This is George Doyle. Rooms have been
organised for us?'
    'Fitzwilliam. Doyle.' The grey-haired woman repeated
the words slowly. Aubrey saw her studying them carefully:
two young men, one slight and dark-eyed, one large, red-cheeked
and sandy-haired. 'Yes. You have rooms.'
    'Er, can you show us to them?' George asked.
'Although we could just stand here and admire the
windows, if you point them out to us.'
    Aubrey