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elbowed his friend. 'We'd like to deposit our
things, if we could.'
    'You'll need your keys.' She vanished, leaving them
standing on the doorstep.
    Aubrey looked at George. 'I suppose no-one is going
to steal our luggage.'
    'Not unless Lutetia is populated by roving gangs of
weightlifters who've turned to a life of crime.' George sat
on one of the trunks, took off his boater and fanned
himself with it. 'Just to make sure, I'll wait here while
you're getting the key.'
    'No need,' Aubrey said, nodding toward the door.
    The grey-haired woman had reappeared. 'I am
Madame Calvert. This is my establishment. Here are your
keys, and a letter for you, young Fitzwilliam.'
    She handed them to Aubrey, then disappeared into
the depths of the building, leaving the ornate doors
open.
    Aubrey opened the envelope, wondering who knew
he'd be at this address. When he finished reading it, he
chuckled and folded it away.
    'Everything all right, old man?' George asked. 'We have
the right place, don't we?'
    'Yes.' Aubrey chuckled again. 'I think we're in for an
interesting time, George. After all, according to my
guidebook, Lutetia is the City of Art.'
    'City of Art? I heard it was the City of Love.'
    'I imagine you did hear that.' He held up the envelope.
'We have our first Lutetian invitation.'
    'Excellent! An exhibition? Opening night at the
opera?'
    'Not exactly. Do you remember the Gallian airman
we saved?'
    'Of course I remember. Not likely to forget that jaunt
for a while.'
    'Well, Captain Saltin has asked us to visit him at the
St Martin airfield. He wants to show us the Gallian
dirigible fleet.'
    'Do we have to go straightaway?'
    'Not at all. It's an open invitation.'
    'Good. I'm sure we'll be able to fit in a visit. In a week
or two. Or next month, if we can't manage that.'
    Aubrey grinned. 'Now, let's see about these trunks.'
    Inside, they found themselves at the foot of a marble
staircase. A rich red carpet affixed with brass stair-rods led
up to a landing with a stained-glass window as extravagant
as the front doors. On their left was an open door,
while a short corridor led to another door on the far side
of the stairs.
    Aubrey was glad for George's muscles. Even so, it was
a difficult task, hauling the trunks up the stairs. They
paused on the first-floor landing to catch their breath,
and then at each subsequent landing. When they reached
the fourth floor, Aubrey sat on the stairs and panted. 'One
more to go. I hope we have a wonderful view.'
    'I'd swap a view for a ground-floor room,' George said.
He'd draped himself over the polished wooden balustrade.
'If I want a view, I can look in a book.'
    Aubrey stood, gingerly. He could feel his heart
pounding from the exertion, but he thought it was under
control. A dull headache lurked, but it was minor.
    On this floor, there were three rooms – two on the left,
one on the right. Aubrey frowned, wondering about the
other tenants in Madame Calvert's residence. If he were
correct, the room on the right would be larger. It would
face north, too, so it may be useful as an artist's studio.
He was sure Madame Calvert would approve of artists.
    But Aubrey wasn't sure Madame Calvert would
approve of the loud thumping noises coming from the
apartment. Was the tenant a woodworker? Or perhaps a
sculptor, hammering at a large piece of marble?
    Aubrey took a step back when the door to the apartment
began to shake.
    The roof of his mouth started to itch, with rapidly
rising intensity. Aubrey narrowed his eyes. Magic was
afoot.
    A deep, wrenching groan came from behind the door,
followed by hammering that shook dust from the ceiling.
    George stared. 'I hope we're not going to have noisy
neighbours.'
    'It sounds as if someone's in trouble.' The door handle
rattled, as if whoever was within was unfamiliar with the
functioning of latches.
    'They need help.' George made for the door, but at
that moment it was thrown open. George stopped,
aghast, and gave a cry of horror.
    Aubrey wondered what George had