I straighten up, push my chest out, and walk into the building, using my most princely gait, the one normally reserved for official ceremonies when I’m decked out in red and gold.
A few moments later, I open the door for Lucie and help her down into the hallway.
“First,” she says as soon as her feet hit the floor, “we’ll drop by a pharmacy to buy some disinfectant and bandages. Then we’ll find a bistro so you can wash your hands.”
I check my raw, chafed palms. “Skip the pharmacy. Water, soap and some sustenance in the first eatery on our way, and I’ll be my glossy, smooth self once again.”
“Too much action for a MINDFUCH paper pusher, huh?” she says, flashing her teeth.
“Action is not a problem!” I offer a teasing smile of my own, before adding, “But the commute in Lyon is murder.”
15
MAX
Lucie takes us through yet another passageway that goes up and down, crosses a series of courtyards, and dips into tunnels under buildings. Its spiraling staircases and pastel colors give it an alluring Renaissance touch that is quite a contrast to the forbidding lines of Château des Neiges.
Fortunately, generations of Valois-Montevors have made the interior spaces as plush and welcoming as possible.
We arrive at the collector’s house on rue Serlin shortly after three. I find the name on the buzzer list and reach for the button when I realize that something is not quite as it should be. My hand freezes in midair.
“This is not right,” Lucie says, staring at the name. “It says C. Blanc-Mathieu, not Y. Blanc-Mathieu.”
“The C could be his wife.”
“Wouldn’t it then read C. and Y. Blanc-Mathieu?” She looks up at me. “They may be a very feminist-minded couple, but even so, erasing the husband’s initial seems a bit extreme.”
“What if he became a she?”
“Hmm… I guess, there’s only one way to find out!” She shifts her gaze back at the buzzer.
I push the button.
“Oui?” a grown man answers.
“Monsieur Blanc-Mathieu?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“We’re here in relation to a period handheld fan you purchased eleven years ago,” I begin.
“It’s a foldingbriséfan,” Lucie picks up. “Late eighteenth century, pastoral?—”
“I know what fan you’re talking about,” the man says.
Lucie and I exchange a relieved look.
She carries on. “Monsieur Blanc-Mathieu, my name is Lucie Laborde. I’m Emma’s granddaughter, the woman who sold you the fan? We were wondering if you would let us borrow it for a couple of hours to check a little detail for a restoration project?—”
“I’m sorry, Lucie, but I cannot do that.”
His unequivocal no leaves us speechless.
“My name is Constantin Blanc-Mathieu,” the man says. “My father is the one who purchased the fan from your grandmother’s shop.”
“Where can we find your father?” I ask.
“Nowhere in this world. He passed away last year.”
