“Everybody, wake up!” Yasmina claps her hands. “Our head of Strategic Planning will report on his progress. Listen carefully. It’s important.”
A man in a striped suit takes the floor and drones on for the next half hour in the same incomprehensible lingo that all the veteran staffers use. My mind wanders off. All the way to the storage room in Lyon’s Mermoz Treasury.
The creak of the door opening draws my attention. None other than Maximilian Delaroche, aka Max to those who know him—ahem—intimately, enters.
He takes one of the vacant extrasolar seats behind me and pulls out a small notebook. I steal a furtive glance at him and crane my neck so I can make out what he’s writing. He’s doodling.
But of course.
When the meeting is finally over, Max pulls me aside. “Got a minute?”
I nod and we head to his office.
He motions me to the armchairs around the coffee table. As we sit down, his PA brings in a tray with coffee, water, and snacks.
I’m about to ask about his trip when he speaks. “I was abroad.”
“For work?”
“A car race.” He leans closer. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Did you win?”
“Came in third.” He releases a sigh and bites into a pastry. “I’d won two years in a row, but I wasn’t focused enough this time around.”
I pick up my coffee and take a sip.
He lifts his index finger. “Almost forgot! I have something for your mom.”
Darting to his imposing desk, he returns with a paper bag and hands it to me.
I peek inside.
“This is the absolute best fabric glue money can buy,” he explains. “We use it in the garage. It’s odorless, high-tech and—I made inquiries—suitable for repairing period fans. Same performance as her current stuff but better quality, stench free, and nontoxic.”
“It’s very…” I look into his eyes, searching for the right word. “Thoughtful of you!”
“You seem surprised.” He frowns. “I’m not sure I can take that as a compliment.”
I beam. “Please do. My surprise is not about you personally, but as a human male. Thoughtfulness is uncharacteristic for your sex.”
“If you say so…”
I down the rest of my espresso. “Listen, Max, when weopened the fan in the Mermoz museum, I saw two tiny letters etched on the inside of the handle—E. Y. Gran’s initials.”
He peers at me.
“I was mildly surprised but didn’t dwell on it until this morning when the strategic planning head took the floor and bored me out of my mind,” I say.
“It’s his specialty.” He wipes his hands on a napkin. “And?”
“Well, it’s unlike Gran to vandalize a historical object like that.”
“Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe the person who made the fan had the same initials.”
“E. Y.? What are the chances?”
“Slim,” he concedes.
