She glared back at him. Hold your horses, she thought. The museum isn’t even open yet!

A moment later, the clerk returned. “I’m sorry. Monsieur Chevrolet isn’t in. You’ll have to come back some other time.”

Diana frowned. She needed to know the name of the man who’d rented that mask, and he was the only person with that information. “What is he, off today?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? But when can I come back and speak with him?”

“You can call the office, later.” She grabbed a brochure and slid it under the plexiglass divider. “Main number. Next, please.”

Diana took the brochure, gazing with longing toward the doors to the palace. They were open now, and people were starting to filter in. People with tickets, at least. They were all getting closer to the answer than she—stuck outside in the vestibule—was.

The man behind Diana moved forward in the line, coming dangerously close to nudging her out of the way. She didn’t budge. “Wait,” she said, glaring at the man who’d invaded her personal space, like back off. She fumbled with her purse. “I’ll take a ticket.”

“Combination with the shuttle bus tour?”

She shook her head. “No. Just the—” she pointed ahead. “Just the palace.”

The woman printed out the ticket. “That will be twenty euros.”

Diana handed over her credit card, anxiously watching the crowds going in. Crowds were good. They’d certainly helped the pickpockets at the ball to commit their crimes. Maybe they would help Diana to commit hers.

Not that it really was a crime. She was just going to accidentally get lost among the many rooms in the palace. Again. That was all.

The moment she got the ticket, she rushed forward through the doors. She handed the slip of paper to the ticket checker, who was dressed in period costume, much like she’d been at the ball. He studied it. “Excusez-moi, Madame,” he said. “Your ticket is for nine. It is only eight-thirty.”

She stared at it. Sure enough, that’s what the ticket said. “Oh. Well, can’t I . . . a little

early . . .?”

He shook his white-powdered wig head, “I’m sorry, that’s impossible.”

“But I . . . have to go to the bathroom?”

He frowned, “There are public restrooms located outside.”

Again, someone behind her cleared his throat. She looked back and saw the same man, and grumbled, “He’s not going to let you in. It’s only eight-thirty.”

The man, who clearly didn’t speak English, simply glared back at her.

“What can I do?” she asked, lacing her fingers together in front of her, eyes pleading.

He motioned over her shoulder, “You can shop in the gift shop and get something to eat at the café while you wait.”

Beaten, Diana hoisted her purse up on her shoulder and retreated to the crowded gift shop. People were packed in there, browsing the many aisles. On any normal day, she probably would’ve filled a cart with goodies to take home with her, but now, she walked around the miniature Eiffel Towers and maps and French flags and Versailles snow globes, taking it all in with little interest. What she was looking for, instead, was a way in.