“I must stop and rest,” I said, leaning against the bannister. “I have been unwell. That was why I couldn’t travel on from Le Havre before this. I should have been here two days ago.”

She spun around, glaring at me. “I hope you don’t bring a sickness into this house. What was wrong with you?”

“Mal de mer,” I said. “The ship came through a bad storm.”

“Oh, mal de mer.” She shrugged again as if I was making a fuss over nothing. “You are not at sea now, are you?” And on she went again, up the next flight, leaving me to stagger after her with Liam in my arms.

I managed to keep going because I had to and I was terrified of fainting with Liam in my arms. At the top of the stairwell there was a skylight and rain drummed on it loudly. The concierge stopped outside one of the doors, now breathing heavily herself, and stood, hand on bosom, catching her breath, before she produced a bunch of keys from her belt. She examined them, selected a key, then turned it in the keyhole. “Voilà, madame,” she said, and motioned for me to go in. “As you can see. There is nobody here. I leave you to decide what action you wish to take.”

“I will stay and await my friends,” I said. “And I will need a key if I choose to go out. Do you perhaps have an extra one?”

“In my office, downstairs,” she said. “I will want a deposit of five francs.”

“Madame is kind,” I said, with sarcasm. “I am Madame Sullivan. May I know your name?”

“Hetreau,” she said. “Madame Hetreau.”

I nodded, not able to bring myself to say I was pleased to make her acquaintance.

“I’ll leave you then,” she said, and slammed the door shut behind her.

I stood alone in a large, light room; sparsely furnished and with a cold, damp feel to it. The smell of oil paints, linseed oil, and foreign cigarettes lingered in the air. The high ceiling was molded and an improbably grand chandelier hung in the center of it. On one side long windows opened onto a narrow, wrought-iron balcony. Rain was streaking those long windows.

“Hello?” I called hopefully. No reply.

A look around me revealed a faded velvet sofa and two high-backed armchairs on one side, a dining table on the other, and in the window an easel set up with a canvas on it, a sheet beneath to catch the spatters. A palette of paints rested on a table beside it and brushes stood in a glass jar of some kind of cleaning fluid—was it turpentine? I tried to remember.