“I tell you this, Lindy, despite the fact that Quest swore me to secrecy, because you’re one of the four people I like in the world. And because I know you’ll be careful whom you tell. If you have to, tell McGuire. But don’t blab it around.” He paused. “First: the Cazarès collection isn’t canceled. It goes ahead, the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, eleven A.M., precisely as planned. Tomorrow morning Lazare is giving a press conference—and all the passes to that are being sent out now. The line will be that Wednesday’s show is un hommage. What Maria Cazarès herself would have wanted. Moving, isn’t it?”

“Actually, it is. And?”

“And now—get this—guess where Quest has been all night? At the Cazarès workshops. Getting fitted for three very special ensembles, three new ensembles…”

“What? Tonight? It’s less than two days to the show. That can’t be right, Markov. All the clothes for the collection will have been finished a week ago. Lazare always insists on that. The most they’d be doing is small last-minute adaptations—trimmings, accessories…”

“Sure. But I told you—these outfits are special. They’re Maria Cazarès’s last work. Her final designs. As drawn by her own pen, this last weekend. Lazare’s idea. He was there, in the workshops, Lindy, tonight, putting the fear of God into everybody. Quest was sent for within one hour of Cazarès’s being pronounced dead.”

“What? I can’t believe that.”

“There’s more. Think, Lindy—what time did I first hear? Around eight. And when you checked back with Pixie, what time did she say it came through on the wires?”

“About seven forty-five.”

“Exactly. So work out just how long Lazare took to release the news. Quest was summoned at five this afternoon. If it’s true that Cazarès had died an hour before, she died at around four. So what was happening for the next three and three-quarter hours?”

“I don’t know.” Lindsay gave a shiver. “They were getting the security in place, oiling up the press machine, making sure everyone put out the right story, the right way…”

“Sure. That’s certainly what the courtiers and minions were busy doing. But not Lazare. I’m telling you, Lindy, Cazarès is dead one hour, she’s not cold yet, and he’s there, in the workshops, raising hell. They’re cutting the material for the dresses on the model, the way Chanel used to work, because there’s no time to make toiles. Every tiny little detail has to be just so. Quest is standing there, getting pins stuck in her, getting slices taken off, because the cutters are so damn terrified they can’t hold the scissors steady, and there’s Lazare, in the middle of mayhem, people scurrying in all directions, and he won’t compromise, he’s going through fifteen, sixteen, seventeen samples of materials, he’s got them running down to warehouses, and bringing back bales, he’s got embroideresses, he’s saying no, those buttons won’t work, they’re one eighth of an inch too big—and all the time, Lindy, all the time, he’s in emperor mode. Like—no tears, no grief, no condolences given or accepted, just this white, set face and that voice that makes your blood run cold.”