The boy had the fame sickness, he could see it now. It was there in his pale face, glittering eyes, and wild gestures. His own desire was to become famous, world famous, with the firing of one or two shots. Parricide was to be his route to celebrity, his stage the runway, his audience the world’s press. Lazare sighed. He himself considered all fame deeply treacherous; yet with fame, this boy clearly believed he would find his lost identity, he would know who he was.

Lazare did not intend to die in such a way; nor was he, he realized, prepared to wait. He glanced up at the TV screen: the model Quest was advancing down the runway in one of Cazarès’s last designs, a black suit trimmed with sable. A long black sable scarf trailed over her arm, and down to the floor. As she turned, she gave it a practiced kick.

The collection had reached its midpoint. The suit was in every respect exquisite, though Lazare had never shared Maria’s taste for furs. He frowned, then stood.

“I will not cooperate,” he said.

The young man stared at him. He flourished the gun.

“You have to. You walk out of this room when I say. You walk along the corridor, through the dressing room, and out onto the runway—with me. Then I do it.”

“Thanks to your incompetence, my salon is filled with armed police.”

“So much the better.”

“Do you want a bloodbath?” Lazare gave him a long, cool look. “Well, perhaps you do. You will not get it with my assistance. This is Maria’s last collection, and it will be shown in the same manner as all her other collections. Perfectly. With discipline. One thing you should understand…” Lazare met his eyes. “I have never obeyed an order from anyone in my life. Around here I give the orders.”

“Not now you don’t.” The young man gave a smile. He waved the gun again.

Lazare returned the smile and began to walk toward the boy, around his desk. He watched the gun waver and the young man step back. He saw him glance toward the door, and he saw him begin to panic. He realized he would have to say the right thing, exactly the right thing, and that he would have to be quick.

Should he tell this young madman that he wanted to die, was prepared to die, and that if the young man would not oblige him now, he’d find other means himself? But no, he thought, watching him: the young man wanted more than the pleasure of firing the shot—and to admit to desiring it would be certain to make him delay, even abandon, his attempt.

Lazare looked lovingly at the gun. Anger might provoke him, he thought, because he could feel the young man’s fury, even smell it.

Anger, insult… he gave a small shrug. Whatever it took.

“How stupid you are,” he said, sharpening his voice. “You can’t make me do anything. What are you going to do if I won’t leave this room with you? What can you do? Fire? Your hands are shaking. You haven’t the guts. You can’t go through with it, can you? And if you did—you’d miss. Have you actually handled a firearm before? No. I thought not.”