He congratulated himself as he reached the landing above. His ruse had worked. He’d made it past two separate gatekeepers and was about to have a private audience with Madame. He took off his sunglasses and peeled the mustache from his upper lip. He’d met Madame several times during his early days at the company, and she’d always behaved warmly toward him. Still, she might be angry that he’d arrived without warning and that she’d had no time to prepare her toilette. He decided his best defense would be a good offense. He’d burst in pleading urgency. No time for niceties, he’d convey; a true emergency had compelled his visit.

He headed down the central upstairs corridor. It was lined with mirrors, a scaled-back version of the famous hall in Versailles, and he could picture Madame striding down the corridor as if it were a fashion runway. Doors stood ajar along the hall, giving him a view into each chamber. Each one was empty. He wondered if he was on the right floor. Madame’s salon might be another floor up.

Then he heard a strange sound, a rhythmic, high-pitched keening. The wind through one of the chimneys, he thought, except that there wasn’t even a breeze stirring outside. Could it be Madame operating some kind of sewing machine? Did she still do that? He cocked his head and calculated the direction and turned that way, down a smaller hallway. The keening grew louder, and he saw a light coming from the room at the end of the hall. He followed it to the doorway.

Inside the room was another maid in the same white uniform. She was spoon-feeding a pale-haired child whose back was to the door. Barrett’s jaw dropped in surprise. He’d never heard of a child in Madame’s life, let alone a grandchild, but that explained the maids dressed in white; they were actually nursemaids. It might also explain why Madame chose to live this bucolic life. The better to raise a child in.

The maid looked up with a bright smile. “Ah, Monsieur Duvall!” The spoon paused in mid-flight, and the keening grew louder still. “It is nice to see you,” she said, her voice raised above the din. “Madame so enjoys your visits.”

Barrett came into the room, and the maid stood to greet him. But she stopped abruptly. “Wait. Who are you? You are not Monsieur Duvall!”

He looked from the maid to the child. She was clutching a naked baby doll to her chest and rocking back and forth in her wheelchair. Her hair wasn’t blond, it was white, and her face—the face that once graced a hundred magazine covers—was skeletal.

“Madame?” he breathed.

“Get out! Get out at once!” the maid screamed.

He came closer. The woman’s eyes were vacant, and a line of orange drool trickled down her chin.

“I shall call security!”

The maid—or, rather, the nurse—hurried to the telephone table across the room. Barrett wondered if he should identify himself, declare his name and position and his right and duty as corporate counsel to meet with the chairman of the board. But he couldn’t speak. He could only stare.