‘I’m sorry, André.’ Tears fell from my cheeks to his. ‘I am so sorry that I turned the wrong way.’

‘No,’ he whispered.

‘I’ll make the call.’

‘Be quick.’

I stood up. The walls shifted around me but then stayed where they were meant to be.

‘Eloïse.’

‘Hush now.’ The effort of speaking was killing him.

‘Be careful.’

I nodded.

‘Go to the Hôtel d’Emilie. On the Île Saint-Louis. Make the call . . . from their . . . lobby.’

I didn’t ask why. If he had asked me to make the call from the moon, I’d have done it.

*

‘May I help you, mademoiselle?’

‘Thank you. I need to make a telephone call.’

The hotel manager blocking my path was as elegant and as attractive as the foyer we were standing in. The façade of Hôtel d’Emilie may be classic eighteenth century, decorated with stone mascarons and ornate ironwork outside, but the interior was all 1953 pale wood panelling and seats in primary colours. Money had been invested in this place.

The manager regarded me with concerned eyes, taking in the sodden dressing on my face, the disintegrating slippers on my feet and the stolen nurse’s woollen cape I was clinging to. He did not turn me away, so perhaps I was not the first to wind up on his doorstep in this state. He gestured to the two telephone booths at the back of the foyer, but his gaze stayed on me.

‘Are you all right, mademoiselle? Can I get you . . . ?’ He paused, wondering which to pick of all the things I so obviously needed. ‘A drink?’ he offered.

‘Non, merci.’

I hurried to the telephone booths, as fast as my battered knee would allow.

*

I dialled the number.

It rang and was picked up immediately. A wave of relief hit me, and I pictured someone at the other end hunched over the phone all day, waiting for voices in distress.

‘Who is it?’ a man’s voice demanded.

‘I have a package.’

‘What is the label on the package?’

‘Caussade.’

Silence. Other than the thudding of my heart, I could hear nothing.

‘Don’t hang up,’ I said.

‘I’m here.’ The voice was smooth. Deliberately calming. ‘Where is the package?’

I hesitated. ‘Who am I talking to?’

‘My name is Victor. Where is the package? You were told to ring this number, so trust us.’

I had no choice. ‘At the Hôpital de Sainte Marie-Thérèse.’

‘Listen carefully, mademoiselle. I am going to confer with someone. Stay on the line. I will be back shortly.’

I counted the seconds.

Six and a half minutes passed according to the star-shaped clock on the foyer wall. I spent it leaning my back against the booth for support, willing André’s broken chest to keep rising and falling.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m here,’ I said.

‘Who are you?’

‘A friend.’

He gave a soft snort. ‘The sister?’