Nour takes me into the lobby and points out a few highlights—the chandelier installed in 1769 as part of the opera’s centennial celebration, the woven drapes commissioned by one of the King Louises, and the room down the hall to the left that used to be a dressing room and is supposedly still haunted. I listen as best I can, but my thoughts skitter back to her previous words. Nour’s warning against a band of (thieving) kids recalls the American woman with the Las Vegas hat and her suspicion of those children. Although both women are right to be on guard, I can’t help wondering if Valentin brings some kind of bias, too. My Google search turned up one result related to missing + Emmanuelle Wood from a local news outlet, the one I’m guessing Jean-Luc saw on television. What if the police are doing a shoddy job of investigating Manu’s disappearance, simply because she’s Roma? If they’re not giving this investigation their full efforts, Valentin’s suggestion that Angela may be implicated in Manu’s disappearance takes on a darker weight. Would the police allow Angela to be named as complicit, simply because she isn’t a native French person? How deep does this social disdain for the other go?

“And that’s basically it. Our tour is finished. Everywhere else is forbidden to the public,” Nour adds. “You don’t want to get lost in the maze of a basement we have.” She cocks an expertly threaded eyebrow.

I smile. “Probably not.”

“Any other questions for me?” Nour places both hands on her hips. She’s spent her entire break with me already, but I can’t leave yet. Not without something of value.

I inhale a sharp breath. “What do you know about brothels?”

Nour laughs, then stops short, seeing my face. Her cheeks blush a dark red. “Prostitution is the oldest profession known to man?”

“What’s its history in Paris?” Why would Angela send me to a brothel?

Nour eyes me hard, examining my face, probably absorbing just how unlike my sister I am. “There hasn’t been much activity since the Second World War,” she begins, cautiously. “The Nazis were big clients during the Occupation, but the administration afterward considered the prostitutes traitors. No one thought to interview the women and get their knowledge of their clients.”

I nod, remembering the platinum sheen of that young woman’s hair before Boy Three entered the room. “I’ll bet they have stories to tell today, too.”

Nour shakes her head. “Brothels were outlawed decades ago. Now prostitution is decriminalized and the customers are fined, but there are no houses left. Why do you ask?”

I stare at her, debating my reply. She matches my gaze with increasing worry the longer I don’t. “I think I saw something about them in Angela’s research. Just . . . trying to connect some dots.”