She shifted position. Time to concentrate on something else. On Kočka. What was Laure doing taking her on? (Semi-feral. Expensive. Needy.) She touched the fur between Kočka’s ears, absorbing through her fingertip the whisper of eggshell bone beneath it. To take her in, to love Kočka, was to invite vulnerability, possibly distress.

It would be complicated. Laure had little spare time to deal with Kočka and, unless she killed Madame Poirier (no hardship) and replaced her with a sympathetic concierge, she would be forced to move. Her guarded, compartmentalized routines would be thrown into flux. A small creature’s demands would invade her calm.

In the morning, it would be simple enough to bundle Kočka into the cardboard carrier, to take her back to the vet and to let them deal with her.

Kočka stirred, adjusting a paw that sat at an angle, which suggested it had been damaged in the past. Its fragility was unbearable. It made her feel… what? Uncomfortable. Broken.

May had accused her of being difficult to get through to.

True. She was observing life through a pane of glass. That was how she wished it. You must not live with ghosts, she told herself. It is time to forget them.

Laure’s personal history coloured much of her attitude. But not entirely. No one could look at the planet today, riddled as it was with violence, rotten regimes and persecution, and feel good about it.

The sounds of Paris filtered in through the window.

Laure gently arranged Kočka’s tail and a familiar ache folded itself over her heart.

CHAPTER 8

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MAY WALKED INTO THE OFFICE and planted herself in front of Laure’s desk. Laure looked up. ‘I don’t wish to talk to you.’

May looked seriously sleep-deprived. ‘I’m so sorry. Please, will you forgive me?’

‘Why on earth would I?’

She clasped her hands behind her back. ‘You have no reason but I’m asking for another chance.’ Doggedness. ‘Except that I could, and would, do a good job for you.’

Laure did not reply and there was an unpleasant pause.

Nic had been in the interview room and put his head around the door. ‘The Maison de G wants to finalize the menu. Can you talk?’ He vanished.

A lunch to celebrate the collaboration between the museum and the Maison de Grasse had been slated for later in the month, a date carefully chosen so as not to clash with the run-up to Christmas.

Laure took the call which lasted a few minutes. May hovered, restless and distressed. When the call finished, Laure stood up. ‘Yesterday you asked me about Prague and Berlin.’

‘I did.’