Gabriel double-checked the address on his phone as he made his way up the steady incline of the street. He’d always liked the energy of the ninth arrondissement with its array of bustling commercial and multinational businesses, all arranged in ordered beauty down the wide, grand boulevards. The legacy of Baron Haussmann’s nineteenth-century redevelopment work had turned the dark, cluttered labyrinth of old Paris into a community of splendour and light that was evident everywhere, its crown jewel the soaring Opéra Garnier that Gabriel had visited more than once. The building Ms. Leclaire lived in was also one of Haussmann’s designs, a beautiful, Lutetian limestone structure, its creamy three-story façade adorned with uniform windows and perfectly aligned balconies.

Gabriel shifted the bag slung over his shoulder as he entered the building and headed up the stairs, a familiar anticipation winding through him. Much of his job could be tedious, careful work, but moments like these made him feel a little like Indiana Jones hunting down the next great buried treasure.

He reached the landing and raised his hand to lift the brass knocker on Ms. Leclaire’s apartment door but the sound of a door opening behind him, accompanied by a brief cacophony of high-pitched barking, made him turn. An elderly woman wearing an alarming shade of lipstick and dressed in a floral outfit that would not have been out of place a half century earlier was standing on the other side of the landing. One hand grasped the head of a cane and the other a small, struggling dog.

“What do you want?” she demanded in French.

Gabriel blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t get a moment’s peace.” She narrowed her eyes, the heavy liner making them look like angry black slashes. “What business do you have here?”

“None of yours,” he replied pleasantly.

The dog growled and resumed its frantic barking. Gabriel winced.

“I suppose you’re here to see the girl.” The woman had to raise her voice over the barking.

“Yes, he is.” A new voice cut through the din from behind Gabriel. He turned to find a woman in a bright red sundress, long chestnut hair scraped back into a careless ponytail, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Ms. Leclaire?” he blurted. Somehow, in their brief correspondence, he’d had a vision fixed in his mind of a dutiful, dour matron looking after estate business.

“Guilty,” she replied. “I’m Aurelia. But everyone calls me Lia. You must be Mr. Seymour.”

“Yes. But Gabriel, please.” He realized he was staring and averted his gaze, proper manners reasserting themselves. He held out a hand. “A pleasure.”

Lia shook it, her hand firm and warm in his. He released it with a peculiar sense of reluctance.

“And this is Madame Hoffmann. My neighbour.”

Gabriel inclined his head. “Also a pleasure,” he managed.