When Marguerite turned and saw her, she broke into a huge smile. “I thought you weren’t going to come, mon lapin.”

Max still wasn’t sure if she was going to come. “Where are you going?”

They had reached the great arched entrance to Keleti station. Roads forked off in all directions, fanning out into the city. Max could see her breath in the cold air.

Sister Marguerite pointed to an ornate old building – actually, Max realized, all the buildings here were ornate and old – with a bakery tucked into the ground floor. “Breakfast,” she said, “and a very good explanation. I promise.”

Max considered this. Marguerite could hardly point a gun at her in the middle of the bakery. She could safely go for breakfast, and just hear what her former friend had to say. So she adjusted her three scarves, stepped out into the icy morning, and followed Sister Marguerite to breakfast.

Just crossing the road turned them both a glowing pink from the cold. Max understood now why her great-aunt had sent the hat, but Marguerite was hurrying ahead, so there was no time to stop and put it on.

Inside, Sister Marguerite plonked down with enormous satisfaction at a table for two by the window. “Perfect!” she announced. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to have this conversation with one eye on the road, mon lapin. They’ve both gone for breakfast in the station, and I need to see when they leave – it’s absolutely crucial that I don’t lose them at this stage. But I owe you a private conversation.”

Max didn’t know what Marguerite was talking about, but this didn’t seem to bother the nun. She groped around in her habit, never taking her eye off the station entrance, and found the houseplant for the table. Max wondered, with a chill, whether she had brushed past her gun on the way. The houseplant was followed by a crumpled bank note, which Marguerite handed to Max. Two thousand forints, it said, alongside a picture of an impressively bearded man. “Choose us something warm,” said Sister Marguerite.

When Max came back with a plate piled high with hot pastries, Marguerite was still watching the road, still as a statue. Max followed her gaze. The cream stone front of Keleti station stared back. There was a small crowd outside, including Celeste, who was looking out across the city from a bench; and a lot of pigeons. No sign of Max’s other suspects.

Not suspects any more, she reminded herself. She had found the thief. She was having breakfast with her.