“Hello?” Her voice was overloud in the stillness. “Bonjour?” She caught her reflection in the long silver mirror at the far end of the room. She was visibly tentative, damn it, and she didn’t want to be. She looked very good, though. Beneath the long cuir de Laine coat with collar and cuffs in squirrel fur was a dress of Canton crêpe in Copenhagen blue, the Jenny collar in fine cream lace and tucked georgette softening the daring V-neck, the low waistline encircled with a band of shirring. The outfit was topped off with a cloche hat in crêpe-de-chine, slightly rolled, and on her feet were Gloria Swanson’s shoes with those revolutionary corkscrew heels. Surely even an elitist like Zachari would be impressed.

“Yes?”

Genevieve wheeled around, mortified at having been caught admiring herself, one hand moving defensively to her throat, to find herself facing a thin, elegant woman of forty or so, with clear blue eyes and long hair swept back in a chignon. The hair was remarkable for its strangely indeterminate color—neither blond nor silver nor brown nor gray but somehow all of these one by one, changing from moment to moment. Spun gold in the flickering light of the candle flames, and then cold, shining steel as she stepped back into the shadows.

“Yes?” the woman repeated—adding, with a slow, sarcastic insolence, “Madame?”

“I’m here to see Monsieur Zachari.”

The woman blinked and slowly looked Genevieve up and down. As she shifted from one foot to the other, the light changed again, and for a second her hair was almost the same iridescent blue as her eyes. She said nothing.

“I would like to see Monsieur Zachari, please.”

The gaze was disconcerting. She seemed to look right through and beyond Genevieve.

“Is there a problem?” Genevieve was snappish now. “Am I not making myself clear?”

“Quite clear. But you don’t have an appointment.” A heavy accent. Russian? Polish?

“I most certainly do.” She felt foolish the moment the words came out, but she couldn’t stop herself in time. There was something about this woman that made her want to argue, even with no grounds for doing so.

“No. You don’t.” There was a smile on the pale face, but the eyes were crystal cold.

Genevieve, struggling to conquer her embarrassment at her own foolishness, attempted a polite smile. “Could you tell me, please, whether Monsieur Zachari is here?”

“It makes no difference whether he’s here or not. You don’t have an appointment.”

“How do you know that I don’t have an appointment? You haven’t made the slightest attempt to check in a book or speak to Mr. Zachari. You haven’t even asked me my name.”