Genevieve delighted in Lulu’s spontaneity and frivolity. You never knew what she’d say or do next, particularly when she was drunk. And yet the friendship gained substance, too. Lulu had plenty of friends, but most of them were as unreliable as the weather. She had real need of someone steadfast and trustworthy. Someone she could confide in. Someone who didn’t want to paint her or exploit her or sleep with her or betray her or even just laugh at her. And Genevieve needed someone to take her out and about in Bohemian Paris. Someone to show her the world.

Past grand houses with smart façades, multicolored histories and innumerable ghosts, walked Genevieve. Most were now swanky costumiers, perfumers and jewelers, and those few that were still private residences had become the homes of dubious money-grabbing surgeons, renowned astrologers, and strange old dames left over from another era with only their cats and their memories for company.

On went Genevieve, and out on to the Rue de la Paix, where she entered a discreet passageway, unnoticed for the most part by the tourists and daytime shoppers who flocked to the great fashion houses of the street. A passageway leading to a small courtyard whose tall walls were covered with ivy and other creepers that rustled and whispered in the night breeze. A courtyard unknown to Genevieve until just a few days before.

Standing before Zachari’s shop, she stared up at that overblown, taunting sign of his, then looked in at the window, trying to see through the little chinks in the purple velvet curtains. All was dark inside, which was perhaps unsurprising, as it was almost ten o’clock.

Bending, she peered down at the tiny basement window and dimly made out that a light was still on inside. She couldn’t see much—the high backs of chairs, the edge of a workbench, the shapes of tools. Listening carefully, she could just about hear the sound of soft violin music played on a gramophone. A figure was moving about the room, settling by the bench.