Olga huffed. “Artists are just the same as all the others. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll know what I mean.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” Lulu looked remote suddenly.

How old is she? Genevieve wondered. Forty-three? Forty-five? Hard to say. Good bones and a good figure. Intelligent-looking too. But faded—worn out by experience.

“People don’t think of shoemakers as artists,” said Genevieve. “But they are. Paolo Zachari is. You must know him better than most people, Olga. You must have been working for him for a long time now.”

“The rain has stopped,” said Olga, without looking at Genevieve. “I have to be going.”

“But it’s still early,” said Lulu, giving Genevieve a swift kick under the table. “Come with us to Bricktop’s. Maybe I’ll get up and sing.”

“I need to go home.” She started coughing again, and this time swallowing her drink didn’t seem to help. She was still coughing when she stood up.

“Are you all right?” Genevieve asked.

Olga banged her glass down on the table and made to walk to the door. But the walk was more of a lurch. Her feet were clumsy, as though they’d been borrowed from someone else and didn’t fit her properly. As the girls watched, her legs appeared to crumple beneath her and she lost her balance. In trying to correct herself, she stumbled over a stool leg and went flying.

The whores were laughing, whether at Olga or at some joke of their own it was impossible to tell. The barman shook his head and tutted. The old men didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. Olga lay absolutely still where she’d fallen.

She was slumped between them in the taxi. She was no longer unconscious, but she wasn’t exactly conscious either. Her eyes were shut. Occasionally she murmured a few words in Russian.

“What makes you so sure Zachari will even be there?” said Lulu.

“I’m not. But what else can we do? It’s our fault she’s in this state. And I’d sooner take her to Zachari than back to the Rue de Lota. But maybe you’d like to take her to your apartment?”

“You must be joking!” Lulu squeaked. “She’s your problem, not mine. This has nothing to do with me.”

The taxi took a corner too sharply, and Olga’s head flopped forward. Gently, Genevieve eased her upright and used her handkerchief to wipe away a trail of spit. “This isn’t just the drink,” she said. “Feel how hot she is.”

Lulu felt the forehead. “Let’s hope your cobbler is still at his cobbling.”

They turned into the Rue de la Paix, and Olga’s face was illuminated by the bright streetlights. She looked ethereal, almost ghostly. And yet there was a softness about her that Genevieve hadn’t seen before.