Dusk rain rattled against the side-door of Maison Vinet, a rhythmic drum against the heavy oak. Hélène Marot paused, her burin held inches above a soft steel plate, as the latch clicked and the cold breath of the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Jacques swept inside. A man stood on the threshold, his grey wool overcoat darkened to charcoal by the February downpour.
He did not step into the warmth of the brazier but remained silhouetted against the silver slick of the cobbles. His spectacles were clouded with mist, yet Hélène could see the exhaustion in his pale-blue eyes—a weariness that seemed to come from a much older country. He held a small leather attaché case with the grip of a man who possessed nothing else. He looks like a ghost seeking a sanctuary, she thought, her thumb tracing the old burin-scar on her hand.
He spoke her name with a careful, formal French that carried the salt of a distant coastline. He was not there for the Master, nor for the official revenue plates of the Republic. He was there for her steady hand and a year of Tuesdays. The thin man reaches into his long grey overcoat and withdraws a heavy, unmarked leather pouch.
