It was a typical February day, cold and drear with a heavy sky. The floodwater had receded, leaving behind flotsam in the strangest of places, like the aftermath of a night of revelry.

The Boulevard des Italiens was busy, full of men and women bundled against the cold. Motor cars honked, weaving between horses that stood impa.s.sive in the gutters. A black and white dog rushed between hooves, barking at the trees where pigeons squatted, like old feathered fruit in the branches.

Opposite was Ptisserie Clermont. Gui stared, for he had never seen it by day. Great arched windows let out a golden light, sparkling upon the gla.s.s and beckoning him closer. Beyond, he caught glimpses of gilt and marble, of a grand counter that hugged the edge of the room, the produce of the miraculous kitchen displayed within, like jewellery. Hefting his suitcase a little higher, Gui pushed open the front door.

Warmth swirled around him; engulfing him in the smell of fresh baking, chocolate and coffee. Tall, fronded plants arched gracefully, straight from a tropical garden. Chatter, clinking and laughter filled the room. Women sat straight-backed in their chairs, men all starch and shine smoked lazily.

'Can I help you?'

One of the waiters was eyeing him with disdain. In the dormitory, Patrice's old suit had made him feel like a gentleman, but here his cracked boots and peeling suitcase gave him away.

'I'm here to see Monsieur Clermont,' he said clearly.

'Do you have an appointment with him?' the waiter asked.

'No, he has offered me a job-'

'Monsieur Clermont is busy. You will have to return another day.'

He was being ushered towards the door. Another waiter watched them steadily whilst pouring coffee.

'You don't understand,' Gui tried again. 'He is expecting me.'

'I don't think so.'

The waiter forced him forward. They were almost at the door when he saw her.

'Mademoiselle!' he cried.

She was sitting several tables away, in the company of another women and a man. At his shout they stared, began to whisper to each other. The waiter increased his efforts to thrust Gui onto the street. He grabbed the doorframe.

'Mademoiselle!'

'It is all right, Ricard,' she called, rising hurriedly to her feet. 'I know him.'

She apologized to her friend and to the man, who looked up from a sketchpad curiously. Several other tables had also turned to look. Mademoiselle Clermont crossed the few feet between them, limping slightly. Instinctively, Gui held out a hand to steady her, but the waiter batted him away.

'Monsieur du Frere, good afternoon,' she began coolly. 'Ricard, you may leave us now.'

Another table signalled for attention. The waiter looked torn. He threw Gui a filthy look, but finally bustled away. Mademoiselle Clermont transferred her hand to his arm for support. A pale lace dress rose to the top of her throat. She wore cream satin gloves. As soon as the waiter was gone, she turned her face away from her friends, and gave him her rare smile.

'Guillaume, what are you doing here?' she whispered.

'Your father offered me employment, last week,' Gui told her. 'I received a letter this morning, and am here to take up the position.'

Mademoiselle Clermont looked astonished.

'I did not know,' she said. 'How ...? But never mind. I am so glad you are here. I had not thought to see you again, and had no address to reach you by.'

'What for?' The thought of Mademoiselle Clermont writing to him was too much to comprehend.

'To say thank you, of course! So I shall say it now: thank you, Monsieur du Frere. You have my grat.i.tude.'

Gui made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Abruptly, he found it rather difficult to breathe.

'It was nothing,' he murmured.

She returned his gaze. Their silence lengthened for a beat too long, sending him scrabbling in his pocket.

'Here, this is the letter I received this morning.'

She shook it open with her free hand. A frown wrinkled her forehead.

'But this is from Monsieur Burnett ...'

Mademoiselle Clermont's friend called over discreetly, indicating the man with the sketchpad who had half-risen to his feet. She nodded at them.

'Come with me,' she told Gui. 'I will take you to the office. Leave your case. Ricard will put it in the cloakroom.'

'I can find it on my own,' he protested, 'you are busy, I don't want to interrupt-'

Mademoiselle waved her hand dismissively.

'Do not concern yourself. My friend Lili arranged for us to pose for a portrait by her friend Monsieur Ahlers. But he has spent more time eating than drawing, so far. They will not miss me for a few minutes.'

Obediently, Gui set down his case near a waiters' station. He wondered briefly if he would ever see it again. Before they set off, he cast a look over at the artist Mademoiselle had referred to. He was brushing pastry crumbs from his board. A figure had been sketched on the white surface, only a few lines, but he could tell it was Mademoiselle Clermont.

Unexpectedly, Gui felt a surge of jealousy for the man who was able to sit respectably in Mademoiselle's company, where he could not.

They moved towards the back of the cafe. Gui couldn't help but notice that they traversed the outside edge of the room un.o.btrusively, rather than taking a path straight through the middle, but still, many pairs of eyes followed them.

'The people here are such horrible gossips,' Mademoiselle Clermont whispered, viewing the room with mild disgust. 'It may be wise to use the tradesman's entrance in future, Guillaume.'

Her voice was kind, but still he felt the barb that lurked within her words. Swallowing, he changed the subject.

'Your ankle, does it still hurt?'

To his surprise, she broke into a smile.

'It will mend. Luckily, it is not the same one I twisted previously, when I fell at the station.' She shot him a sidelong glance and he felt his face turn crimson. He braced himself for the accusation, but it did not come.

Warmth emanated from her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. They pa.s.sed another table and Mademoiselle nodded in greeting to its occupants.

'Might I ask,' she continued quietly, 'what was the nature of the agreement you made with my father and Monsieur Burnett? When I saw you in the study with them, I worried that they might have a.s.sumed the worst.' A blush crept up her cheeks, but she held her head straight.

'They offered me employment here.' Gui thought it best not to mention the conditions. 'A reward, I think, for making sure you did not come to harm. Your father has not mentioned it at all?'

'We are not on speaking terms.' Her face was tight.

'Is he angry with you?'

'Yes, and I with him.'

'You did get yourself into trouble,' Gui ventured, 'going out alone in the flood like that.'

'Yes, I did. But I only wanted to help. Father does not seem to realize that.'

'I'm sure he was simply scared for you.'

Even as he said it, Gui remembered Clermont's words to Burnett, about a daughter being more trouble than many sons. Mademoiselle must have been thinking similar thoughts, for she only sighed and shook her head as they stopped before a door marked 'Privee'.

'This leads to the back entrance hall,' she told him. 'Take the door towards the kitchens and then knock at the first room on the left. That's the office. Ask for Josef.'

'Thank you, Mam'selle.'

'Good luck, Guillaume.'

She removed her hand. Nerves rushed in to take its place and he wished, irrationally, that she would go with him.

Chapter Nineteen.

April 1988 The last thing I wanted to find on my return to Cambridge was a message from Professor Kaufmann. The official summons was waiting in my pigeonhole, bearing my name in her neat handwriting.

On Monday morning, I trudge through town, terrified of being late. I linger in the marketplace, chewing at my already bitten nails. It is busy, as always. A bright sun shines determinedly through the chill breeze, pushing in from across the fens. There are people here lounging, drinking coffee on outside tables, thick mugs at their elbows and cigarettes in hand. I wish I was one of them.

Miserably, I turn into Kaufmann's college. It is one of the oldest and grandest in the university. I walk across the main court, blind to the imposing architecture. I know I should be grateful to be granted time with one of the department's most respected professors, but all I can feel is dread, and a certainty that this is not going to go at all well.

Kaufmann's office is in the cloister. The walls here are permanently cold and shadowed. I hunch my denim jacket tighter and brave the old wooden stairs. The creaking announces my arrival long before I reach the top step; a crisp voice calls for me to enter before I even raise a hand to knock.

Kaufmann's room, by contrast, is bright. It smells of lilies, is impeccably organized. The books are housed neatly in tall shelves, and the professor sits at a coffee table that is empty save for a folder of papers and a copy of my thesis. I grimace inwardly. Even from a distance it looks scruffy, the type misaligned on the pages.

'Petra,' she greets, without standing up, 'take a seat.'

I sink too heavily into her sofa. Kaufmann places her gla.s.ses upon her nose. She is in her early forties, elegant and polished, her fair hair swept back into a coil. I push my own untidy bob behind my ears.

'I ...' I begin.

'Thank you for these.' She speaks over me steadily, picking up my pages. 'I read them this morning. I was wondering if you were confused, however, since you have only sent your most recent chapters. I was expecting the entirety of the draft.'

I wedge my hands between my knees, trying to control my nerves.

'That is it, the draft.'

She looks at me in mild surprise.

'This,' she asks, 'is all you have?'

'Professor Whyke and I-'

'Professor Whyke is not responsible for whether you complete your work on time,' Kaufmann replies, leafing through the pages, 'or whether you take it seriously.'

'I am taking it seriously,' I say, rather too defensively.

Kaufmann flips the chapters onto the table before me.

'From the state of these, I disagree. This isn't undergraduate work, Petra. I am not going to baby you through what should be second nature by now. You know that this isn't good enough.'

'I'm working on something new.' I force myself to stay calm. 'No one has doc.u.mented it before, and there's already interest from the historical community.'

'Ah, yes,' Kaufmann rests her elbow on the arm of her chair, 'Whyke mentioned. A new surprise about your grandfather.'

When I am silent, she sighs.

'Petra, I have been asked to work with you, but I shall only continue to do so if we make one thing clear between us. I don't say this to be cruel, but you must know that far more talented researchers than yourself were not accepted as doctoral candidates by the university.'

I clench my teeth. As much as I want to hate this woman, there's a part of me that knows she's right.

'Whatever it was that prompted the department's decision to award you a place-'

'You mean my grandfather?' I interrupt.

'Whatever it was,' she says firmly, 'you have been given a remarkable opportunity. One that you seem determined to squander.'

'You're wrong,' I protest, but my voice is wavering.

Kaufmann leans forward and picks up her journal, calm as ever.

'Then prove me so. We shall start at the beginning.'

Chapter Twenty.

February 1910 'Can you read?'