I looked out the window at the stone houses with their iron balconies, at the striped awnings, brightly colored even in the gloom, at the narrow streets with their ineffectual metal posts, at the garbage truck backing up in front of us, blocking off traffic for a good three blocks down.

Yes, definitely Paris.

I leaned back into the crook of Colin’s arm, resting my head against his shoulder. “Can you believe it?” I murmured. “We’re in Paris.”

“It would be strange if we were elsewhere,” Colin pointed out. “Given the direction of our flight.”

I dealt him a halfhearted swat. “You know what I mean.”

For a moment, I felt his arm tighten around me. “Yes.” Colin’s lips fleetingly brushed my hair. Then he relaxed his grip, leaning back against the seat. “My mother doesn’t want us until nine. What do you want to do before then?”

“I should get some research done.” I wiggled my way upright, resting an elbow against the faux-leather backing. “I have a whole list of documents I want to look at in the archive of the Musée de la Préfecture de Police.”

“So you really are planning to work?” It was part of the excuse we’d given Jeremy for changing hotels; the Prefecture and its archives were on the Left Bank, much closer to the Minerve.

“Yep. I want to look at the French operations of the League of the Pink Carnation. According to reports, the Pink Carnation was in operation in Paris from May of 1803 through the summer of 1804. What was she doing there?”

“Spying?” Colin suggested.

“Yes, but why, how, and on whom?”

“I suppose you have an idea?”

“Okay,” I said, wiggling around on the seat to face Colin. “You know the Selwick spy school?”