Page 77 of A Season for Scandal

I observed the wall of priceless paintings. “Um, that one.” I pointed to a painting of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus, who was holding a squirmy-looking lamb.

“Hmmmm.” Sylla tipped her head thoughtfully. “Possible, but not the most practical option.” She pointed to a picture sandwiched between two of the larger canvases. It was small and muted, a portrait of a dark-haired woman looking enigmatically out from the canvas. “This one would be better. It’s smaller, and the space it would leave is more easily overlooked. Now” – she clapped her hands together – “how would you steal it?”

I looked at the painting. I turned my head to look around the room we were in, noting the number of visitors, the single guard. For a moment I went over increasingly outlandish ideas in my mind. I tried to think about what I had learned so far, from the plans we had put in place with the Aviary. I thought about the fact that the best plan was often the simplest.

“A cleaner or handyman would be best placed,” I said finally. “Someone who works for a few weeks or months, preferably under a false name. Someone who the guards stop noticing.” I swung my head to where a pale man in a red jacket stood near the door looking bored. “They would come in early on a day that they aren’t due to work and hide somewhere – in a cupboard, perhaps. They would know the comings and goings of any guards. Then, after the museum closes, they could simply unscrew the painting from the wall and walk out with it under their jacket. It’s small enough to be easily concealed, as long as it were winter and they wore a bulky coat. People don’t tend to worry about people gettingoutof a museum after hours; it’s the getting in that’s hard.”

Sylla looked at me in surprise. “That is actually … a good plan,” she said.

I beamed, feeling less queasy than I had all morning. “Well then,” I said, “at least you’ve finally made a master criminal out of me.”

“Don’t go getting ahead of yourself.” Sylla sniffed. “It’s one thing to steal it; the real trick would be selling it without getting caught.” Nevertheless, I thought I saw her lips twitch into a smile before she turned away.

“Now,” she said, ambling further down the gallery. “There was another reason I wanted to get you away from the hotel. Why don’t we discuss the matter of you and Oliver Lockhart?”

My heart sank. “Wouldn’t you rather tell me off some more for going out last night?” I said hopefully.

She fixed me with a hard stare. “I just want to be certain that this little romance of yours isn’t going to become a problem. We have an important job to do, Marigold, and that must come first.”

“There is no romance,” I said firmly, though the look Sylla gave me made me think I hadn’t been convincing. “Nothing will interfere with the work.” A promise to her and to myself.

After a moment, Sylla gave a brisk nod and carried on walking. Another minute or two passed and I thought the matter was closed.

“For what it’s worth,” she added, and the words were reluctant, “most of the men we encounter in this business are terrible. Oliver Lockhart is … the exception.”

I came to a halt. “What does that mean?” I asked.

Sylla scowled. “What do you think it means? I’m not going to organize your personal life for you – even though we all know Icouldand that I would do a much better job at it. I’ve said all I have to say on the matter and now it’s up to you.” On this surprising note, she stomped off, muttering under her breath.

I stood, frozen for a while. It was possible, I thought, just possible, that Sylla actually …cared.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Later that afternoon, Oliver and I set off with a hired horse and buggy for Lycée Sainte-Geneviève. Oliver drove and we sat up behind the horse together, enjoying the view and the warm golden sunshine.

Over the course of the day, I had become increasingly anxious about this trip. How would Oliver and I handle spending time together after what had happened (or almost happened) the day before? Fortunately, Oliver seemed utterly his usual self. Bad-tempered, grumbling, secretly amused by me. I was relieved, after worrying he would be stiff and polite, worrying that I would be too bright, too awkward. Perversely there was also a part of me that was … disappointed? Why had the encounter been so easy for him to brush off when I still felt jangled? I tried to push the feeling aside. It was good that we could be normal. It was good that we could concentrate on what needed to be done. I had promised Sylla, hadn’t I? Nothing was going to interfere with the work.

And with that in mind, a giddying sense of freedom descended on me as we rode through the city in the open air, every sight and sound completely new. I managed to keep myself from rhapsodizing aloud again, but clearly I wasn’t doing a good job at hiding my excitement completely.

“Bloom…” Oliver sighed, concentrating his attention on the road. “I can feel youquivering.”

We drove through the Place de la Concorde, where the towering obelisk covered in ancient hieroglyphs stood tall between two burbling fountains, down on to the Champs-Élysées – that wide road fringed with the tall green canopies of horse-chestnut trees marching tidily down the sides. In contrast, the traffic wheeled around, a bustling crowd of carriages of every size, winding about each other with seemingly little order at all. At the end of the road, the Arc de Triomphe loomed over everything around it, more traffic circling round and round it at a frantic pace, like a bizarre carousel.

“But just … look!” I exclaimed, gesturing with my hands at …everything.

Oliver said nothing, but I saw the smile pulling at his lips.

The school was about five miles outside the city in a pleasantly green suburb. It must have once been an old manor house: a large, stoic-looking building hunkered into the landscape, made of white stone with a shining blue-black roof. Girls in neat blue smocks, with short, matching capes tied round their shoulders milled about the grounds, full of happy chatter.

I felt something loosen in Oliver’s posture at the sight. I think part of him had feared finding out his sister had been sent away to live in a bleak Dickensian parody of a boarding school, but that was not what this was at all.

We drew up a long, gravelled driveway, and Oliver brought the buggy to a stop, jumping down and handing the reins to a waiting groom while the horse tossed his head. Oliver came round to help me down from the high box, holding his hand out to me.

I placed my fingers in his and felt the warmth of his touch all the way through our gloves. When my feet hit the ground, our hands seemed to cling for a moment longer than was necessary. I looked up at him from beneath the wide brim of my straw hat, and the sunlight gilded the lines of his handsome face. I felt my heart flutter pathetically.

He cleared his throat, then dropped my hand. “Shall we?” He gestured towards the school.

I looked up at the building. “There are answers here,” I said. “I know there are.”