Chapter Thirty-Four

The next morning, Sylla had a note sent asking me to meet her early in the hotel lobby. I was actually feeling a trifle worse for wear after the night before. Maud had been right about the absinthe, and I felt rather green myself.

"I see you had an entertaining night," Sylla huffed. Naturally, she looked immaculate.

I dragged a hand over my hair, trying to tidy it, but the curls kept springing out at wild angles. "We got some information," I said quickly.

"Yes, I know." Sylla crossed her arms. "Winnie and I had breakfast with Mrs Finch."

Last time I had seen Winnie she had been weaving towards her room in the early hours, singing a song of her own composition made entirely of rude French words, so I found this information surprising.

"David Brown is a con man," Sylla said. "It would make sense. Mrs Finch will include Ménilmontant in her excursion today. Perhaps track down this Hugo fellow and see what he knows about his old friend."

"So why did we need to meet this morning?" I asked.

"You are still in your training period," Sylla said impatiently. "We are not here on holiday, Mari. There is work to do and we should absolutely take advantage of the opportunity this trip has provided."

"Of course." I nodded, chastised. "What did you have in mind?"

"We're going to plan an art heist," Sylla said serenely, and she led me out of the hotel towards the Louvre.

This time we went inside the building, and I thought my brain was going to explode. We passed through room after room, each one heaving with masterpieces. The ceilings were high, gilded, often painted. There was one long gallery, called the Gallery of Apollo, that was like stepping inside a jewellery box – every single surface covered in gold and paintings and sculptures. It was an apt comparison because it housed the French royal jewels. I trailed around after Sylla, trying to pay attention to the lecture she was giving me on the jewels' history while my magpie eyes were being distracted by each new shining object.

As we moved into another gallery, Sylla came to a stop in front of a handful of paintings.

"Da Vinci," she said reverently.

I regarded the paintings. I knew almost nothing about art, but I was enjoying Sylla's lesson.

"In our line of work, at least a little knowledge in art and antiquities will always come in handy," she had said. "One never knows when one will have to forge something or steal something or hit someone over the head with an oil painting." This last one I thought was a touch specific.

"Now, let's talk about stealing a Da Vinci," Sylla said, instead of delivering the lecture I had come to expect.

"You want to steal a Da Vinci?" I whispered.

Sylla rolled her eyes. "Well, not at this precise moment, obviously, but it's always nice to have a plan in place. This is part of your training; you need to be able to formulate solutions to potential problems." She stared wistfully at the paintings. "It has been too long since I needed to pull off a good heist."

"Fine," I said. "So, we're stealing a Da Vinci."

Sylla straightened. "Yes. First of all, tell me which one you're going to take."

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 getting out of 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 I could and 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.