LUCIEN CHARBONNEAU LOOKED up as a blatantly frigid Noël blew like the Eastern wind into the editorial office. Joie de Vie's offices were nestled in the heart of Rue du Louvre, and the rent was exorbitant, but they had all agreed it would be best to keep it. He glanced at the clock above Noël's snow-blond head. It was half past five, and a cloud cover had descended over the city, a thin now drifting slowly down to gather on the pavement below. It had been an unusually cold winter that year. It was strange, but not at all unpleasant, in his opinion.

That said, he'd been expecting Noël at three o'clock.

"I'm sorry," he said, before Lucien's lips could part. "I was upset. I didn't feel much like talking, so I went for a pint. It gave me time to think."

"You don't drink beer, but—" He shook his head. "Right. Well, I heard what happened. France 24 phoned. They invited you to an interview next Friday."

"And what did you tell them?"

"That you'll need time to read through the judgement and dissect it before making any statements—meaning eight o'clock, Friday morning. Besides, I think it's the wrong strategy: it makes us look weak where the media is concerned, even if they're running the trial on the telly tonight." He pressed the tip of his pen to his lips, then set it down abruptly. "How are you doing, then?"

Noël ignored this question, settling into the white leather armchair beside the open oriel window. The office itself was fully decorated in the spirit of the holiday season, with a strand of silver tinsel tacked to the desk, Hallmark Christmas cards pulled out of drawers and lined up in rows on the bookcases, and a hand-painted Nativity scene on the windowsill beside Noël's hand. All of it was from his mother's parlour, including the three extravagant armchairs and a small coffee table. He was rather fond of sleeping in the armchairs, stockinged feet tucked up beneath him, wrapped up in Lucien's heated blanket, when he was in a hurry to be away from his desk. He looked down now at the bustling city street, where people in scarves were hurrying past in the dark, backlit by the golden glow of the streetlamps. It was rather early still for Christmas shopping, he thought.

"It'll pass," he choked. "I still can't believe the verdict."

"Neither can I." He paused a moment, considering. "Jean-Pierre left early today."

"I reckon he wasn't terribly pleased with the verdict."

"When have you ever known him to be terribly pleased with anything?"

Noël shook his head. For the past nine months, Jean-Pierre had been the copy editor of Joie de Vie. He'd first begun his internment there when the Belmonte case had broken out in the tabloids, and their editorial staff had been in crisis. He strained to recall why they had ever hired him in the first place. He was competent, of course, as he'd previously been employed by Le Parisien, France 24, and a host on the local radio, but he wasn't one for sailing against the wind. Throughout the past year, Noël had often regretted this particular decision—hiring Jean-Pierre, that was, who had a habit of looking at the world in as dark a light as humanly possible, rather like a photo negative of reality, light overlaying a black void.

"Have you heard from Sco?" he asked, without tearing his bleary red gaze from the street corner. His eyes were beginning to water, for how they were flaming.

Will Scofield was the field photographer for Joie de Vie. He too had a share of ownership in the magazine, but was currently on holiday abroad.

"He phoned this morning."

"He'll have to take over as publisher."

"Oh, lay off, will you? If you want to publish this magazine, you'll have to get used to being batted around a bit. Conflict is in the job description."

"But I'm the one that wrote that article and published it. That makes me look different all of a sudden. It was my fault—my own poor judgement."

Lucien felt the disquiet he'd been carrying with him all through the day reach boiling point. In the weeks before the trial, Noël had trudged through the snowy streets of Paris with a black cloud hanging over his head. Never before had he been so beautifully dejected, never half as consumed by the hopelessness that obscured the very world itself in a heavy grey shroud as he was now, in the hour of defeat. He walked round the desk and lowered himself down upon his lap, putting his arms round his neck and smothering him in the cheery warmth of his embrace.

"Noël, listen to me: we both know how this happened. It's as much my fault as yours. It's not alright—it's not okay—but we'll survive this, somehow."

He shook his head, blond hair switching over his forehead, painted now with the pallor of death. "As far as the media is concerned, I've been shot in the back of the head. I can't keep publishing Joie de Vie. You have to keep your credibility to stop the bleeding."

"If you really think I'd let you take the beating for us all, then you don't know a thing about me, Njål Mikkelsen."

"I know what makes you tick, Lucien, and how you operate: you're loyal to the end. If you had to choose between my life and yours, you'd go on fighting Belmonte's solicitors until you stood in the same place as me. You're a good bit brighter than that."

"So, your plan is to jump ship and make it look like I gave you the boot?"

"If Joie de Vie is going to survive, it's depending on you now. Sco's always been my favourite, but all he knows is pictures and layouts and what the difference is between sauvignon blanc and chardonnay. If he ever came face-to-face with Jean-Baptiste on the street, we'd find him in a hospital somewhere with a tube down his throat. I'm going to have to disappear for a while. Jean-Baptiste knows I have all the information on what he did, and as long as it's in my possession, he'll be on a war path headed straight for our door."

"So, why not publish it all?"

"Because I can't prove any of it, and I have no credibility. He won, and that's that."

"What will you do if I fire you?"

"Lucien, in all honesty, I've reached the end of my fuse. I need time alone to work through this, even if it's in a court-ordered psychiatric hospital. After that... well, there must be happy endings in this world, mustn't there?"

Lucien edged closer, pressing Noël's head to his shoulder and gently threading his fingers through his hair. He had a fever. "You're still coming with me for dinner tonight, though, aren't you?"

He nodded, chuckling lowly. "Well, I can't let you go out in the cold all alone, now can I? It would be ungentlemanly of me."

Lucien pressed a kiss to his forehead. "That's the spirit."

THE STREETLIGHTS REFLECTING off the windowpanes were all that lit the room. When Lucien fell asleep, and Noël lay awake, looking at his face, backlit by the light streaming in through the windows. The blanket was hitched up round his waist, and his hard white chest, glimmering with perspiration, slowly rose and fell.

It had been seven long, arduous years, and he supposed they would go on sleeping together for another seventy, if they were able. They had never once concealed their relationship.

Lucien and Noël met at a Christmas cocktail party where they were both celebrating their twentieth birthdays with their mates. They had drunkenly snogged on the sofa, and then Lucien had taken him to bed, and had even given him his number. They both knew they would end up together eventually, but the trouble was that Noël was openly gay, and Lucien was not. Neither of them told their partners, but it was only a week before they were streaking down the motorway like Bonnie and Clyde.

At the end of it all, their love hadn't and wouldn't lead to a house, or a car, or children, but it was steadfast and strong. In the beginning, they had eloped into the sunset, and lived a very happy life in Paris. Noël had proposed, and Lucien had refused. They were like vodka and chaser, but they were risking it all if they fell irrevocably in love, denying their fathers and refusing their names. Noël could not imagine ever feeling this way for another person. They fit together like two halves of a heart, and their connection was unbreakable, always running back to each other from opposite sides of the earth.

Recently, they had been together so often that it seemed as though they had been married all those years ago, and were simply living their lives as they always had, beautifully imperfect and wonderfully old-fashioned, just the way it was meant to be. After Noël met William Pierre Malakoff, the weeks became months, and the months became years, until, at long last, they returned to each other. Inevitably, it didn't work in the long run. The boundless love that Noël and Will shared was almost certainly bound to cause unimaginable pain. They both left broken hearts and promises in their wake—Noël's second marriage had collapsed not because of his transition, as had the first, but because Will gave him a Glasgow smile.

Noël had never lied about his feelings for Lucien to his husband, but Lukas had thought something would change when their daughter was born. And then Lucien married Étienne. Noël had thought it would end, and for the first years of his marriage, he and Lucien had only seen each other in a professional atmosphere. Then the long journey of Joie de Vie began, and all their good intentions dissolved into darkness. This led to a long period where Noël wanted to be a good father and a good husband, living with his family in Copenhagen and raising his child. But, all the while, he was helplessly, hopelessly drawn to Lucien, and so Lukas left him behind.

And, all this time, Étienne did not care one bit about their continued relationship. There was nothing he could do. Lucien had always been completely honest about his feelings for Étienne, and had told Noël when they began to see each other. It took the time-hardened soul of a writer and a journalist to survive such a situation—someone so positively engulfed in themselves that they didn't rebel when their boyfriend slept with another man. Noël didn't think highly of Étienne, and had never understood why Lucien loved him, but he was grateful that he had accepted Lucien loving them both.

There was no sleeping on a night like this, and so Noël crept out of bed, and down to the kitchen, where he put on a pot of coffee and read through the verdict one more time. There had been something fateful and strange about seeing Antero Hämäläinen in Donostia-San Sebastian. He still did not know why Tero had slept with him, or why, after that, he'd told him all the details about the crime of the century. Maybe it was simply for the sake of their drunkenness, or perhaps he had wanted the story to be divulged. Noël hoped and prayed that it was the first. He wanted to trust Tero with his life. He wanted to believe that Tero had wanted to shoot Jean-Baptiste out of the sky for his own personal reasons, and had seized the opportunity of having a captive journalist. If, in the end, it had all been a set-up, then Tero couldn't have been any better of an actor. But it had to've been a coincidence. It had to be.

On the morning of 16 November 2019, Noël had never heard of William Pierre Malakoff, and was blissfully unaware of the report that had been delivered the day before. Noël's recalcitrant views had brought him time and time again into conflict with his peers. Lucille was his archenemy—but real people didn't have archenemies, did they? Still, Noël had no trouble imagining that several thousand bottles of champagne had been uncorked in his name that evening.

Lucien was the very best man and leader. He handled his employees with an uncommon warmth and trust, but he also wasn't terrified by confrontation, and had exacted vengeance upon the world many times before. Above all, he had an icy feeling in his stomach when it came to making decisions about the content of the upcoming issue. He and Noël had differing views and arguments when it came to the magazine, but they also had incredible confidence in each other, and together they were invincible. Noël did the field work of tracking down the story, while Lucien edited and sold it.

Joie de Vie was their mutual creation, but it would never have become a reality without Lucien's talent for pushing his fingers into foreign bank accounts. Lucien came from ancient riches, and had put up the initial money, then talked his father into investing a considerable amount in their dreams.

Lucien had often wondered why he ever devoted his life to Joie de Vie. Of course, he was the owner and chief editor of the magazine, which gave him prestige and control unlike any other. Unlike Noël, he had meant to work for and design television programmes. He was sculpted from ice and stone, looked smashing on camera, and could hold his own with legions of competition. If he had stayed with it, he undoubtedly would've obtained a managerial position at one of the national channels, with a much higher salary than he paid himself now.

Lucien had also convinced Will Scofield to buy into Joie de Vie. The interest in him had begun when he moved in with Elizabeth Sinnett—an actor who made a serious breakthrough playing herself in a short docuseries. At twenty-five, Sco was already a highly sought-after professional photographer that gave Joie de Vie a certain measure of post-modern charm. He ran his business from a study on the same floor as the others, and he photographed for them two weeks of every month.

Joie de Vie was an incredibly lucrative affair, and they broke even every month. Now, the situation was floating on the winds of chance. Noel had read through the press release that he and Lucien had drafted earlier that morning, which had been quickly converted and posted on the Joie de Vie website:

Paris journalist Njål "Noël" Mikkelsen is leaving his post as publisher of Joie de Vie magazine, as reported by owner and editor-in-chief Lucien Charbonneau. Mikkelsen is leaving of his own accord. "He's exhausted after the trial and needs a bit of time to recover," says Charbonneau, who will take his place as publisher. Mikkelsen was one of the founders of Joie de Vie, first published in 2015. Charbonneau does not believe the magazine will suffer a great deal in the wake of the Belmonte-Mikkelsen verdict, and will be printing its next issue on Monday.

Mikkelsen could not be reached for comment.

"It's terrible!" he had exclaimed when the press release was sent out. "People will talk, and you'll be a pillock in the eyes of the public."

"And you?" Lucien retorted. "What will you be?"

Noël sighed, and put his head in his hands. "I'll be the bæsjdytter who's leeching at your family's money."

"At least our friends will have something to laugh about." But, much as he had tried to make light of the situation, Noël hadn't been in the least bit amused.

"We're making a mistake. Why don't we have another plan?"

"Because this is the only way out. If Joie de Vie collapses, all that time we put into it was wasted. Speaking of which, how did it to with that newspaper?"

He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. "They're out, and that's final."

" 'Course they are," he grumbled. "Jean-Baptiste has stocks in that company."

"We'll find new clients. Jean-Baptiste doesn't own France. We have our own connections."

Lucien had put an arm round him and pulled him close. "Someday, we'll nail him, but for now, Joie de Vie has to step out of the spotlight."

"I know, but I'm not fond of coming across as a slut, and you're being forced into a worse situation if we pretend there's something between us."

"Lucien, as long as you and I trust each other, we'll be alright. We have to play this by ear, and for now, I think it's time we retreat."

LUCIEN ENDED UP staying over. They rose only to use the toilet or have something to eat, but they hadn't only rewatched old black-and-white films: they had lain head-to-foot for hours, speaking about the futures, weighing the possibilities and the odds. And when dawn came, and it was the day before New Year's Eve, Lucien kissed his cheek and left without another word.

Noël spent the day finishing the washing up and tidying his flat, then taking the bus down to the office and clearing out his desk. He had no intention of breaking ties with the magazine, but he had convinced Lucien that he had to be separated from it for six months or so. He would work from here, barefoot in his flat, drinking coffee out of the pot if he pleased. Besides, the office was closed for the holidays, and everyone was gone. Noël was sorting through sheafs of paper and packing tattered books into boxes beside empty milk cartons when the telephone rang, startling him back to reality.

"Is this Noël Mikkelsen?" asked a hopeful, yet unfamiliar voice.

"It is."

"Right. I apologise for bothering you by phoning unannounced. My name is August Fell." Noël pushed aside an empty container to write down the name on a paper napkin. "I'm a solicitor, and I represent a client who has taken quite an interest in you."

"Right. Well, give them this number and have them phone me whenever it's convenient."

"Actually, he'd prefer to meet you in person."

"Well, make an appointment and send him in. You'd best hurry, though. I'm clearing out my office at the moment."

"He rather insisted that you visit him in Zürich. He'll pay your fare, whatever method of transportation you choose."

Noël kicked closed a drawer. The media always attracted the most insane people. He was certain in his theory that every newspaper and television programme in the world received bi-weekly from astrophysicists, scientologists, paranoiacs, and just about every sort of conspiracy theorist. He had attended one of his mother's cocktail parties once, at the grand hall of Buckingham Palace on the anniversary of the Diana Spencer tragedy. While it was a sombre day, Noël had been tittering over the wine and champagne with dukes and duchesses, laughing over how he and Diana bore a striking resemblance to each other. However, a shocking number of investigators had shown their faces for the occasion, one of which had been a woman that had taken the microphone and lowered his voice to a scarcely audible whisper. This alone heralded a rather interesting development in the party, and no one had been surprised when the woman had claimed that she knew who murdered the beloved Diana. From the stage, it was suggested rather ironically that if the woman was in possession of this information, then it would've been helpful if she had shared it with the investigators at Scotland Yard twenty years before. She had hurried to reply, scarcely audible over the resultant uproar: "I couldn't. I simply couldn't."

Noël wondered now whether this August Fell was yet another soothsayer that could reveal in twelve words the high-security prison where MI6 ran experiments of human mind control.

"Make an appointment," he repeated.

"I was hoping that I could convince you to make an exception just this once. My client is a very busy man, and it would be best if he didn't travel to Paris at this time. If you insist otherwise, I'm sure we can arrange something, but if you would be so kind as to—"

"Who is this client?"

"Marco Malakoff. I rather expect you've heard of him in your line of work."

Noël leaned back in surprise. Of course he'd heard of him. "What interest does Marco Malakoff have in something like me?"

"I've had dealings with M. Malakoff for several years, and he trusts me with his life—but, given the graphic nature of this case, it's best he tells you himself. On the other hand, I can say that he'd like to offer you a job—a well-paying one."

"I have no intention of working for the Malakoffs. Is it a journalist you're in need of? I could give you a list of several rather remarkable ones to consider."

"Well... yes, but he's not in the market for just any journalist. I can only say that M. Malakoff is anxious to meet you, and that he wishes to consult you on a private matter. Is there no possibility of convincing you to make a holiday out of this? We'll pay all your expenses and a reasonable fee for your services. We can discuss it more when you arrive."

"I would be glad to help, but unfortunately you've contacted me at an inconvenient time. I have quite a bit on my plate. Have the headlines about the verdict come out in Zürich yet?"

"The Belmonte-Mikkelsen case?" August chuckled—a low, dark sound, infectious in every sense of the word. "Yes, of course. To tell you the truth, it was the televised bits of the trial that caused M. Malakoff to take notice of you. I am only a messenger, and only he can explain further."

"Give me a day to consider it?"

"Yes, of course."

WILL SPENT CHRISTMAS with his mother in Aix-en-Provence. He had brought along several gifts with him: a scent from a perfumer in Paris, and a traditional Christmas pudding from a bakery on Rue Albert Petit. He sipped at a small cup of espresso as he watched the prematurely-grey woman with pale blue eyes and trembling fingers as she untied the knot of the ribbon on her present. Will's eyes were melting into limpid pools, but that this strange, uncommonly beautiful woman could possibly be his adoptive mother never ceased to amaze him. There wasn't the slightest resemblance in their nature.

His mother surrendered the struggle and looked helplessly up at Will. It was indeed a dark day. Will pushed a pair of scissors across the glass tabletop, and she seemed suddenly to wake from her somnambulance.

"Have you seen your brothers? Did they send you a Christmas card?"

"No one's seen John in ages," he said, settling back into his chair. "But Alexander did."

"He never comes to see me. Why doesn't he come to see me, John?"

"I don't know, Mum."

"Where do you live now? Have you found a flat?"

"I just recently moved into a flat on Rue Albert Petit. The landlady is a friend of mine. I got her husband off a murder charge, you know."

"Maybe next Christmas we can all have dinner in your new flat.:

"Of course. Next Christmas."

NOËL SPENT CHRISTMAS with his daughter, Sanne, at the house of his ex-husband and his wife in Lyon. Father and daughter spent the time together in the parlour, seated before the television, swaddled in a white fleece blanket. Her parents had begun the process of divorce shortly after her birth, when Noël was seventeen. They had been married at sixteen. She'd had a new mother ever since. Sanne came to see him every week, and went on long holidays with him in Copenhagen and Paris. When they spent time together, they got on well, and Noël had allowed Jensine—Lukas' wife—to decide how often she wanted Sanne to see him, particularly after their marriage. There had been a period of three months in her early days when contract had been nearly cut off completely, and it was only in the past five that the pair had become inseparable, playing together with her toys, and falling asleep in his armchair with her rosy cheek pressed to his chest, as they snored together in peaceful companionship. He knew that, when she was older, she would follow the trial in the firm belief that things were as her father said: that he was innocent, but couldn't prove it. He dreaded the day she would tell him about a boyfriend, and surprise him by saying that she had joined a church with Jensine. He lived in fear of all the moments in which he would be forced to refrain from comment.

He was invited to stay for dinner, but was expected by his stepbrother and his family. That morning, he'd also received an invitation to celebrate Christmas Eve with the Charbonneaus in Saint-Tropez. He had graciously refused.

Instead, he found himself knocking on the door of the house in London, where his stepbrother, Thomas Grey, lived with his wife and child. With a roving platoon of his wife's relatives, they were carving up the panettone, for he had missed the entirety of Cenone, and thus was left to pick over the scraps of chiacchiere, dolci di noci, and spaghetti con vongole left to lie upon the countertops. Throughout the remainder of the night, over fine wine and limoncello swills, he answered questions regarding the trial, receiving a great deal of well-meant, yet utterly useless advice in return.

The only one who had nothing to say about the verdict was Tom, although he was the only solicitor in the room. He owned his own law firm in London. He specialised in the defence of sexual abuse victims, and, without Noël even noticing, his stepbrother had begun to appear in newspapers as a representative of threatened spouses and children, and on televised discussions as an advocate for men and boys' rights.

As he was helping Tom prepare the after-dinner and dessert coffee and biscuits, his stepbrother put a gentle hand on his shoulder and asked him how he was doing. He told him he'd never felt worse.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Noël," he said. He threw his arms round Noël's neck and kissed his cheek, before they carried out the Christmas treaties. Noël ate a piece of cake and had a cup of espresso, and then excused himself to use the telephone. He phoned the solicitor in Zürich, and for a moment, he only heard the mumbling of voices in the background, and then:

"Merry Christmas, Noël," August said. "So, what shall I say to M. Malakoff?"

"I don't have any immediate plans—none that I couldn't thoughtlessly abandon, anyway. Perhaps I could pop in... tomorrow?"

"Oh, er... jolly good, yes."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He leaned his forehead against the wall, frowning. "Are you alright?"

"Perfectly, yes." He heard August smile against the receiver. "You'll have to forgive me: my husband's abominable family has come to visit. I can hardly hear myself think. Shall I ring you tomorrow, then, to agree on a time? Where shall I wait for you?"

NOËL REGRETTED THE decision even before he left for Zürich, but by then it was already too late to cancel. And so, on the night of Christmas, he was seated on a train bound for the inner city, having scarcely caught it in his hurry from the airport. He had a driver's licence, but he wasn't quite certain if it was valid outside of France, and didn't have the immediate need for a car living in Paris, regardless.

August was right: it wasn't a terribly long journey, compared to others he'd embarked upon in the past. The flight itself, from Paris to Zürich, had been on-time and without delay. From there, he had taken the train to the designated meet-up location: fifteen minutes. There had been a heavy snowstorm overnight, and the skies had remained overcast, the very atmosphere itself forming a permafrost. He drew in a breath as he lighted upon the platform at the station. He realised at once that he wasn't wearing even half enough clothes to survive the Swiss winter.

August had kindly come to collect him, laughter rising in frigid tendrils of white as he watched Noël's shivering, and led him to the warmth of his car. The snow was being cleared, and August wove his way carefully through the narrow streets. High banks of white presented a magnificent contrast to Paris. It seemed rather like another world entirely. He stole a glance at August, noting his soft, sweet features, rounded out by a charming plumpness, his white-blond hair standing nearly on end, for how it had been teased, and his thin pink lips ever-raised in an angelic grin.

"Is this your first time here in Zürich?" August asked. Noël nodded, slowly, neck still a bit stiff from the cold. "It's quite nice, I think—quite small, compared to London and Paris, but still rather well-off. Splendid place to be: quite like stepping into a storybook. M. Malakoff lives just across the bridge, on Rämistrasse."

"Do you live here as well?"

"Well, that wasn't always the case. I lived in London's Soho, but I married a man here when I was twenty-five. Over the years, M. Malakoff and I became incredibly close. He is my only client, and I am, for all intents and purposes, his live-in problem-solver. Though, he doesn't require my services often nowadays. Shame, that. I quite enjoy his company."

"Right. Only to scrape up imminently bankrupt journalists."

"Oh, do have a bit more pride in yourself, dear boy. You aren't the first, and will hardly be the last to lose to Jean-Baptiste Belmonte."

Noël pressed his lips together, unsure of how to reply. "Does this... invitation have something to do with the trial?"

"Not that I'm aware of. M. Malakoff is amongst Belmonte's legions of enemies, and he followed your case with a great deal of interest. Though, I was told he wanted to begin with a different matter."

"Which you aren't allowed to tell me about, I presume?"

"It isn't my place." He turned the wheel, blue eyes popping wide as they slid round the corner on a plane of ice. "I've arranged for you to spend the night at the Malakoff house, but if you'd prefer, we can also book you a private room at Baur au Lac."

"Actually, I'll be flying back to Paris this evening."

Rämistrasse was still unploughed, and August manoeuvred his car carefully through the tracks cut into the snow by previous travellers. The Malakoff house was too small to be called a manor, but it was considerably larger than the remainder of the houses on the street. This was the dragon's keep.

"Wilkommen im Malakoff-Haus," August said, in perfect German. And then, as Noël stared blankly at him: "Welcome to the Malakoff house. It was a lively place in the good old days, but today only M. Malakoff and his caretaker live here."

They stepped out of the car. Noël looked up the long, narrow street, wondering again to himself what mad impulse he had satisfied by accepting August's invitation. It was then that he decided he would return to Paris that evening. A long flight of stone steps led to the entryway, but the door opened before they could reach it. He immediately recognised Marco Malakoff. In pictures, he was younger, but he looked oddly vigorous and lively for a man of thirty, with his tall, lanky form, chiselled features, and thick chocolate curls parted neatly to the right. He wore a long black coat, a blue woollen scarf, a white button-down, and a pair of real Italian leather shoes. His smile was luminous, even in the dim light.

"Marco Malakoff," he introduced himself in English, with a heavy British accent, extending a hand to Noël. "A pleasure to meet you, of course."

"Njål Mikkelsen. But we are friends—please, call me Noël."

"Lovely to meet you, Noël. August and I have been looking forward to this for a long time. I've arranged a guest room for you to stay in—here, I mean—if you'd like to freshen up before dinner. And this is Cillian O'Donoghue. He's my... live-in." He pressed his lips together.

Noël shook hands with an even taller man, who had soft, grey-blond hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. He imagined that Cillian must also be in his early thirties. Cillian took his coat and hung it in the hallway cupboard, on their way to the study. Noël thanked him, and then turned to Marco: "Shall I stay for dinner? I wasn't anticipating an overnight stay."

Marco exchanged a venomous glance with August. There was clearly some exchange that had passed between them without Noël's knowing.

"Actually, I think I'll take my leave," August said, quite suddenly. He turned to Noël. "It's been a long day, and I'd quite like to see my husband. We live in Lindenhof, across the water, in a flat above a bakery. It's a ten minute walk from here, but just give me a ring, and I'll come running. Cillian will fetch my number for you."

Noël reached into the pocket of his trousers, gently flicking on the tape recorder with the slightest movement, so as not to arouse suspicion. At the same time, his fingers closed round a white linen handkerchief, which he deftly pulled out of his pocket instead, and dabbed at his nose. He had no idea what Marco wanted, but after twelve long months up against the impenetrable Jean-Baptiste Belmonte, he was in desperate need of a precise record, listing all the strange occurrences with which he had been involved, and a sudden invitation to Switzerland fell into that category.

Marco patted August's shoulder in farewell, then closed the door behind him, before turning all his attention to Noël. "I'll be direct and to the point: this is no game. I ask only that you listen to what I say before you make up your mind. You're a journalist, as I understand, and I want to give you a freelance assignment. Cillian will bring us tea and biscuits upstairs, in my study."

The study itself was a long rectangle of wood-panelled walls and wainscots. One was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling tapestry, and the others with bookshelves crammed to bursting. The books were all hardcover, and arranged by colour and shape. The bookshelves seemed as though they had never been touched. Against the farthest wall was a behemoth of a desk, with letters in every pigeonhole and a great black ink stain on the writing bit. Above it was a large collection of pinned-up butterflies in meticulously-organised rows.

Through the casement window, Noël could see the bustling street below, and the people in hats and scarves, all scurrying about. There was also a sofa and a coffee table, on which was a silver pewter tray, where Cillian had left them the aforementioned tea and biscuits.

Marco made a beeline for the tray, turning back to him with a biscuit hanging out his mouth, but Noël affected not to notice. He had no appetite for the dainty pastries that Cillian had brought them for their breakfast, but crumbled under the weight of Marco's steady gaze, and so pretended to sip at his tea, as he paced round the room, studying first the bookshelves, then the wall of framed butterflies. If the remainder of the house was somewhat bare, then this room was luxuriously crowded, bristling with bits and bobs in every direction, and lit by the soft glow of candlelight. The desk was neat and orderly, with only a sheaf of papers in one great heap. At the back, nearly hidden behind a vase of fresh flowers, was a framed photograph of a little boy with bright red hair and freckles, handsome even then, but with a mischievous smile and a devilish look in his eyes. If only his family had seen that same even festering within him, and if only then they had known that William was a young man on his way to becoming dangerous.

"Do you remember him?" a voice asked, from behind.

"Pardon?" He turned back, abruptly.

"I said: do you remember him? You met him a long time ago, before he disappeared. Actually, you've been in this room before." Noël shook his head in disbelief. "Your father was a friend of mine. He was a great man, and a better father." He pushed a biscuit into his mouth, and finished his entire cup of tea in one swallow. "You're a lot like him, I think. He was a great man. We all thought one day he might even be a good one. Was I right?"

"Er... I—"

"You stayed here, in this very house, in 2001, when you were ten and William was four. It was difficult to find housing in Zürich then, so we let out our spare rooms to your family for the three months that you were here." Marco took up the photograph, staring longingly down at the small face imprisoned forever in its frame. "This is William Henry Claridge. He was my cousin. You watched over him like the brother he never had."

"I apologise, but I do not have the slightest recollection of what you are telling me." Noël couldn't fathom whether Marco was telling the truth—he spoke very little English.

"Yes, I thought not—but I remember you. You used to run up and down these halls, with William nipping at your heels and tripping up the stairs. I can still hear you shrieking when he fell off the banister, sliding down it."

Noël shivered, as if a cold hand had settled heavy upon the nape of his neck. He did remember the boy sliding down the banister: the white jumper; the deathly smile.

"I..." He drew in a breath, and paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "I remember."

"Great!" Marco chuckled with delight. "Come here, then. I have something to show you." He went to the bookshelf and pulled a photograph album from the lowest shelf. It didn't escape Noël's notice that he had some difficulty stooping down, and had to brace himself with one hand on the shelf as he straightened up. The moment Marco set the album down on the coffee table, Noël knew what he was looking for: the Polaroid photograph, in which the cameraman's shadow showed in the bottom right corner. Streaking through it were three boys of vastly different heights and striking colouring. Noël looked with horror and amazement at the pictures, as Marco poured him a cup of tea. "This is the three of us, and your parents, who are sitting under the tree in the background. Your mother has remarried since. What about your father?"

"No, never," Noël choked.

"He was a very nice man—one of the best."

"But that isn't why you brought me here."

Marco sighed. "No, I suppose not. I've been... scripting out this moment for the past several weeks, and all the ways this conversation could end. But now you're here... and I haven't the faintest idea where to begin. I suppose you did a bit of research on my family and I before you came, so you must know that we wield a great deal of influence in the wine-making industry, and therefore all of Europe. Nowadays, the Malakoff have dwindled down to a handful of blokes with white beards, just waiting to die. Now that I think of it, maybe death is the perfect place to start." Noël took a sip of tea, wondering where this was bound to lead. "I have a bum leg, so long walks are a thing of the past. One day, much to your chagrin, you'll find that your strength has gone, but I'm not morbid or senile. I'm not obsessed with death, but I've accepted that my time soon be done. I'll close my accounts and care for my unfinished business when my Reichenbach Fall comes."

Noël nodded. Marco spoke in a steady voice, and Noël had already decided that Marco was neither senile, nor irrational. "I am... mostly curious about why I'm here."

"Because I need your help."

"And what makes you think I would be able to help you?"

"I was thinking of hiring someone, and then your name cropped up in the news. I knew who you were—maybe because I carried you around this very house when we were younger." He waved the thought away. "I didn't come to you out of sentimentality; it was only that I... had the impulse to contact you specifically."

"But... how did you make the connection?"

"Your family came to Paris for a week, when your mother became the chief winemaker for Maison d'Auberne. I was the one who got him the job. I was fifteen, and had just taken over the business. I knew already that he was a dedicated worker. I saw him over the years, when I had business in Paris. We weren't mates, but we talked every once in a while. The last time I saw him was the year before he moved to Switzerland. He told me that you had gotten into Oxford. He was proud of you, Noël. Then you became famous because of the Copenhagen articles, and he lost the plot. I've followed your career and read many of your works over the years. I read Joie de Vie quite often."

"Right. But what is it that you want me to do?"

Marco glanced down at his hands, then sipped his tea, as if he needed a moment's pause before he could. "Before I begin, I'd like to make an agreement with you. I want you to do two things for me, one being a pretext, and the other my true objective."

"What sort of agreement?"

"I'm going to tell you a story—but not the truth. One that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words, and not the pure, unvarnished truth that burns over any distance; that brings fire raining down upon the earth. I'll tell you this story in two parts, beginning with the Malakoff family. That's the pretext. It's a long, dark story, and I'll try my best to stick to the truth. The second bit deals with my actual objective. You'll probably think some of the story is absolutely mad. What I want is for you to hear me out before you make up your mind on whether to take the job or not."

Noël sighed. Obviously, Marco wasn't going to let him go in time to catch the evening train. He was certain that if he called August to ask for a lift to the station, the car would somehow refuse to start in the blistering cold.

Marco must've thought long and hard about how he was going to hook him. Noël had the feeling that everything since his arrival was staged; from the introductory surprise that, as a child, he had met his host, the picture of the three of them in the album, and the emphasis on the fact that his father and Marco had been mates, along with the flattery that Marco knew who Noël Mikkelsen was and had been following his career for years, from a distance. No doubt there was truth at his core, but it was elementary psychology. Marco was a well-seasoned manipulator—how else could he have become one of France's leading industrialists?

Noël decided then that Marco wanted him to do something he wasn't going to have the slightest desire to do. He had only to wrest from him what this was, and then refuse in time to catch the evening train.

"Forgive me, Marco," he interrupted, "but I've been here for twenty minutes, already. I'll give you thirty minutes to tell me what you must, then I'm phoning a taxi."

For a moment, the mask of the good-natured patriarch slipped, and Noël could detect the truthless captain of industry from his days of power confronted by a setback. The corners of his mouth raised in a well-meant grimace. "I understand."

"You don't have to beat around the bush with me. Tell me what you want me to do, so that I can make my decision."

"So, if I can't manage to convince you in half an hour, I wouldn't be able to do it in a month, either."

"Something along that line. Shorten and simplify it. Twenty-nine minutes."

Marco held up his hand. "Enough. I understand what you mean, but it's never polite to exaggerate. I need someone who can research and think critically, but also has integrity. I think you have it, and that's not flattery. Any journalist worth his salt ought to possess these qualities. The truth is, I chose you because I knew your father, and because I know who you are. If I understand correctly, you left your magazine as a result of the Belmonte affair, which means you have no job at the moment, and that you're in a tight financial spot."

"So, you might be able to exploit my predicament. Is that it?"

"Yes, perhaps. But I won't lie to you. If you don't like what I have to say, you can tell me to jump in Lake Zürich. Then I'll have to find someone else to work with me."

"Okay. So, tell me what this job involves."

"How much do you know about the Malakoff family?"

"Only what I managed to read since August phoned me on Monday. In our day, Maison d'Auberne was one of the most important businesses in France—nowadays, we control the wine world. Or, rather, Cillian does. I know much more, but what are you getting at?"

"Cillian's a good man, but he's a fair-weather sailor. He hasn't the faintest about how to run the company when it's in crisis. He wants to modernise and specialise, but he can't follow through on his ideas, and his financial management leaves much to be desired. Twenty-five years ago, our main concern was a serious competitor to all of Europe. We're down to about ten thousand employees, and in a year or two, if Cillian doesn't get some wind in his sails, we'll have five thousand, and Maison d'Auberne will be consigned to oblivion." He paused to catch his breath. "Maison d'Auberne is still among the few family-held firms in Switzerland. Thirty of our family members are minority shareholders. This has always been the strength of our company, but also our greatest weakness." Marco paused, then said, in a tone of mounting urgency: "Noël, you can ask questions later, but for now, I want you to take me at face value when I say that I detest most members of my family. I ran this company for twelve years, usually in the midst of relentless bickering. They've always been my worst enemies. I want to commission you to do two things: first, to write a historical narrative of the Malakoff family. You'll have my journals and archives at your disposal. You'll have access to my innermost thoughts, and you can publish all the filth that fetches up. It'll make Shakespearean tragedies and the Canzoniere read like children's books."

"Why?"

"Why should you publish our history, or why have I asked you to do so?"

"Both, I suppose."

"To tell the truth, I don't care a great deal whether the book is ever published, but I do think it should be written, if only one copy is delivered directly to the Royal Library. I want this story to be there for posterity when I die. My motive is revenge."

"And who do you mean to exact revenge against?"

"It's because of me that the Malakoff name is a byword for keeping promises. I've never had any problem negotiating with trade unions. I'm responsible for thousands of people, Noël, and I care about my workers. I always tried to do the right thing, but I'm a rare exception. There are so many reasons why we are where we are, but the one that's bringing us down is the greed of my relatives."

"Right. Well, then I won't lie to you, either," Noël said. "Writing this book will take months—years, even."

"I can talk you into it."

"I doubt it. What's the real objective here?"

Marco slowly rose, and took the photograph of Will from the desk, setting it down before Noël. "While you write the book, I want you to dissect this family, this city, this... world that we live in. It'll give you a reason to be poking about in our history, when someone asks. For now, you solve the mystery."

"What mystery?"

"Will was my cousin. I'm the oldest of five children. I don't understand how God could create such horrible..." For several minutes, Marco lost his thread of consciousness, completely immersed in his thoughts. And then he went on with a new motivation. "Let me tell you about Harrison Hargreaves. His father was brutal. He beat his wife and son, and then, when he became a man, Harrison did the same. He was brought up cowed and bullied. And then they split up. It was the happiest day of Harrison's life. My father took pity on them and brought them here to Zürich. He saw to it that they had a decent life. But if Harrison's father was the dark side of the family, then Harrison was the indolent one. I took him under my wing, even if I was younger than him, because I was more successful. I was already on the board of Maison d'Auberne, and it was obvious that I was going to be taking it over." He crossed his legs at the knee. "My father didn't know what to do with Harrison, so I gave him a job, and I sent him off to the vineyard in Aix-en-Provence. He did a reasonable enough job, but he gave it up to his wife. He was a doctor... and then he gave up his practice. He had a way with women, and was a drunk. He wasn't a good-for-nothing, and he was reliable, but he disappointed me every day. And then Harrison disappeared with his youngest son, who I never met, and then he died. He hanged himself."

"How many children did he have?" Noël asked, pointing to the portrait on the coffee table. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Marco's story was rather intriguing.

"Four, including the adopted one. They wanted nothing to do with us, and we never met them. But I did meet their mother. Harrison met a woman by the name of Charlotte, who he met in England, but who came to France to be with him. She was beautiful, and kind, and radiant... Christ, I loved that woman. She's still alive, you know."

"Is she, then?" Noël rolled his pretty blue eyes at him.

"But she was an alcoholic, too, and she took too many pills. She travelled all over France and abroad, and had absolutely no sense of responsibility when it came to her children. Then I'd had enough of it, and just when I decided to break the cycle, Harrison died, and Charlotte became the mother I always hoped she would be. She had already lost three children, and her oldest was nearly a man. I suggested that they move here to be with us, and they did. Alexander was... well, there was a time when I was afraid he'd follow in his father's footsteps. He was weak and introverted, but he could also be delightful and enthusiastic. He was better than his brothers, because he was sent off to boarding school when he was seven. He owns the vineyard in Aix-en-Provence, and he works for MI6. He lives in London."

"And what about Will?"

"Oh, Will... he was the apple of my eye. I loved that boy like nothing in this world. I did my best to give him a sense of security, and he took quite a shine to me. I carried him here and there, and he clung to me like the moon to the Earth. He ended up being closer to me than he was his own family. Will was a very special little boy. He was introverted, but in the most beautiful way. He was talented, and intelligent. I was convinced that he was the one who would take over the business one day."

"So... what happened to him?"

"Well, that's the reason I asked you here today. You have to help me find who murdered Will, and who's spent the last nineteen years driving me to the brink." For the first time since he had begun, Marco had taken Noël by surprise. Nothing at all had given even the slightest inclination of a murder. "It was Christmas, 2002. Will was almost seven, and was on break for the holidays. He had just finished his first term at school, in London. It was the worst day of my life. I've memorised the events of that day, and could account for every minute—that is, excluding the most important." He made a grand sweeping gesture. "Here in this house, the family had gathered from all corners of the world for dinner. It was a tradition my great-grandfather implemented, which tended to take a turn for the worst. The tradition came to an end after Will disappeared, when I decided it was time to stop playing this miserable charade. I'll always be grateful that I made that decision."

"You said that Will was mur—"

"Yes, I'm getting to that. It was the day of the Christmas cocktail party. Will had gone to the market with his cousins, and with the older children who were coming round door-to-door, rounding up the younger ones to take them along. He came back at just after five. Dinner was at seven, and he was expected to take part, along with the rest of us." Marco rose from his seat to stand before the window. He motioned to Noël to follow him, and pointed. "At five thirty, an accident occurred here on Rämistrasse. A man turned the corner and slid on black ice, and was hit head-on by a petrol tanker. If it hadn't been for the ice, what should've been a minor collision became a nuclear fallout. The driver of the tanker turned his wheel away from the car and hit the West Wing, turning over in the sitting room. The tanker ended on its side, with one of the structural support beams puncturing its tank. Tidal waves of petrol erupted across the floor, and out into the hallways. All that time, the driver of the car was trapped inside, screaming. The lorry driver was also injured, but not as badly, and managed to escape the cabin before the spark fell." Marco returned to his armchair. "The accident itself had nothing to do with Will, but it's significant because of what happened in the aftermath. People from all sides heard the explosion, and saw great billowing plumes of black smoke rising in the distance, and were hurrying to help. But the engine was still running, and a spark met the spill, and suddenly eleven thousand metres of petrol became eleven thousand metres of fire. The street burned from end to end, and the flames rose high into the night. There was a blinding, incandescent light against the black of the sky. Ashes drifted down from the ceiling, and were swept out onto the wind, burning our faces. Police officers, ambulances, emergency rescue, the fire brigade, reporters, and onlookers all arrived all at once, and gathered outside the police lines. On our side, we did what we could to pull the driver from the wreck. We tried our bare hands first, then quickly realised that he'd have to be cut out. We could do nothing that risked striking another spark: we were already wading in a sea of oil, standing in the shadow of a tanker on its side. If it had exploded any later, we'd all have been killed that day. It was a long time before we could get help inside the house, because the lorry was imbedded in the walls, and climbing over it would've been the same as clambering over a ticking bomb burning at two hundred and fifty seven degrees."

Noël couldn't resist the feeling that Marco was telling a meticulously-rehearsed tale, written deliberately to capture his interest. He was an excellent storyteller, and no mistake.

"The streets surrounding were blocked off for twenty-four hours. Not until Friday evening was the last of the oil cleaned up, and then the tanker was lifted by crane, and the streets opened for traffic. During those hours, a vital sector of the city was, for all intents and purposes, sealed off from the rest of the world. The only way to cross those lines was with the emergency response teams that were brought to clear the wreckage and transport victims, dead or alive, to hospital. For the first twelve hours, only the dead and injured were removed—it wasn't until early the next morning that the living were brought to safety."

"I assume that something happened to Will inside of—or outside of those lines," Noël said, "and that the list of suspects includes only the finite number of people trapped inside."

Marco smiled in admiration. "Exactly right. These are the definite facts: Will returned from the Christmas market at about five-fifteen. If we also include children and unmarried guests, about fifty family members arrived throughout the course of the day, and all were present for dinner. Along with household staff, there were sixty-four people in the immediate vicinity, including the neighbours on both sides. Those who meant to stay the night were settling into their guest rooms. The Claridge family lived in Knightsbridge, but they had come to Zürich for Christmas. They were all staying in this house, so this is where he came that day. We know he met and exchanged words with one of my siblings in the gardens, and then he came inside and ran upstairs to show me what he'd gotten at the market. He asked to speak to me, but my family was hosting the party, and I was preoccupied with the early guests. I couldn't spare the time. He seemed terribly anxious about it, though, and I promised him that I would bring him to the sitting room, while the others were mingling in my father's study, over coffee and dessert. He nodded his head and left. I never saw him again. We were seated at the table, and my father was carving up the ham when the crash happened, upsetting all our plans for that evening."

"How did he die?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that." He sighed, and settled back in his chair. "When the tanker exploded, the walls came down around it, shaking the foundation of the house as they hit the floors. Plates, flatware, and wineglasses went flying, shattering against the walls in a spray of white wine and shards of glass. The guests all dropped what they were doing and scattered in every direction. My father and I took charge of the screaming rabble, and so were occupied for the next several hours. Will was last seen by several standing amongst the ranks that formed on the pavement outside, holding a cloth napkin to his face to shield it from the ashes, but the danger of another impending explosion made me instruct anyone who wasn't involved in rescuing the trapped driver to keep their distance. At about eight fifteen, when the emergency response team and ambulances arrived, Will broke away from the crowd. He asked one of the responders for water, with which to wash the debris from his eyes and face, and to wet his parched throat. They said that he looked more dead than alive, skin seared by the falling embers and doused in ash, bleary red eyes burning in a dead-white face. He drank his fill, and then the responder wet a cloth and helped wash his face. They sat for a moment watching the fires burn, and then she wrapped him in a shock blanket and sat him on the edge of the ambulance's cabin, saying that she'd be back in just a moment to tend to the wounds on his face. When she returned, he was gone. That was at eight twenty-five. His mother saw him walking back toward the house. Not long after, he crossed paths with the pastor. At the time, he lived on Schanzengasse. He'd been in bed, after a round of chemotherapy, when the accident took place; he had missed the explosion, but someone had telephoned, and he was on his way to the scene. He nabbed Will out of the way of an oncoming tram on Theaterstrasse, and apparently wanted to say something to him, but he waved him off and hurried on. He was the last one to see him alive."

"How did he die?" Noël repeated.

"I don't know," Marco said, with a troubled expression. "We weren't able to get the driver out of his car until ten, and sometime around midnight, the threat of another explosion was considered past. Things quieted down after that. It wasn't until we sat down to breakfast at Babu's on Löwenstrasse the next morning that we discovered Will was missing. My father sent me back to the house to see if he was still asleep, but I came back to say that I couldn't find him. He didn't think a great deal of it. He assumed Will had gone for a walk in the garden, or had taken his Christmas money to spend on the lovely chocolates at the market. During the evening, Father and I were breaking up arguments between family members, and it wasn't until that night, when Annalise—his mother—went to find him, that we realised no one knew where Will was, and that no one had seen him since the night before."

"And you never found him?"

"Not a trace."

"But if he vanished, as you say, then you can't be certain he's dead."

"I understand the objection—I've considered many thoughts along the same lines. There are only four possibilities to consider when a person vanishes: they go off of their own will and hide in plain sight, they die in an accident, they commit suicide, or they become the victim of a crime. I've carefully weighed all the possibilities."

"And yet you choose to believe that someone took his life. Why?"

"Because it's the only reasonable conclusion," Marco replied, pressing his lips together. "At the beginning, I'd hoped he ran away, but as the days passed, I realised this wasn't the case. How could a six-year-old boy from a protected world, even a very able one, manage alone? How could he stay hidden without someone finding it strange that a little boy was wandering round without an adult following behind? Where would he find more money when what he had ran out? No one hires children of that age, and even when he became older and was of age, he'd need a social security card and address." He held up two fingers. "My next thought was that he had some sort of accident. Now, open the top drawer of the desk. Bring me the map inside." Noël did as he was asked, and unfolded the map on the coffee table between them. Zürich was a leucocyte-shaped mass about eighty-eight kilometres in area. "Remember: he couldn't have crossed police lines without clearance. One could die in an accident just as easily as anywhere else here in Zürich, in several hundreds of ways. I believe I've considered them all." He held up three fingers. "There's only one catch: that Will took his life. His body would've been somewhere in this limited area." He traced a fingertip round the line of the city border. "In the days that followed, we searched every conceivable location." Marco tore his eyes from Noël and stared blindly into the darkness falling outside the frost-lined window. His voice became lower and more intimate. "I looked high and low for him, even after his family returned to England, another child short, until at last I looked up to find that it was autumn again, and would soon be winter. When I wasn't tending to my work, I began to walk from one side of the city to the other. Christmas came again, and still we hadn't found him. In the spring, I continued my search, until I realised just how preposterous it was. That summer, I hired three experienced investigators to continue the search. They combed every square foot of this city, and those surrounding. But by that time, I'd begun to consider the possibility of murder, and so they searched for unmarked graves. This went on for three months, and still nothing. It was as though he dissolved into thin air."

"I can think of a number of possibilities," Noël ventured.

"I'd be happy to hear them."

Noël nodded. "He could've drowned in Lake Zürich. The southern part of the city's on the water, which conceals most things."

"Consider this: if he had drowned, logically, it had to've occurred somewhere along the bay, within the immediate vicinity of the house. The smoke and flames and flashing lights were visible from the opposite shore. It wasn't a time when a six-year-old boy with a stroke of curiosity would decide to travel to the opposite side of the water. But, more importantly, there isn't an outstanding current here, and the winds that time of year came from the north. Whatever falls into the water appears again along the shore, and over there it's built up almost everywhere. We dredged the entire lake. He wasn't in the water."

"But couldn't he have swum... to Kilchberg or Zollikon?"

"Noël, it was Christmas. The water would've been freezing. He would've died before he made it anywhere near the other side of the lake."

"What about in a boat?"

"Noël, he was six! No one would've taken him across." Marco held up four fingers. "So, there's only one possibility: that Will was taken against his will. Someone murdered him and disposed of the body."