Roux left Mia with very mixed feelings. On the one hand, she was agog to soon be reunited with her father's most coveted scientific secrets. On the other hand, she was disturbed at the compromise in justice in order to get it. The police inspector's anonymous contact could be the thief for all they knew.

The Fiat arrives at the airfield outside Nice, with less than a minute to spare. Madame Duvallon applauds promptitude. During her years with Madame, Mia has learned to be punctual at all times. Captain Amelia Ariston's Breguet 280T is in sight even now - Another punctual young woman! - and it performs a few stylish manoeuvres before approaching the runway.

Exiting the Fiat at the edge of the tarmac, Mia stands ready, with her arms behind her back, at the rear, passenger-side door. She watches as the plane alights gently to the earth. When the steps are rolled into position against the hull, the door opens and Madame Duvallon emerges in a smart, beige travel suit with an aviator's scarf, left hand in the pocket of her travel coat, looking especially photogenic.

Stylish and ready-for-action, that one. Madame never spoke much of her early years, before she was the world-renowned hostess and wife of cultural attaché Charles Duvallon. But all the girls in Mia's year at the school speculated that Madame was something of a thrill-seeker rapscallion in her youth. Not that there is any trace of that girl today. Mme Duvallon looks like the commander of a ship, welcoming her crew to her island paradise. With her right hand, in the playfulness of the summer wind, she holds down the crown of her wide-brimmed, straw hat.

Captain Amelia Ariston is on the ground in no time, helping the baggage handlers unload the girls' cargo. Mme Duvallon is followed down the steps by only two other passengers. The first is a petite, rosy-haired thing in lavender travel clothes and matching cloche. An early printing of Anna Karenina is tucked under her arm, with the latest issue of Vogue wedged between its pages. Mia has the same issue on her bedside table, and she recognises it immediately.

Next out of the plane is a dark-haired dear with alabaster skin that appears to have never seen the light of day, ever. While the strawberry-blonde struts confidently behind Madame, this one takes very short steps, negotiating her feet carefully down the steps. Her wan complexion and black apparel make her look like a character out of Edgar Allan Poe. Perhaps the cloistered daughter of a museum curator, Mia wonders.

"Welcome to the Côte d'Azur!" Mia cheerfully announces, opening the rear, passenger-side door of the saloon.

"Good day, Mia," Mme Duvallon greets her driver, with a kiss upon each cheek. "Allow me to introduce Miss Emma and Miss Amalie. Ladies, this is Miss Bernstein, my secretary."