Gas lamps flickered, their lights strong and sure, bathing the cobblestones with collective glows. More ladies and gentlemen were stationed outside of Voisin’s doors than throughout the whole of Paris put together. Within this corner of society, the starving children, grief-struck insurgents, and shady rat sellers were nonexistent … nothing more than a distant nightmare. The coach rolled to a jarring halt. All at once, a hush descended as the ladies and gentlemen turned their attention to the rich vehicle. Unused to such excitement and crowds, the horses whinnied unhappily and pawed at the cobblestones. “Ah, here we are. Monsieur, mademoiselle,” the driver announced. “Voisin of Rue Saint-Honoré.” Wary of his sweeping six-foot-two frame, Aleksender inclined his head as he stepped from the coach. He fished a hand inside his coat and deposited a healthy amount of francs into the driver’s palm. “I suspect we shall be an hour. Two at the most.” An indulgent grin formed on the man’s chaffed lips.
