After Grisaille’s room, Soufflé’s office hurt Shenanigan’s eyes. It took her a second to realize that the wooden floor was not that brown, the wallpaper not that purple, and the sky visible out of the window behind Soufflé’s desk a perfectly normal blue, and not the melting azure of an alien planet.

Soufflé sat at the desk, hands clasped before him, and regarded the Swifts.

Composed is a word with several definitions. If a person is composed, it means they are “calm, collected, and in control,” and that was what Soufflé was aiming for. Instead, he looked like the second definition of composed—that is, “artificial, set up, like you would compose a letter or a scene onstage.” Shenanigan could tell his composure was composed by the way his eyes flicked to the mirror on the wall, to check his appearance for cracks.

“So,” he said, turning so that the sunlight gleamed off the gold name tag on his lapel. “Swifts. Please, sit down.” Then, eyeing the drying paint on their uniforms, he hurriedly added, “Not the children. Perhaps they should stand, for the sake of the furniture.”

Inheritance and Maelstrom sat, the children arranged behind them like bodyguards.

“I would thank you for not mentioning our current…tribulation to my mother,” Soufflé said stiffly. “As you can see, she is very old, and I don’t wish to upset her.”

“Tribulation?” asked Shenanigan.

“Tribulation. Difficulty. Travails, from travailler, which is ‘work’ in French.” He sniffed. “But I apologize—I overestimated your vocabulary. I shall endeavor to use simpler words, for the children’s benefit.”

Ah, thought Shenanigan cheerfully, I hate him. Nice to know these things right away.

“I would like to keep the news of Ouvolpo’s thefts from reaching my maman,” he went on.

“Surely she has a right to know,” said Inheritance. “The exhibition is the day after tomorrow—what if Toujours does get stolen?”

“It will not,” said Soufflé firmly. “It cannot. You see”—he leaned back in his chair, lip curling a little in distaste—“we cannot afford it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Phenomena.

“I mean that Toujours j’attends is our last piece of Tyran Martinet’s legendary art collection. We’ve been selling it off, piece by piece, for decades, just to keep the Hôtel running.” He sighed. “We are, as the English say, broke.”

It clearly cost him to even say the word. Shenanigan thought back to the splendid shabbiness of the Hôtel, the way the corridor carpets had a pale groove worn down the center from the passage of many feet. She thought of the crack in the lobby floor, the moss on the restaurant windows. Lack of money was something else the Swifts had in common with the Martinets, then. Shenanigan tried to imagine losing the House, and the pang of sorrow almost made her feel sorry for Soufflé.

“Surely if you sold Toujours…” began Inheritance, but Soufflé slammed his palm down on the desk, making them all jump.

“Never,” he said. “It is all our Family has left. We sold The Buildings in Their Finery and The Crocodile Follows Wherever I Go to museums years ago, and of course you took A Clown Laments His Lot in Life.” His anger abruptly left him, and he sagged. “This exhibition is our last chance. Monsieur Laurent and I have agreed to split the ticket profits sixty–forty, in our favor. It’s a good deal for him—it means more people will visit his museum—and for us it’s enough to keep the Hôtel open. It is vital that this exhibition goes ahead.” He straightened a pen on his desk. “Which is why I propose an alliance.”

“An alliance?”

“Yes.” Soufflé leaned forwards, steepling his fingers. “The Swifts have had a piece of art stolen by Ouvolpo. The same fate now threatens the Martinets. It is in all our interests to bring down these thieves and take back what’s rightfully ours.”

“But Clown—”

“Is yours. I have spoken with Maman—the Martinets will concede. We shall give up complaining about how you cheated to obtain it, and accept that it belongs to the Swifts. Keep it, sell it, we don’t care.”

Shenanigan looked at her aunt and uncle, and saw the gears turning in their heads. A Clown Laments His Lot in Life was worth a lot of money. It was true that Cousin Atrocious had given Fauna some cash after the Reunion to undertake crucial repairs to the House, but that money wouldn’t last forever. Personally, Shenanigan would prefer for them not to depend on Atrocious, whom she often fantasized about throwing into an active volcano.

Besides, if her Family did sell Clown, they would be rich, and might not care about a certain treasure at the bottom of a certain lake.

“We’ll help you,” she said firmly.

“It may not be that simple, Shenanigan,” murmured Maelstrom.

“But Ouvolpo are our enemy anyway, since they broke into our House and robbed us,” insisted Shenanigan. “We’ve got to steal our painting back. That’s how these things work.”

Maelstrom folded his arms and leaned back on his chair. His gold earring seemed to wink back at Soufflé’s name tag.

“You said Tyran Martinet found all Pierrot’s pieces,” he asked bluntly.

“Yes. And I know what you’re going to ask me.” Soufflé waggled a finger. “You’re going to ask me why Ouvolpo are going after them, and to that I can truly say that I don’t know.”

“Because they think you stole them, probably,” said Erf.

Soufflé groaned. “Alors. Look, the story is common knowledge. Pierrot disappeared in the summer of 1926, not long after he finished Toujours j’attends in June—the signature and date on the bottom of that sculpture are the last evidence anyone has of him. When my grandfather began renovating 21 rue Regrette in August, he found the pieces abandoned in Pierrot’s apartment. No one ever claimed them, and Pierrot never returned. If that’s stealing, then, yes, we ‘stole’ them.” His fingers twitched into air quotes around the word “stole.” “What were we supposed to do? Throw his art out with the rest of the junk? Would Ouvolpo have preferred that?”

“You could have given it to his family,” suggested Erf.

“How?” retorted Soufflé. “He went by a nom de plume—children, that’s a pseudonym, which is a word for a false name. He wore a costume whenever he was out in public. How were we supposed to track down his relatives?”

Shenanigan had noticed that when Soufflé became agitated, he began to puff up like an angry frog. He was starting to look a bit swollen now.

“Really, it’s thanks to Tyran that Pierrot achieved any fame at all! The staff call me Petit Tyran, Little Tyran, after him, and that is an honor! Pierrot was almost completely unknown in his own time. But Tyran Martinet was a trendsetter, a tastemaker. He got Pierrot’s work into prestigious galleries. He spoke to critics. He made Pierrot’s name by attaching it to ours. If we hadn’t saved his art, it would have been destroyed—the work of a genius would have been thrown in the gutter. See, your niece understands, Maelstrom. ‘Finders keepers’ is the way of things.”

Shenanigan realized she had been nodding along, though she could feel Maelstrom’s unease. The thing was, she did agree with Soufflé. If no one else wanted the art, why not take it? And hadn’t it worked out well for Pierrot’s reputation in the end?

But while Soufflé wasn’t lying, exactly—she’d have seen it if he was—there was a thin sheen of dishonesty spread over his face like an invisible mask. Souris was right. They would be fools to trust him.

Phenomena didn’t look up from her notebook, where she had been busily taking notes.

“So Toujours is kept here. Buildings and Clown have already been stolen. The other one you mentioned, the, um, one with the crocodile—”

“The Crocodile Follows Wherever I Go.”

“Who did you sell that to?”

“The Galerie Valerie.”

Phenomena made a note.

“And what happened to Bernard?”

Shenanigan’s sister had many talents, but the one Shenanigan envied the most was her organization. Somewhere in Phenomena’s head was a list of all the things she wanted to know. She had added Souris’s question to the list, and now she wanted to tick it off.

Soufflé’s lips thinned. “What about Bernard? Nothing happened to him. He quit.”

“He was an employee?”

“Bernard was our last non-Family member of staff,” said Soufflé, shifting in his chair. “Recently, we had to let the others go. We could no longer afford their wages—that’s why the Family have all been working here. Well, all but Pomme, that bohemian. Bernard had been with us for forty years. Grew up alongside some of us, even. Then, a week ago, he left.”

“Just…left?” asked Felicity, frowning.

“Gave no notice, the ungrateful man. One day he was at work, and the next…pouf. He vanished.”

“Vanished how? Where? When?” asked Phenomena.

“Je ne sais pas,” said Soufflé, spreading his hands. “No one saw him leave, and no one has seen him since.”

“You didn’t go to his home?”

Soufflé blinked. “He’s just an employee,” he said. “Not Family. I rather think the exhibition takes precedence.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Look, I am very busy. Are you going to assist us, or not?”

“We will accept your offer,” Shenanigan said loftily. “How should we seal the agreement? If you have a letter-opener handy, I’ll do you a blood vow.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” murmured Inheritance as Shenanigan cast around for a sharp object. “But I echo my niece, Soufflé. If I know anything about our Family, it’s that there is nothing better to unite us than a common enemy. Together, we shall find these criminals, and bring them to justice.”

She held out her hand. After a pause, Soufflé took it. For the first time in decades, a Swift and a Martinet shook hands without trying to break the other’s fingers.

“Our Family has friends in the Paris police,” said Soufflé. “When Ouvolpo strike again, I can grant you access to the crime scene.”

“Really?” breathed Phenomena, eyes widening behind her glasses.

“Yes, really?” asked Maelstrom, frowning.

“Of course. We will be the first to know.” Soufflé’s grip on Inheritance’s hand tightened slightly. “But please, in return, keep quiet about your own lost painting. The police only know that Buildings was stolen. They don’t know anything about Clown, and so they are not yet aware that Ouvolpo are targeting Pierrot’s work. If they were, they might try to prevent the exhibition from going ahead. That would be…ruinous.”

The Swifts left Soufflé’s office.

“Well,” said Inheritance. “That was a load of bunkum.”

Erf’s mouth dropped open. “Gran!”

“I will admit to some bias when it comes to the Martinets,” said Inheritance, “but I do not trust a single word that comes out of that man’s mouth. Shenanigan, I’m sure you’ll agree with me. That peculiar talent of yours must have been going haywire.”

Shenanigan shifted. “Yes, but—”

“The very first thing I’m going to do,” Inheritance went on, “is head to the city archives, and dig up all I can about this Pierrot character. Police reports, leases, planning permission”—her voice grew dreamy—“council records, census records, tax records…We need to amass as much information as we can.”

“Why?” asked Shenanigan.

“Because if Soufflé Martinet is lying to us, I want to know exactly what about,” she said primly. “Know thy enemy, children. That’s the first rule of diplomacy.”

“While your approach to diplomacy is questionable, your approach to investigation is sound,” said Phenomena. “Good idea, Aunt Inheritance.”

They piled into the lift again, and Souris took them back down to the lobby.

“Are you all right, Uncle?” asked Shenanigan.

Maelstrom, whose brows had been doing their best to bridge the gap between them, started, and ruffled her hair.

“Fine, Skipper,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve known Hugo Rousseau a very long time. He’s as honest as the day is long. He would never allow unofficial investigators into his crime scene, just because someone like Soufflé called in a favor.”

“It’s been a long time. Maybe Rousseau’s changed,” said Felicity. “You have.”

Maelstrom was quiet for a moment. “Aye,” he said finally. “I suppose I have.”