On the platform of Victoria Station, the mingled scent of coal smoke and freshly brewed coffee hung in the crisp morning air.
The Orient Express, bound for Dover Harbour, stood gleaming under the pale sunlight. Its teak-panelled carriages shone with a honeyed lustre, and the brass handrails reflected fleeting figures of hurried travellers in wool coats and felt hats.
Shane accepted a glass of champagne from the train attendant. Beads of condensation slid down his slender fingers, leaving a cool trace. When the whistle blew and the train began to move, the rhythmic churning of the steam pistons filled the platform with life.
As the train crossed the Thames Railway Bridge, the morning fog still lingered, shrouding the city in a silvery haze. The water below shimmered faintly, barges drifting like shadows through the mist.
Leaning by the window, Shane's gaze swept across the receding skyline of London — the Gothic spires of the Houses of Parliament, the great dome of St. Paul's Cathedral — until the fog swallowed them whole.
He tapped the rim of his champagne glass thoughtfully. Across from him, William Catterson, his loyal associate, unbuttoned his camel-hair overcoat and withdrew a folded telegram from a crocodile-leather briefcase. The blue seal of the New York Harbor Authority caught the morning light.
"Krause's team has completed the packing of the equipment," Catterson murmured. "They'll board the White Star Line's Ocean Goddess, arriving in Southampton by next Wednesday noon."
He handed Shane the telegram. "It came directly from Henry."
Shane unfolded the parchment. The faint rustle of paper mingled with the sound of the wheels on the tracks. The seal of the Harbor Authority contained a hidden mark — an iris, delicately woven into the pattern — Henry's unmistakable signature for trusted eyes only.
The telegram read:
"The canaries have returned to their nests, and the granaries are full. Fisher's algorithm holds, and Loeb's operations are art."
To outsiders, it was financial jargon. To Shane, it was coded triumph: their short positions in the Cleveland Trust had closed successfully, profits far exceeding expectation.
At the bottom, Henry's handwritten line stood out:
"A true hunter never celebrates at the first gunshot. When you return from Europe, we'll end this game beautifully."
The countryside of Kent began to emerge beyond the fog. The fields, damp with dew, glowed faintly in shades between emerald and olive — like a Monet watercolor come to life.
"After Dover is Calais," said Mikhail, scanning the itinerary. "Then straight to Paris. What about Prince Albert?"
"No hurry," Shane replied, checking the time on his Hamilton wristwatch. "We'll wait until Krause finishes testing the Helmholtz resonator."
The fog slowly lifted. Sunlight spilled across the wide fields, turning the world into gold. A flock of birds cut across the horizon, their wings flashing white against the blue.
By the time the train reached Paris, the city was bathed in the amber glow of sunset.
Stepping out of Gare de Lyon, Shane was greeted by the buttery scent of fresh bread, mingled with perfume and the faint sound of laughter drifting from streetside cafés. Lamps flickered to life along the boulevards. Lovers leaned over the Seine's railings, sharing crêpes and secrets, while artists packed up their easels as the last light faded from the sky.
Paris breathed with an easy rhythm — a city unhurried, yet alive with purpose.
Inside the Gaumont headquarters boardroom, the golden light of dusk gleamed off the gilded mirrors. Shane sat in a Louis XV–style chair, a cup of black coffee cooling at his elbow.
Catterson turned the pages of a contract with meticulous precision. The rustle of paper mingled with the distant strains of an accordion from a café in Montmartre — a lazy tune with the faint romance of La Vie en Rose.
The Obelisk at Place de la Concorde caught the last rays of sunlight, which streamed through the tall windows and painted Shane's dark-grey suit in warm amber tones.
Louis, the French film magnate, reclined in his leather chair. Smoke from his Havana cigar curled lazily in the air.
"Monsieur Cassidy," Louis said in elegant Saint-Germain French, "starting tomorrow, from the Champs-Élysées billboards to the front page of Le Figaro, Paris will awaken to the campaign for your picture — The Circus."
He slid a copy of Ciné-Monde magazine across the table. Its cover blazed with the headline:
L'homme qui fait la queue en or — The Man Who Turns Queues into Gold.
Louis smiled. "Three blocks of ticket lines in London — you've made half of Paris envious. Your advance ticketing system has turned cinema queues into gold mines. Gaumont wishes to bring this miracle to France."
Shane caught Catterson's discreet nod. Rising, he crossed to the mahogany table and signed the final page. The ink curved gracefully under his pen.
"'The Circus,' French distribution rights," he said evenly. "I trust Gaumont's publicity will live up to the contract."
Outside, the Seine shimmered with light from passing boats. "However," Shane added, his tone sharpening slightly, "we must anticipate Pathé's reaction. If they attempt to manipulate rental terms or stir the press…"
Louis chuckled, flicking ash into the tray. "Pathé loves such mischief. Charles Pathé was seen with the Minister of Culture last week — but, fortunately, the Minister's wife is rather fond of that Italian actress we discovered at Nice."
Shane's lips curved faintly. "Public opinion is only one battlefield. My concern lies in technical patents. If Pathé unites smaller studios to challenge our three-strip colour process…"
Louis's cigar glowed like a small ember. "Then, monsieur, on the night of the premiere, we'll let the invention speak for itself. The eyes of Paris will see its brilliance."
The boardroom clock struck seven, the chime soft and resonant. Shane adjusted his suit and turned to the window. Across the river, the Eiffel Tower flickered to life, its lights tracing silver-blue against the night.
"It's been a pleasure, Louis," he said, extending his hand. "At the premiere, reserve the best seats for Pathé's directors — so they can see, firsthand, what they failed to grasp."
Louis clasped his hand with a smile. Their shadows fell across a framed poster of Napoléon, Gaumont's last great success.
"Paris," Louis murmured, "belongs to the winners. And you, Monsieur Cassidy, know precisely how to keep the city burning with light until dawn."
Outside, the Left Bank shimmered with life. In the glass reflection, Shane's silhouette merged with the glittering Eiffel Tower — a young man of seventeen standing between shadow and brilliance, as the first night of his legend began.