Chapter One

Paris, 1900

Although the curtains were drawn, a little sunlight crept around their edges and through the threadbare patches of fabric to partially illuminate the small room.

In one corner a bed had been roughly made, its counterpane rumpled, but it was not from here that the sounds of an uneasy slumber emanated.

On the chaise longue near the bookshelf, a corpulent figure coughed briefly and turned, a magazine falling to the floor. He dragged up higher the shawl that partially covered him.

Oscar Wilde drifted in that grey area between sleep and wakefulness.

He thought he looked into an ornate, gilt-framed mirror and the Oscar in the mirror looked right back at him. ‘Someone is coming,’ the reflection said.

‘Is it Robbie?’ asked Oscar. ‘He’s been gone so long! He said he’d be back days ago.’

‘No, it isn’t Robbie Ross. It is someone else, someone who will prevent you from resuming your writing. Beware his influence upon you.’

‘I find no joy in writing, and there is nothing that would inspire me to take up the pen once more. No one but I myself restrains me from writing.’

‘But together, Oscar, together we can unwrite the history of our life from the triumph of “Earnest” to now, rewrite it as the life we so richly deserve! But you must keep true to our plan.’

Oscar suddenly grabbed at his right ear, rolling over on the couch. A familiar piercing pain built to a crescendo and suddenly ceased. Sitting up, he held the hand he’d cupped to his ear before his face. In it was a dirty brown fluid, a discharge from his ear - what his father would have called an otorrhoea. It would have been a blessing if his father could be here now to attend to his ear. Or even better, years before in Wandsworth when the infection first occurred, but Sir William had been dead and buried many years even then.

There was nothing else for it. Time to rise, even though it seemed to be barely noon. Champagne was required. The bubbles would buoy his spirit and, if he consumed enough, it should produce a state resembling drunkenness, deadening the pain. And that was all he could hope for these days.




‘Are you sure you know how to make these amulets work?’ Alf asked after wandering the streets of Paris for fifteen minutes. Nick glanced at her, recognising the impatient scowl on her face.

‘Of course I do!’ the Doctor blustered as he cleared a path through the boulevard for his two smaller companions. ‘I’ve told you already, Alf, I wasn’t sure of the exact co-ordinates of the Hotel d’Alsace, and I didn’t have time to work them out. We’re in the area, St-Germain-des-Prés, I promise.’

Nick snagged Alf’s coatsleeve, holding her back before she could march after the Doctor. ‘C’mon, Alf,’ he encouraged, ‘enjoy the atmosphere. This place is bloody fantastic!’

Alf shrugged herself out of his light grasp. ‘I’d rather get it over with and find out if Wilde knows anything, thank you.’

Nick paused to look around one more time. There was a carnival atmosphere, with men and women loitering, laughing, and the air pungent with smells of food and humanity. He grinned, looking at a group of young men with canes gathering together in an idle group, catching a glimpse of another group of young people chatting at an outdoor café, seeing a young man and woman walking hand-in-hand and a flower seller accosting them.

‘Nick!’ The Doctor stood in the middle of the street, causing an angry carriage driver or two to swear at him, ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘Coming!’ Nick called back, striding toward his companions.

The Doctor gave his friend a concerned look. ‘Are your implants bothering you again?’ the Time Lord asked in a low voice, stepping closer.

‘Not so much,’ Nick replied. ‘I was just taking a look.’

The Doctor grinned. ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ he boomed. ‘Paris is a wonderful city! But we really should get a move on. Ahh…’ the Doctor’s eyes lit up and he abruptly swung down another street, leaving the other two behind. ‘This way!’ he called.

‘Never a dull moment,’ Alf snorted.

Nick shrugged, grinning. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way.’

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to lose him,’ the ever-practical young woman said. ‘We’d better hurry or we’ll never find him in this mess.’

‘I wouldn’t call it a mess,’ Nick protested, jogging to catch up with her. ‘It’s chaotic, yeah, but…’ He listened again to the white noise of people’s voices and horse hooves, taking in the colourful and odd-looking clothes of the time, women in trailing skirts and elaborate hats, men in short coats and striped pants.

‘It’s a mess,’ Alf retorted, ‘and it stinks. I can’t believe -’

‘Hey, look,’ Nick cut across her, pointing. The Doctor wasn’t as far ahead of them as he’d expected; he was standing in front of another café, talking with a pretty young woman. ‘The Doctor’s made a friend.’

They joined the Doctor. Nick immediately noted the troubled crease of the older man’s brow and frowned himself, swinging around to give the stranger a closer look.