“All the trees are mauve,” said Sir John. “The sky, amber-gris.”
“Are you sure I mixed it right?” said Miss Henderson to Morag, hurrying to keep up with Sir John on the street.
“I watched you do it myself,” said Morag. “It was fine. You’ve got quite a talent for it.”
“It’s like cooking,” said Miss Henderson, “only my cooking doesn’t usually have this effect.”
“Aye well,” said Morag, “that special brew that we made should put Sir John into the realm of the imagination. And hence he should be able to see where we might find the avatar.”
“West is best!” pronounced Sir John, pointing east and heading that way at a fierce pace.
“In theory at least,” said Morag as she and Miss Henderson picked up the pace.
“French cooking seems to affect Mrs Jennings,” said Miss Henderson. “Do you think maybe that’s alchemical.”
“I think that’s nostalgia,” said Morag.
“Oh,” said Miss Henderson, “so it gives her headaches.”
“Weird scenes inside the goldmine,” said Sir John rather excitably, pointing toward the Seine. “Ride the king’s highway.”
“Does that make sense to you?” said Miss Henderson.
“Oh aye,” said Morag. “I understand completely. I think I may have messed up the potion a bit.”
“He is the lizard king,” said Sir John, gravely. “He can do… anything.”
“That could be a reference to salamanders, which are associated with fire,” said Morag, “or maybe just drug induced nonsense.”
The trio found themselves approaching the Sorbonne.
“Streets are uneven,” said Sir John, stroking his chin and looking around.
“This seems like it might be a good place for imagination,” said Miss Henderson. “The door says it’s a university, although they’ve spelt it wrong.”
“I’m sure it’s full of imaginative minds, but I think it’s thrown him off the scent,” said Morag. “Seems too obvious.”
Sir John looked around the entrance of the Sorbonne.
“When is a door not a door?” he said.
“When it’s ajar?” said Morag, hoping it might help.
Sir John fixed an eye on Morag.
“When it’s a grain of sand.” he said. “Land ho!”
He headed north towards the Seine then crossed at the Pont de Sully.
“We dug our treasures there,” he said whilst walking at quite a pace. The trio crossed over at speed and stopped at a halt once on the right bank.
“I wonder if the death of Emile has unhinged him a bit,” said Morag. “They were good friends.”
“I keep thinking about him,” said Miss Henderson. “He was such a nice man. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I just got into town an hour ago,” said Sir John, with a gentle tone. He looked up and down the street then slapped himself on the forehead.
“Mr Mojo Rising!” he said, then shot down the Rue du Petit-Musc. Miss Henderson and Morag ran after him as quickly as they could. Sir John turned left then right then went a little further before stopping.
Morag arrived first and struggled to catch her breath. She looked at where Sir John was staring.
“Oh,” she said.
Miss Henderson arrived a little later, cursing under her breath and trying to hold up the skirts she was wearing without revealing her ankles to the world. She looked at where Sir John and Morag were staring and saw the large ornate door with “Hotel Raoul” written above it.
“This is definitely the place then,” she said.
“Aye,” said Morag. “This must be the only grand entrance in Paris that doesn’t actually have a building attached to it.”
“Alive!” Sir John cried.