"Sit," the woman said, pointing to a chair in front of the desk.
Skye obeyed, moving like a zombie.
The woman regarded Skye with amusement.
"What's wrong? You seem distracted."
Skye was more confused than distracted. The voice that came from the woman's mouth was that of Madame Fauchard. It had lost its cracked, old lady quality, but there was no mistaking the hard-edged words. Crazy thoughts ran through Skye's mind. Did Racine have a daughter? Maybe this was a clever ventriloquist.
Finally, she found her own voice.
"Is this some sort of trick?"
"No trick at all. What you see is what there is."
"Madame Fauchard?" The words came out falteringly.
"One and the same, my dear," she said with a wicked smile. "Only now I am young and you are old."
Skye was still skeptical. "You must give me the name of your plastic surgeon."
Heat came to the woman's eyes, but only for a moment. She rose from her chair and came around to the other side of the desk with silken movements. She leaned over, took Skye's hand and placed it on her cheek.
"Tell me if you still think this is the work of a surgeon."
The flesh was warm and firm, and the skin was creamy without a trace of wrinkles.
"Impossible," Skye said in a whisper.
Madame Fauchard let the hand drop, then stood upright and returned to her chair. She tented her long, slender fingers so that Skye could see that they were no longer gnarled.
"Don't worry," she said. "You're not going mad. I am the same person who invited you and Mr. Austin to my costume party. He's well, I trust."
"I don't know," Skye said, guardedly. "I haven't seen him in days. How "
"How did I turn from a cackling old crone into a young beauty?" she said, a dreamy look in her eyes. "A long, long story. It would not have been so long had it not been for Jules absconding with the helmet," she said, spitting out the name with bitterness. "We could have saved decades of research."
"I don't understand."
"You're the antique arms expert," Madame Fauchard said. "Tell me what you know about the helmet."
"It's very old. Five hundred years or possibly older. The steel was of extremely high quality. It may have been made with iron from a meteorite."
Madame Fauchard arched an eyebrow.
"Very good. The helmet was made with star metal and this strength saved the lives of more than one Fauchard in battle. It was melted and recast through the centuries and was passed down through the family to the true leaders of the Fauchards. It rightfully belonged to me, not my brother Jules."
The words took a second to sink in, but when they did, Skye said, "Your brother?"
"That's right. Jules was a year younger than me."
Skye tried to do the calculation, but her thoughts were whirling around in her head. "That would make you "
"Never ask a lady her age," Madame Fauchard said, with a languid smile. "But I'll save you the trouble. I'm past the century mark."
Skye shook her head in disbelief. "I don't believe it."
"I'm hurt by your skepticism," Madame Fauchard said, but her expression belied her statement. "Would you like to hear the details?"