Jules Verne sat in the library of the Sorbonne. The hour was late and he knew that he should be returning to his cheerless room, but the library was warm and the chair, while not exactly comfortable, was much better than the one that resided under the table he used as a desk. The pile of books beside him did not contain treatises on the law, for which he felt slightly guilty, but instead were the libraries reference volumes on that strange civilization that once ranged over large stretches of the country now known as Mexico, the Aztecs.

The pictures in this latest book showed sketches of devices found by explorers as part of that civilization. Jules was looking specifically for any mention of anything that might be a part of that strange vehicle he and his friends knew as the "Phoenix." This peculiar machine had the ability to move through time the way that Phileas Fogg's dirigible Aurora could sail through the air. He was about to give up on this one as well when he spotted a diagram that looked familiar.

He turned the pages of his own notebook to find his sketch for comparison. "Yes!" he said triumphantly. "They match!" He scribbled the name of the book down next to his drawing. When next he saw Phileas, Passepartout, and Rebecca, he would have something to report.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was coming. Someone silent. A shadow fell across his notebook. He turned quickly to look.

The sound of the walking stick's 'whap' as it landed in the middle of his notebook, nearly made Verne jump out of his skin, if that were possible. In a spastic and badly executed defense tactic, the student attempted to both grab the notebook and retreat at the same time. This merely resulted in Jules dropping his book, overturning the chair, and soundly landing on his Nantesian rump.

Alas, his execution of such preservational tactics needed much work.

Verne's instinct for danger was considerably honed by numberous run-ins with the League of Darkness. Always, they sought to capture him, or his notebooks or both.

The voice that answered Verne's rather pathetic attempt at escape was cool, English, and slightly annoyed.

"For the love of God, Verne! Haven't your professors instructed you a million times to =pay attention=? Haven't =I= instructed you to do the same? Yet, here you are in some musty little corner, buried in a book, oblivious to the world..."

Verne attempted to staunch the forthcoming lecture from Phileas Fogg. However, that hope dwindled into nothingness as the Englishman stood glaring like Napoleon overseeing the troops... well, perhaps Mons. Bonaparte wasn't the best analogy.

"You really =must= be little more prepared."

"I know, Fogg."

"You could be grabbed and thrown under a pile of these dusty tomes for a century, at least, before anyone would even =notice=... let alone find you!"

"I know, Fogg."

"And then, =who= do you suppose would be required to dig under all these moldy papers in search of you?"

"You, Fogg."

Fogg laughed. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. I would have Passepartout do it!" he added matter-of-factly.

"How did you find me?" Verne asked his protector.

"I followed a trail of breadcrumbs..." the Englishman answered. "Somewhat stale, french, bagette breadcrumbs. Verne, if you are =not= in that hovel that you call your apartment, and you are =not= in that hovel that you call a bistro, then it stands to reason that you are...=here=. Now gather your papers and your wits and let's go. Rebecca is waiting outside."

Quickly, Jules grabbed his books together, wondering why Fogg was here to see him dressed in full evening wear. The Englishman's long stride made it nearly impossible to keep up without running.

Rebecca stood just inside the doorway looking at the carriage outside, but turning as she heard the footsteps approaching.

"Thank heavens you're here, Jules."

"Rebecca, what's going on?"

"Your presence has been requested, Verne."

"What, Fogg?"

"I think Rebecca can explain it. After all, it is her assignment."

"Thank you so much, Phileas. Um, Jules..." She stumbled uncharacteristically over her words. What was going on? "Well, as you may be able to notice, we were at a formal supper this evening. It was for the new Italian consul, and it seems he had heard of the mole incident. Louis Napoleon himself remembered your involvement."

"The emperor? He asked to see ME?" Jules said, incredulous.

"No. The consul's daughter wants to meet you. She heard how you helped save the emperor, and the queen. She's only fourteen, Jules, and I think it struck her imagination. Of course," Rebecca's blue eyes teased, "it may be that she simply wants the company of someone other than boring old diplomats and a young Frenchman suits quite nicely."

"How do you know the consul's daughter, Rebecca?"

"She's my assignment."

"Yes," said Phileas depreciatingly, "another difficult job for England's first female agent."

"Oh, hush, Phileas. I'm taking care of her until she reaches London so that the consul can conduct his business here and there unimpeded.

"Does her father know that I'm a student?"

"Yes. It doesn't seem to concern him at all. Of course, Miss Cinzia seems to get just about everything she wants. Ah!"

The girl, it seems, has gotten tired of waiting in the coach. The door opens, and out steps the consulate's fourteen-year-old daughter.

The girl was small, and delicately boned. Her enormous eyes seemed to dominate her small, heart-shaped face. She seemed much too small and youthful to be a young lady of 14. Even her clothing was for a younger girl. She also carried a large porcelain doll. Both doll and girl were dressed in the finest silks and brocades.

Rebecca cleared her throat. "Miss Natalia Cinzia, may I introduce my friend, Monsieur Jules Verne?"

The child stepped forward, holding out her hand to Jules. He stepped up with alacrity, and kissed her hand. It was tiny and soft, and he felt it was like kissing a kitten's paw.

"I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Cinzia," he said politely.

To his surprise, the girl continued to hold his hand, staring up into his face intently.

"Monsieur Verne," she murmured softly. "Miss Fogg has told me so much about you. I hope you do not mind that I asked her to bring you here."

"Not at all," smiled Jules. Never in his life had he seen such a pretty doll of a girl. "I was merely working late in the Library. I am very happy to be of service."

The girl's eyes widened. She stepped toward Jules, still holding his hand. "I hope - I hope that we might be friends, Monsieur Verne."

"Of course," Jules replied. "But please call me Jules, Miss-"

"Natalia, call me Natalia," cooed the girl, and Jules smiled and thanked her for the privilage.

Rebecca moved forward, smiling. "Natalia, we need to be going now," she said gently.

Natalia gave a little sigh. "Always I am traveling.... tell me, Jules, do you like to travel?" She stepped up into the coach as she spoke, and Jules followed, Phileas and Rebecca just behind.

"Yes, Natalia, I do enjoy traveling to new places. Don't you?"

As the coach started off, the girl gave a great sigh, and turned tragic eyes toward Jules.

"No, Jules. I hate it."

"But then, my feelings might be different, if I had a =true= home to return to." Natalia wistfully looked out the coach window. "I am sorry. I did not mean to sound ungrateful."

Jules hurried to reassure her. "No. No, Natalia. It's all right. You are right. A home. Friends. That is what makes all the difference."

Jules caught Rebecca's expression which told him to change the subject. The poor child was already near tears. Jules understood immediately.

"So, tell me. Does your doll have a name?" he asked quietly.

Natalia rewarded the question with a warm smile. "Oh. Yes. Her name is Aurora...but it is not after your airship, Mr. Fogg. I have had this Aurora for many, many years. I was very fond of the works of Homer when I was young."

Young? Jules thought. This girl looked young but did not speak, act or think young. No. Natalia had never been young.

"Perhaps my airship is named after your doll, then." Fogg offered, a gentle smile encouraging this ward.

"Perhaps, sir..."

Suddenly Natalia's eyes began to glaze over. The color drained from her face as she begged, "No." Her body was suddenly possessed by tremors which increased in intensity until they threatened to rip her apart. She lurched forward nearly landing in Jules' lap. The student struggled to contain the convulsing girl as Rebecca leaned across and pulled the ward back towards her.

Fogg was about to reach outside and throttle the driver for not going faster when the coach slowed, arriving at its destination. Before the coach had stopped, he reached and lifted the girl into his arms and carried her toward the palace screaming for a doctor.

Jules now looked at Rebecca for enlightenment. But all she said was, "Sir Jonathan will have my head for this one. Do come along, Jules. A good decapitation needs an audience. And what better place than France?"

She swept out of the coach and headed to the palace.