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.

Jules jumped to his feet to confront the figure, then felt slightly foolish as he realized its feminine shape. Not that he had not had problems with females of a villainous bent before, but this one was merely standing silently watching him. He could see no signs of guns, knives, or anything else that might be interpreted as a weapon. She was dressed completely in black, including black gloves and a thick black veil. Very tall for a woman, he noted, almost as tall as Phileas. "May I help you?" he said finally.

For a moment there was no reply, then the veil stirred. "You are Monsieur Jules Verne?" The voice was muffled by the veil, and Jules could not guess at her age from the sound.

He nodded, realized she probably could not see too well, and spoke. "Yes, I am." He was still too wary to remember his manners. Lately, strangers had meant trouble and only trouble. "And you are?"

There was a suggestion of a chuckle in the muffled voice. "You could not pronounce my real name. For now, you may address me as Madame Coates. That is close enough to suffice."

Had Jules been a cat, his fur would have started rising. All that black and no real name. He edged away, sidling along the length of the library table. "And, what can I do for you, Madame Coates?" he asked cautiously.

"A small thing. But, important. At least to me. However, the explanation is long and standing is tiring. Will you come with me to my coach?"

Jules weighed his options carefully, go to the carriage with Madame Coates or refuse? Not long ago, he wouldn't have hesitated, but considering the turns his life had taken in recent months...

"I'm sorry, Madame. I really can't go with you."

She didn't look at all pleased at this. From what he could tell, that is, since the woman's face was covered with a black veil. Hm. Maybe he should ask her to sit down and talk here?

Before Jules could open his mouth, two more figures advanced out of the darkness. The League of Darkness, that is. He backpedaled, but couldn't go very far because of the book-covered table at his back. Wonderful. Jules frantically scrambled over the chair and around the table, but not quickly enough.

THWACK!!!

"Ouch!" Yelled Jules, turning to face his attacker.

"Sorree," grimaced the generic, black-clad League of Darkness minion.

"You imbecile!" Shouted his partner, while Madame Coates snorted in disgust. The fellow had whacked Jules upside the head with a three-foot loaf of bread, which now crumbled uselessly to the floor. The fellow hadn't even used a crunchy, stale loaf! These fellows were obviously NOT on the League's A-list of goons.

"Why did you hit me?" Questioned Jules.

The first goon answered, "Well, to knock you out, duh. You refused to come with our shill, so we had to get you ourselves."

"You could have grabbed me, or threatened me with a weapon, or something," Jules complained. "You could even have asked. There are two of you and only one of me and you're both bigger than I am. Everyone always hits me on the head." His hand rubbed the mild bruise. "Ew, it's all greasy! I just washed my hair, too." He turned angrily to the goons who stood cluelessly next to the black-clad woman.

"Well, grab him, you fools!" She shouted.

"Ya don't hafta yell, sheesh," griped the second goon, moving forward.

Well, he had given them permission to just grab him, so the first goon wasn't expecting the sharp kick to his kneecap. He hopped around on his other leg going "owowowowow!" until he collided with a chair and fell over. The second goon laughed uproariously at his companion's plight.

"Do I have to do everything myself?" Said the woman to no one in particular. "You're coming with me, Monsieur Verne."

"What for?" He asked, fairly certain that he could outrun the guards and the woman.

"To advance the plot. We'll never get anywhere if you don't come with us!"

"Oh." Jules leaned back on the table thoughtfully.

"I'll go with you," Jules said after a brief pause. "But let me gather my things first."

Verne reached over to the window sill and grabbed a knapsack and reached to pull down a red scarf that was hanging from the window latch at the center of the sash.

As he did this, he glanced out the window and, as expected, was answered with a flash of light - the sun reflecting off a mirror.

That was reassuring. Rebecca and Phileas had seen the signal which meant the League had fallen into their trap.

Jules turned toward the lady Coates and struggled to keep from smiling. "I'm ready to leave now, Madame Coates. May I ask where we are going?"

"Never you mind, Jules Verne," Coates answered, with a peculiar emphasis on his full name. "We'll take care of the little things, you simply need to keep your eye on the future."

"What's happening now?" Phileas asked casually as he sipped his glass of wine and tried to decide if he should have another slice of camembert. He and Rebecca were sitting in a bistro across the street from the Sorbonne library and Phileas had his back to the window. Rebecca peered around him as she, too, enjoyed the excellent wine.

"They're just coming out of the library," she informed her cousin. "Oooh. What a horrible gown she's wearing. I wonder who her dressmaker is?"

"Where are they headed?"

"To that carriage on the other side of the street. Why in the world would she be wearing a veil this time of year? Perfectly tasteless."

"And how many of them are there?" Phileas asked, ignoring Rebecca's fashion comments.

"Three, though one of them is limping quite nicely. I'd say Jules gave him a good kneecapping."

"Good for him. I taught him that, you know."

Rebecca made a disgusted sound. "Oh, Phileas you did not. *I* taught him that."

Phileas frowned. "Really? Well, I know I taught him something."

"Probably how to put an ace up his sleeve," Rebecca muttered into her wineglass.

"What was that?"

"Oh nothing, dear cousin. I say, Phileas, the carriage is leaving. Shouldn't we be following?"

"Not to worry, Rebecca. I've got Passepartout on the job. He's going to find out where they're taking Verne and report back to us. Then we can spring the trap."

Rebecca smiled. "Oh how lovely. That means I can have another glass of wine." She paused and a look of concern replaced the smile. "Phileas, you don't think Jules is in any real danger, do you?"

Phileas decided on the camembert after all and savored its creamy texture before answering.

"Danger? My dear Rebecca, the League wants him to show them the future, which means they need him very much alive. Besides, Passepartout is keeping an eye on things. What could possibly happen?"

Passepartout brought the Aurora down lower in order to keep an eye on the coach moving through the Parisian streets. It would have been much more difficult had it not been for the phosphorous-dyed cloth that his master had attached to the top of the coach. He wondered how Mr. Phileas Fogg, as quick and agile as he was, had managed it without drawing the attention of the driver. Mr. Fogg was a very clever man.

The coach proceeded at a moderate pace. Passepartout wished that they would hurry and reach their destination. Keeping the Aurora slow enough not to outrun them meant that she was buffeted by crosswinds and strained her main propeller. However, his good friend Jules was in the coach and nothing must be allowed to happen to Jules. Aside from his own liking for his fellow Frenchman, Mr. Fogg would toss him out of the Aurora when it was over the English Channel if anything untoward occurred.

Phileas and Rebecca finished their snack and got into their own coach. On Phileas's instructions, the driver took them to the park on the Rue de Luxembourg. Phileas swung himself up to the top of the coach with the binoculars and scanned the sky. It took him a few minutes to find the Aurora in the darkness, for Passepartout was not using the powerful arc-light in his silent pursuit, but find it he did.

He gave another set of directions to the phlegmatic driver and rejoined Rebecca in the coach. "Somewhere on the central island," he told her. "Possibly Notre-Dame."

"Somehow I don't think the mysterious woman in black is in need of a confessor, Phileas."

"And Verne is no priest."

When the coach stopped again, the cousins both got out. Phileas used the binoculars again. It was easier to see the Aurora now that they were closer. He paid the driver a good sum to remain exactly where he was, and they began to move through the streets.

It was Rebecca who saw the carriage first. It was stopped in front of a large elaborately decorated building on the bank of Seine. She pointed it out to Phileas.

"The Conciergerie!" Phileas muttered. "What on earth would they want with Verne in a prison?"