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?"

 Chapter 3: Leaving the Library

Jules paused, and the woman leaned a bit closer.

“I understand your hesitation, Monsieur Verne, but it is imperative that you come with me immediately.” She glanced around briefly, then murmured, in a voice so soft he could barely catch it, “There are those who would gladly prevent this meeting… very… dark and troublesome individuals – do you understand?”

Jules caught his breath. Could she mean – the League of Darkness? He glanced around the quiet Library, and suddenly made his decision. He caught up his notebook and coat.

“Very well, Madame, I will accompany you.”

The woman made a sound of triumph, and caught Jules by the arm. “This way,” she whispered, "the front entrance is being watched.”

She led him through the dark Library, into the store-rooms in the rear. She indicated a set of double doors.

“This way, Monsieur Verne, through the loading-dock. We must hurry.”

Suddenly Jules was aware of the sound of footsteps coming up behind them, hurrying footsteps, that did not sound like the usual shuffling footfall of the aged Librarian. He hurried after the tall woman, who had already opened a door, and was looking outside.

“It is good,” she whispered, as Jules came up beside her. “We are unobserved.” A large black coach pulled up into the alleyway at the back of the Library. The driver was unrecognizable in a hat, dark coat and scarf. “Very good, here is our transport,” smiled the tall woman.

Swiftly they exited the building, and entered the coach. As they left the alley, Jules, looking out the window, saw two men exit the Library by the door they had just used. It was impossible to recognize them, by the brief glance he had, but he did notice that one of the men wore a scarlet vest beneath his coat.

The coach turned into the street, and Jules turned back to the woman. Was she his abductor, or his rescuer? He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman stopped him with a gesture.

She flung back her veil, to reveal – the handsome face of Phileas Fogg!

“Surprised?” Fogg asked.

Jules' mouth dropped open. "Phileas!" he gasped. "What - why -"

Fogg interrupted him. "Verne, honestly! You trusting fool! I *told* Rebecca you would fall for it and -"

"Re- Rebecca? She knew -" Suddenly, Jules' amazement turned to anger. "You tricked me! But why, Fogg? What reason can you have?"

Fogg sighed, and sat back in his seat. "Well, it was not entirely a trick," he admitted. "I really did need to pick you up, *without* being recognized." He held up one hand to silence his companion. “But really, what were you thinking, going off with a strange woman?”

“But she wasn’t a strange woman –“ Jules began, and Fogg snorted.

“Don’t play word games with me, Verne, I am not in the mood. How many times have we told you to be careful? There are those who would consider you a rare prize – and yet you walk straight into the arms of strangers without a thought.”

Jules blushed. “I am sorry, Fogg. But she – I mean you – well, I didn’t sense a threat from her – er, you – oh, you *know* what I mean!”

Phileas gave a gusty sigh, and then chuckled, shaking his head sadly. “Verne, Verne, what can I do to make you understand the dangers you face?” He regarded the young writer steadily and smiled. “I shall just have to resign myself to becoming your perpetual rescuer.”

“I am sorry,” Jules repeated. He sighed and added, “I will be more careful, I promise.”

Fogg’s lips twitched. “Well, I suppose that will have to do.”

Jules frowned. "You said you needed to pick me up without being recognized. Those two men at the Library – were they looking for me?"

"Not exactly. They were looking for ME, although finding you would not have been a bad thing, from their point of view. Bait, you see," he added, as Jules began to ask another question.

"Bait?" Jules considered this. "But why are they looking for you, Fogg?"

Phileas paused, and carefully peeked out through the curtains. "That will have to wait, Verne," he answered. "We are due to meet Rebecca and Chatsworth in -" he glanced at his watch, "ten minutes. In the meantime, you can explain to me what you were doing in that musty Library."

Jules swallowed his questions. Phileas Fogg would tell him whatever he chose, *whenever* he chose. Quickly he filled Phileas in regarding his search.

At the end, Phileas was frowning. "Damn. I am sorry I didn't see that sketch of the Phoenix. It is not a thing I would like to see fall into the wrong hands." He glanced out the window again, as the coach drew up to a stop.

With a grimace, Phileas pulled the veil back over his face. "Remember, Verne, my name is Madame Coates."

Passepartout is waiting for them at the reception desk. "The Aurora is waiting out back."

Fogg nodded and lead Verne out back to the Aurora. As it lifts off, an armed figure emerges from the bushes. "Fogg, look!" Verne cried. The figure pulled out a large gun and took aim at the Aurora.

"Damn and blast!" Phileas shouted. "Passepartout! Get us airborne!"

He fumbled with the fastenings of the huge black hoop skirt he wore and pulled it loose. With a quick motion, he threw it over the railing at the dark figure. The skirt billowed out, obscuring the view and the shot went wide. The last glimpse Jules had of the person was a set of flailing arms as the heavy material dropped neatly onto his head. He then had to concentrate on holding on because Passepartout canted the Aurora sharply to be able to use the main propeller to gain altitude faster.

When the deck was once more level, Jules turned to Phileas--and burst into laughter. His friend made a comical picture in the veiled hat, black shirtwaist, and long white pantalettes tastefully edged in black lace. Phileas removed the hat with a long-suffering sigh. "Enjoying yourself, Verne?" he inquired in a somewhat icy tone.

Jules tried to sober up. He tried very hard, but it was too much. He held the rail again and wiped his eyes. "S... Sorry," he managed to gasp finally. "You... you might consider... consider a career in... in French postcards if gambling stops paying off." This sent him into whoops of laughter again.

Phileas used the hat to swat Jules on the shoulder. "Settle yourself down, please. Wearing these ghastly drawers under a hoop is mandatory since the ankles show when you go through doors. When one is trying to pass as a woman, one cannot allow one's trouser legs to be seen."

The fit was passing. Jules gave one last swipe to remove the remaining tears and straightened. "So, what happens now?" he said.

"After I have removed the rest of this rig," Phileas began, unbuttoning the black shirtwaist to reveal a crisply ironed man's shirt beneath, we talk to Chatsworth and find out what all the mystery is about."

Jules offered to be a clothes rack and took the hat and shirt while Phileas attacked the drawstring of the lacy knickers. "Don't you know?"

"Not the details. You know how Rebecca loves her little games of intrigue. She asked me to fetch you without being obvious about it, and I have." Now clad in shirt and trousers, Phileas Fogg no longer even faintly resembled anything feminine. He held the undergarment and gave a considering glance to the rail. "I could toss these overboard, but God knows where they might fall."

"I wouldn't," Jules replied. "Maybe Rebecca could use them. And you'll need them for that new career I mentioned."

"And I could use them to throttle you instead. Let's go inside."

Passepartout was waiting at the door with Phileas's waistcoat, suitcoat and cravat. While the older man resumed the trappings that markedd him as a gentleman, Jules joined Rebecca and Sir Jonathan Chatsworth at the table. Rebecca smiled a bit wryly at him. "So, Jules, you have now cost me ten pounds. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Ten pounds?"

"That was how much I wagered with Phileas that you would not fall into 'the mysterious female stranger' trap. Really, dear, you should be more cautious." She passed him a cup. "It might have been someone from the League."

"I know." Jules was contrite. "I'm too trusting. Fogg has already pointed that out in painful detail."

"And will continue to do so at every opportunity," Phileas added as he sat himself down into the remaining chair. "No tea, thank you, Rebecca." Passepartout brought a glass of brandy and set it on the table. "Now, Sir Jonathan, would you care to enlighten us about what we are supposed to be doing?"

"I'll be blunt," Chatsworth began without preamble. "I need you to fly this dirigible to Costa Rica."

Phileas nearly choked on his brandy. "Costa Rica? What the devil for?"

"Three days ago there was a robbery at the British Museum," Chatsworth continued, seeming to enjoy Phileas' startled response. "Some pieces were stolen from a very important exhibit on loan to us from Russia. Pieces from the Czar's own personal collection, I'm afraid. Needless to say, the Czar is not pleased. He's threatening to create an 'incident' if the pieces are not recovered and returned to him immediately."

"We have information from a reliable source that the thieves are headed for Costa Rica," Rebecca added. "Presumably to pass the art pieces through South America into the hands of collectors."

"We have to stop them before they can sell the Czar's property," Chatsworth implored. "And that means we need the Aurora."

Phileas was nearly speechless. "Now see here, Chatsworth, you have no right to order me to..."

Rebecca very delicately laid her hand on her cousin's wrist. "Phileas, please," she urged him softly. "This is a matter of national security. The queen wants to avoid an incident with Russia at all costs."

Phileas stared at her tight-lipped for a moment then he sighed in resignation. "Oh very well. I don't know why I let you talk me into these things, Rebecca."

She smiled and leaned over to plant a modest kiss on his cheek. "Because I can always count on you, dear cousin."

"Admirable, Fogg," Chatsworth said with satisfaction. "Now, of course, you will be dropping me off in London before..." he trailed off when he saw the deadly look Phileas shot him. "Or perhaps I can just take a ferry from Calais..."

"Wait," Jules protested. He had been listening to the conversation and something was obviously bothering him. "There are two things I don't understand. First of all, who were those two men after you, Fogg?"

"Ah," Phileas replied, sipping at his brandy once more. "In light of things I'd say they were Russians. Am I right, Rebecca?"

"Most likely," She agreed. "There are some factions in Russia who would like very much for the Czar to start an incident with Britain. They'll be the ones trying to stop us from recovering the art."

"Then what about me?" Jules asked. "Why did you need me to come along?"

Rebecca and Chatsworth exchanged glances.

"We found this note at the museum in place of one of the stolen art pieces," Rebecca finally told him as she handed over a folded piece of paper.

Jules took the note and saw that his name was written on the outside in handwriting that he recognized. Carefully he unfolded the note and read it. Immediately he paled.

"What is it?" Phileas asked with concern.

"It's from Arago," Jules replied in a strained voice. "He says I'm the key."