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 pulls out a large gun and takes aim at the Aurora.

Fogg pulled out a pistol and shot the figure in the shoulder. The Aurora was safe and Fogg can tell Verne why he was so cryptic. "Jules, do want to know why I didn't want to be seen?"

"Not right now," Jules said. "I'd much rather know who was shooting at the Aurora."

Phileas looked annoyed. "Verne, you must never turn down the opportunity to gain information, especially when someone is offering it to you as generously as I am."

Jules felt chagrined. "Oh. I'm sorry, Fogg. But that man...he tried to kill us!"

"Yes, and he will probably try again. Damn! I couldn't get a decent shot off wearing this corset. It's so bloody binding." To illustrate his point he adjusted the corset under his dress in an uncomfortable manner.

Jules eyed him suspiciously. "You're wearing a corset?"

"Well, the blouse wouldn't fit properly without it," Phileas explained unhappily. "Besides you need all this padding and...oh never mind that, Verne, the important thing is that the queen is in danger."

"The queen?" Jules exclaimed in alarm. "Danger from what?" He remembered the last time the queen had been threatened and how he had received the worst of it. He wasn't anxious to repeat the experience.

"Tonight at the royal palace there's a huge masquerade ball to celebrate Her Majesty's birthday," Phileas was saying. "Two days ago Rebecca uncovered a plot to kill the queen using an assassin who will be in disguise at the ball."

"That's terrible," Jules admitted. "But if the queen knows about it, can't she just cancel the ball?"

"It's too late for that," Phileas went on. "Besides, the Service really wants to catch this assassin and find out who's behind the plot. Chatsworth already has several men surrounding the palace, but it seems we've been found out. That's why those men were after me."

Jules shook his head. "It seems like a huge risk, Fogg. I mean, if the assassin knows there are agents around he'll be on the lookout for them. He could slip in and kill the queen before anybody could react."

Phileas smiled. "Oh, the queen won't actually be there, you see. Someone else is going to be wearing her costume tonight."

Jules nodded then his eyes widened in horror. "Oh no, you don't! I am *not* dressing up as the queen! No. Absolutely now. You can't make me..."

Phileas held up his hands placatingly. "Verne, calm yourself. I didn't mean *you*. Good heavens. Although you might look quite charming as the Egyptian princess, I doubt very much that you could pass for the queen. No, Rebecca is taking Her Majesty's place."

"Oh." Then Jules frowned. "Then why do you need me?"

"Most of Chatsworth's men will be patroling the perimeter. You and I will be staying close to Rebecca in case you're right and the assassin *does* manage to get in close."

"All right," Jules agreed. "I can do that. But what about a costume? I don't have one."

"Ah," Phileas said with a mischievous smile that Jules didn't like at all. "That's all been taken care of." He went to the nearby closet and pulled out an armful of something covered in white feathers which he then offered to Jules. "You, Verne, have the distinguished honor of dressing as the queen's favorite bird: the swan."

“Absolutely not!” cried Verne. It was monstrous, that thing, and it didn’t seem quite fair to humiliate him, since he usually managed to do it to himself in due time at such affairs.

“You would refuse Rebecca your assistance, Verne? After everything she’s done for you?” Phileas asked. He had a point there, of course. Rebecca saved his life, praised his writing, and kept the one or two secrets he actually had.

"Fine, Fogg, I'll do it," Verne sighed. He saw no other choice, really, none that didn't make him look petty. Rebecca needed their help, and who was he to refuse, even if it meant wearing that thing.

That evening, Verne struggled with the ridiculous outfit. As if it wasn’t bad enough to wear feathers to a royal ball, the bottom of the costume consisted largely of a pair of opaque red tights, with some sort of ingeniously webbed feet, no doubt Passepartout’s handiwork. The rest was a feathered mask, with an attached orange bill.

Verne flapped his arms in the mirror. He had wings, which actually spread out with remarkable authenticity. Perhaps the costume wouldn’t be so bad to wear.

He promptly changed his mind when he came down the stairs, where Fogg and Passepartout waited in the drawing room. Phileas wore the clothing of a wealthy Pasha – no doubt the genuine article, gathered on some voyage. Passepartout was dressed as a court jester in a red and green satin suit. The bells on the hat might pose a problem if he needed to sneak up on anyone, though.

“Ah, Verne, splendid. I thought you might be reconsidering.”

“No, Fogg, I just had some trouble with the, uh, feet.”

This was going to be a nightmare, of the genre where you were walking around Paris naked and everyone was pointing and laughing. Verne heard a rustle behind him, and Rebecca descended the staircase.

An Egyptian princess was certainly not the costume Verne would have chosen for Rebecca, since his last experience with ancient Egypt was less than pleasant. If only Her Majesty preferred 16th Century-style dresses...preferably in red...but there would be no disguising Rebecca in such an ensemble. It was enough of a challenge in a black wig and robes, with exquisite jewels draped over her...shoulders. Ahem.

Needless to say, Rebecca was lovely. Not at all like herself, but she was lovely. When she smiled, Verne understood why Cleopatra was such a legend, why they claimed that men gave up empires and abandoned their lives to devote themselves to her.

“How do I look – oh, good heavens, Jules, what is that?”

"It's supposed to be a swan," Verne replied hesitantly, suddenly getting the distinct urge to strangle Phileas Fogg.

"Phileas, we haven't got anything better than that? Oh, not that it isn't adorable, Jules, really - " She paused when she saw the look of extreme distaste at the word "adorable". "Uh, it's just that it seems to be shedding, a bit." Indeed, feathers did seem to be falling out at regular intervals, leaving little bits of fluff around at random.

"I'm afraid not, Rebecca, and there simply isn't time to try to make anything else. We should be going," Phileas encouraged.

"Ah, indeed - Good heavens, Jules, is that a tail?" Verne looked behind him in horror, he hadn't thought of any such thing. He suddenly had the thought of pretending that the English food he and Fogg had eaten that afternoon had not taken well at all...but that would not do.

"It will be fine, Rebecca," Jules said nobly, "At least no one will recognize me, right?" He was rewarded with a regal smile, and miraculously, the feathers didn't seem quite so dreadful.

The ballroom truly was the grandest thing Verne had ever laid eyes on, from the grand ice sculptures to the extravagant costumes of the guests. They waited in the wings for "The Queen" to make her grand entrance. Verne still hadn't quite been able to will himself to put on the mask of the outfit, although it might be preferable not to have his face showing. It was time, and Rebecca came over and gave his arm a squeeze.

"There is an absolutely unconscionable Leda and the Swan joke on the tip of my tongue, but I haven't quite figured out the punch line," Rebecca whispered into his ear, then took a step back and said, “Do put on your bill, Jules, and we’ll join the party.” She could hardly hide the laughter in her kohl-rimmed eyes.

They entered the grand hall, and naturally, it didn't take long for trouble to find them.