Montmartre Cemetery closed its gates after ten o’clock, but for those who knew the back entrance, the lock was little more than a formality. Liam stood before Edgar Degas’ grave, a bundle wrapped in black cloth clutched tightly in his hand. The night was bitterly cold; the temperature in the cemetery was several degrees lower than the world outside, and his breath condensed into white mist the moment it left his lips. The moon was hidden behind a thick bank of clouds, leaving only the faint glow of distant streetlights to pierce the darkness. The shadows of the tombstones stretched long and gaunt across the ground, like fallen giants.
He had arrived half an hour early, using the time to survey his surroundings. Section 12, Row 7, East Side of the Cemetery—this was where many artists and w
