He hangs back until she waves down the cab and then works his way through the crowd of people thronging the curb. Handing off his bag, he clambers after her into the back of the car and pulls the door shut. It's strangely quiet, strangely familiar - the back seat of a French cab is much like the back seat of any other cab. But the drive from the station to the hotel is lovely, stop and start though the traffic is. The driver tries to carry on a rudimentary conversation and Charlie indulges him: speaking in some combination of fractured English and French until they reach the hotel.

The front of the Hotel Moderne St. Germain is more boutique than hotel, so much so that when the cab first pulls up to the curb Charlie is pretty sure something's been lost in translation. But no, the address is right and more importantly the sign on the front of the building seems right. Though that doesn't keep him from being a little wary, side-eying Chloe the whole way to the front desk. The whole place is unapologetically French avant garde. Bloody topiaries in the lobby.