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Outdoor photography of people and objects didn't become a practical possibility until about 1840. And it was complicated by the simultaneous discoveries of the Frenchman, Louis Daguerre. He achieved the same results using copper plate rather than paper. But the daguerreotype,
    as it was called, couldn't be reproduced. That's where Fox Talbot had the edge."
    "You make it sound simple."
    "It was. Beautifully simple. But the best ideas always are. Someone else could have thought of it before Fox Talbot. Thomas Wedgwood, son of the potter, seems to have gone a long way towards achieving the same thing thirty years earlier, but he died before he could make much of it. Tragic, really. We'd give a lot now for thirty extra years of photographic history, I can tell you."
    "How do you come to know all this, Ian? I can't believe most photographers are caught up in the subject the way you are."
    "That's their affair. To me, the dawn of photography is just about the most magical period in history. Until then, everything every tree, every building, every human face was just an artist's impression. At some fundamental level, not quite real. But a photograph is different. A photograph is almost as good as being there." I caught her quizzical look. "What's wrong?"
    "Nothing. It's just ... so weird. That I should meet you, of all people."
    "What's weird about it?"
    "The sheer .. . improbability of it, I suppose. Almost as if ... I knew I'd find you here."
    "I'm not sure I understand."
    "You're a photographer."
    "So?"
    "Fascinated by the invention of photography."
    "What about it?"
    She shook her head. "It's just crazy, that's all."
    "Marian '
    "Shush." She pressed her fingers against my lips. "I can't tell you exactly what I mean. It's too complicated and too incredible. But I will, I promise. At Lacock. It'll make more sense there. It was an inspired choice of yours, really. Besides, whetting your curiosity like this means I can be sure you'll turn up."
    "You can be sure of that anyway. There's no need for guessing games."
    "This isn't a game."
    "What, then?"
    "Wait and see." She grinned. "There are some things I don't give up as easily as my virtue."
    I thought at the time she was setting up some subtle joke at my expense about photography, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out what. It didn't really seem to matter. She'd promised to explain at Lacock and that was good enough. My impatience to see her again wasn't going to turn on one minor mystery.
    In fact, I'd more or less forgotten about it when I left the hotel next morning with just enough time to book out of the Europa and catch the shuttle bus to the airport. I didn't want to go when it came to the point, not just because I'd infinitely have preferred to stay with Marian, but also because there was a flak storm of condemnation from Faith to be ridden out before we'd meet again, all of it justified. I'd have no answer to as many accusations as she cared to throw at me. And then there was Amy. She'd have to be told, too. I was dreading that even more.
    But it was all worth it. The certainty struck home as I stopped outside the Cafe Schwarzenberg and looked back at the hotel to see Marian watching me from the window of her room. We waved to each other across the slushy grey bustle of the Ringstrasse and I held her gaze for as long as it took a tram to caterpillar slowly between us. Then I turned reluctantly away and headed on. Towards all the many consequences of what we were doing. And a future I was willing to trade them for.
    CHAPTER TWO
    They say time seems to pass more quickly as you grow older. They also say there's a good reason for that: the brain measures time by how much of it there is to remember, so each year is a smaller proportion than the one before of your life to date. It's a sour little trick to be the victim of, because it means pleasure, however intense, grows ever more fleeting. Sure enough, my five days with Marian in Vienna seemed like so many hours when