Page 15 of The Stolen Queen

Henry stood only a foot away, looking down at Charlotte as if she were made of gold. Her breath caught in her chest.

“I’ll buy my wife anything she likes,” said Henry quietly. “I read somewhere that the forgers roll the fake scarabs in chewed food andhave geese swallow them whole. Apparently, the fowl’s digestive system adds to the patina.”

Charlotte made a face and dropped the scarab, and they both laughed.

Henry wandered around the room, eventually opening a door near the back. “Look!” he whispered.

Charlotte joined him. The room was dominated by a workman’s bench with tools strewn about: brushes, saws, a magnifying glass, files, and gravers. In one corner lay a large sycamore mummy case that had been chopped in half, the wood used for fake funerary statues, no doubt. They’d stumbled into a forger’s workshop.

“What are you doing?”

The man had returned, carrying several amber-colored scarabs.

Henry quickly made excuses, and soon they were back out on the street, the man scowling at them from the doorway.

“You’re going to get us both in deep trouble one of these days,” said Charlotte. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I liked being mistaken for your husband, so that made it all worth it. Besides, it’s not as if he can call the police to complain.”

“It doesn’t seem right, to sell these fake wares to unsuspecting tourists. Some of those replicas were quite good, you’d need to be an expert to spot them.”

“They’re just making a living; I don’t blame them.”

“But it diminishes what ends up in museums, what we go to great lengths to excavate.”

“Think of it like this,” said Henry. “If an unsuspecting tourist brings home a fake scarab or a pottery bowl and that gets their friends interested in ancient Egyptian culture, the better for the Met Museum or archaeologists like us. They, in turn, might bring their children to the museum, or donate to the Egyptian Art collection, or even fund a dig.”

Charlotte wasn’t so sure. “You don’t think forgeries diminish the artistry of the ancient workers? Shouldn’t they be the ones to get all the acclaim?”

“I hate to break it to you, but those workers are all long gone. I doubt they have an opinion either way.”

“Unless the Egyptian view of the afterlife is correct. In that case, you might be struck by lightning any day now.”

“Oh, I think that’s already happened.”

The way Henry looked at Charlotte made her forget all about the long-dead artisans or the angry forger. By the time they got back to the Metropolitan House, Charlotte wanted nothing more than to disappear into Henry’s room for the afternoon. She was still buzzing from the high of finding an undiscovered tomb; for the first time, the idea of being an archaeologist here in Egypt didn’t seem so crazy. In Egypt, she could make her own rules and lead the life she chose, not the one her parents expected of her. And if ancient Egyptian women got to enjoy the pleasures of the body without censure, it was only fair that she should as well.

As they neared his room, Charlotte took Henry’s hand in hers. Henry fumbled with his key and, once he finally got the door open, pulled her inside, where Charlotte eagerly melted into his embrace, losing herself to the cadences of their movements and the contours of his body.

After, Henry told her he loved her, and she said it back, without any hesitation. He was charming and kind, and they made a perfect match with their love of archaeology and this wonderful, wild, mysterious country. What the future held for the two of them was opaque, but she didn’t want to worry about that right now.

That evening, after dinner, ten or so of the team gathered on the veranda. Charlotte would miss this terrace when she was back in New York, as it was the perfect place to have coffee first thing in themorning while the desert turned pink with the sunrise, or to enjoy a glass of wine in the starry darkness, Henry by her side. She wanted to savor every minute of the time she had left in Egypt. Being in this exotic country, far from her parents, made Charlotte understand how small her life in New York City was, with its rules and social mores.

The conversation turned to the wet nurse’s tomb, and she stopped her ruminating to pay attention.

“You did good work excavating that piece, Leon,” said Mr. Zimmerman. “We’ll be including it in our journal submission early next year.”

“I’m sorry, what?” asked Charlotte.

“We’re talking about the discovery of the broad collar. From your tomb.”

Charlotte had eagerly examined the artifact after it had been properly cleaned. The broad collar was indeed made of gold, exquisite and in almost perfect condition, missing only one tiny amulet on the bottom row. What made it most intriguing was the name inscribed on the clasp: Hathorkare. Mr. Zimmerman had surmised that it had once belonged to the pharaoh, but was unwilling to jump to any conclusions as to what that meant regarding the exposed mummy. The team had looked around for any other hidden niches, including under the wedjat eye opposite, but had come up empty.

Leon tipped his chair back on two legs. “Shouldn’t it beourtomb? After all, I was assigned it in the first place, and I helped uncover the treasure.”

The afternoon of lovemaking, followed by a large glass of wine, made Charlotte more assertive than she normally would have been. “You gave up your dig site because you didn’t think it was any good. And then, once inside the tomb thatIdiscovered, you practically pushed me out of the way to get to the niche, which—may I remind you—I also discovered.”

One of the other archaeologists spoke up. “Enough with the squabbling. Be happy you’re a footnote, as that’s all you’ll be getting. The Met Museum, and our esteemed leader, Mr. Zimmerman, should get all the credit for putting us here in the first place.”

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