Page 35 of The Stolen Queen

Charlotte didn’t recognize it. “Whose bag is that?”

“Leon’s. I said I’d store it for him.”

That made little sense. Surely Leon had more room in his cabinthan the three of them did in this one. But there wasn’t time to ask questions. She bundled Layla in a blanket and followed Henry outside.

The darkness was like nothing she’d ever experienced. No stars, no moon, just pouring rain and infinite black.

The ship was listing, and the shoreline had disappeared in the storm. Someone shouted that there were too few lifeboats. No one knew where to go or what to do. Leon appeared, holding two life jackets. He handed one to Charlotte and one to Henry, but Henry insisted Leon keep it for himself. Henry held Layla while Charlotte lifted the orange vest over her head and fastened the straps with shaky fingers. She took the baby back into her arms—the bulk of the vest made holding her awkward—and followed the men to the ship’s stern. The wind whipped rain into their faces as the baby’s cries grew louder.

“The lifeboats here are full up,” said Henry. “Quick, let’s go up a level to the top deck.”

But as they approached the stairs, the ship gave another violent shudder, sending a crew member who was coming the opposite way hurtling into Henry. The suitcase fell from his grasp and spilled open. Inside were several objects wrapped in cloth. A few had come loose of their wrapping as they fell onto the wooden deck, including some small statues in ivory and faience and several pieces of jewelry.

One Charlotte recognized immediately. A broad collar.

The same one from the tomb that she’d discovered. She picked it up and checked the back for the cartouche of Hathorkare.

She looked up at Henry in shock. “What are you doing with this? Shouldn’t it be in Cairo?”

The baby yowled, and she kissed Layla’s soft head.

Henry grabbed the necklace and stuffed it into his pocket. Leonbent down to help, and Charlotte was almost certain she saw him surreptitiously stuff a handful of the items into his jacket pocket as well. They were like a pair of street urchins fighting for pennies. Henry closed the suitcase and clicked the clasps firmly shut. “I’ll explain later.”

Another shudder.

“We have to get off the ship!” yelled Leon.

Everything began to tilt, and Charlotte dropped to the floor so she wouldn’t fall with Layla in her arms. The child looked up with large, worried eyes, and Charlotte understood how stupid she’d been to put her baby in harm’s way by remaining in Egypt. They should be in New York, safe and sound. The passengers around them were screaming, the women crying. Charlotte thought of the crocodiles of the Nile. There weren’t that many anymore, she’d been told. But even so, the currents were swift, deadly.

A heavy wooden lounge chair slid along the deck, almost in slow motion, headed directly for Charlotte. She lifted Layla into the air and took the brunt force of the chair to her torso, moaning from the pain. “Take the baby,” she screamed to Henry. He crawled over and tucked Layla under one arm, still holding the damn suitcase in the other.

Meanwhile, Leon scrambled to get the chair off Charlotte, but gravity and the tilting of the ship worked against him. “Go up to the top deck with Layla,” yelled Charlotte to Henry. “We’ll meet you there!”

“No, I won’t leave you,” he yelled back.

Leon fought in vain to free the deck chair, which was now entangled with two others. Charlotte was penned in, trapped, her ribs aching with every breath.

“Go,” said Leon. “I’ll get her out.”

The baby wailed harder. Charlotte knew every one of her baby’ssounds: of delight, of hunger, of fear. This particular cry meant that her mother’s arms were the only thing that could calm her.

“Please, go!”

The boat gave yet another groan. The last thing Charlotte saw before a wall of water swept over her was Henry’s retreating back and her child’s chubby, sweet hand stretched out over his shoulder, palm open wide, reaching for her mother.

Chapter Twelve

Annie

New York City, 1978

After Annie’s strange conversation with Charlotte in the exhibition hall, she made her way to the staff cafeteria in the basement—she’d overheard Priscilla call it the “staff caf”—and stood in line to get a cup of tea and a cranberry scone.

The cafeteria consisted of a series of low-ceilinged rooms and several stations where Met employees could get hot or cold food. She poured milk into her tea and picked out the largest scone in the basket before paying at the cash register and settling down at a table near the back, where a few security guards dozed in chairs. On the other side of the room a half dozen pretty young women around Annie’s age sat at a large table, laughing uproariously.

Their lives were so different from her own. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if her father hadn’t died. Joyce would’ve found the adoration she craved in her husband’s eyes, while Annie would’ve been free to live a normal teenager’s life, joining clubs that met after school and sleeping over at friends’ apartments.

She took a sip of her tea and decided it needed more milk. But as she rose and turned to head back to the hot-drinks station, she rammed straight into a man or, more specifically, his tray of food. Annie caught the bowl of pasta just before it slid to the floor but at the expense of her tea, which splattered over the table.

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