Page 49 of The Stolen Queen

“Hello?” Annie’s voice came out wobbly. “Is anyone there?”

She stood still, listening intently, but the only sound was her own breath and the gentle fluttering of the butterflies in the box in her arms, like baby heartbeats.

One of the guards must have come by and closed the door. She put her head down and charged out of the room, relieved when she reached the well-lit hallway.

Back in the exhibition hall, Annie made her way to one corner and crouched down with the box, trying not to be seen. The VIP tour had already begun, and Annie recognized the mayor and the museum director, along with a dozen or so others who were admiringthe brightly printed tunics and shorts by the painter Léon Bakst. They listened intently as Mrs. Vreeland expounded on the design. “I can already see these diaphanous dresses being a big hit at the Hamptons next summer, can’t you?” she boomed in her imperious way.

As Mrs. Vreeland led the group to the next display, she spotted Annie and, for a moment, a look of confusion crossed her face. But then she gave her a quick nod of the head.

It was time.

Annie pulled open the flaps. At first, nothing happened, so she gave the box a little shake. In a rush, a cloud of small, winged insects flew out of the box and up into the air. It occurred to her that she had no idea how she’d get the butterflies back in the box. Of course Mrs. Vreeland didn’t concern herself with such logistics; that was Annie’s job. She’d figure something out.

Annie looked up, expecting to see a mass of orange wings—a “dizzying kaleidoscope of shape, pattern, and color,” as Mrs. Vreeland had explained when she’d first come up with the idea.

But something was off. These butterflies were small and dark. There were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.

They swarmed the hot spotlights and flitted recklessly around the heads of the guests, who swatted at them and cried out in shock.

“Oh my God!” Marta’s voice came out strangled. “It’s moths! An invasion of moths!”

Annie stared, her mouth open, at the ugly little monsters she’d just set free, as mayhem broke all around her.

“Where did they come from?” cried the director of the museum.

Mrs. Vreeland smashed one between her two hands and glared in Annie’s direction.

There must’ve been some kind of mix-up. But Annie had been perfectly clear with the person at the Museum of Natural History. Butterflies. Not moths. Who would want a box of moths? How couldthey have made such a terrible mistake? Annie checked the box. It was the same one she’d picked up, the word “Butterflies” clearly printed on the side.

“The clothes!”

Mrs. Vreeland was pointing at one of the more fragile costumes, a silk number, that a couple of moths had already descended upon. The piece had been carefully stored for decades, only to be in danger of being destroyed in minutes because of Annie’s mistake.

She ran to the mannequin, trying to flick them away, but the insects easily dodged her efforts. All around her they were spreading throughout the room like a plague.

Annie had to find help.

She ran to the basement hallway, yelling for security, for anyone, but got no answer. The technicians and conservators who might normally be working late stayed as far away from the building as possible during the Party of the Year.

Tears of frustration and fear pricked her eyes. She’d be fired, certainly, for this mishap. Annie would be just like the former assistant Wanda, running for the door after being publicly axed.

But for far greater a mistake.

Chapter Sixteen

Charlotte

After an endless dinner in the Dorotheum, Charlotte was finally able to slip away. She had a blister on one heel from the ridiculous shoes she was wearing and needed a break from the cacophony, so she cut through the Great Hall to seek refuge—and a Band-Aid—at her desk. Frederick hadn’t been pleased at Mark’s empty seat at their table, but Charlotte had asked the waiters to clear it away and then made a point of smiling and chatting with the donors on either side of her, even though she was still seething at Mark for staying home.

She’d gone straight to the museum from home, having canceled on drinks with Helen and Brian, knowing she wouldn’t be very good company. When she’d first arrived, she’d spotted a tall girl in a long, shimmering dress watching the proceedings. Charlotte’s first thought was that she resembled an Egyptian queen, but then she realized it was Annie Jenkins. Quite the transformation from the girl in the red coat with curved shoulders and a hangdog look on her face who she’d seen wandering the galleries of the Egyptian Art collection not long ago. The job agreed with her.

Even though her heel was aching, Charlotte took a moment tosoak in the grandeur: the security guards in their uniforms, the staff dressed to the nines, and the guests swanning about in the latest fashions. For once, the inhabitants of the hall matched the formality of the architecture, as opposed to regular visiting hours when shaggy-haired kids in jeans and sneakers wandered about. Tonight, Charlotte could almost imagine what the museum had been like when it opened its doors in 1880, back when women wore bustles and men sported frock coats.

The staff offices were empty, as to be expected. A pink interoffice envelope lay on her chair, and she picked it up and placed it on the top of her black metal inbox. Sitting down, she rifled through her drawer for a Band-Aid. After she stuck the plaster on her heel and slipped her shoe back on, she absent-mindedly picked up the interoffice envelope and unwound the string closure. She figured it was yet another random missive from accounting, but instead it was a blank piece of paper.

Strange.

Until she turned it over. This wasn’t an interoffice memorandum. A message had been scribbled in thick block letters with a black Magic Marker:

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