Page 8 of The Stolen Queen

“Yes?”

“As you know, Leon hasn’t had a find yet this season. He asked if he could work at your site instead. Do you mind switching? I feel bad for the guy.”

Charlotte was certain Leon wouldn’t have made the request if she had been a man. But she hated to put Mr. Zimmerman in a bind. He’d been so kind to her.

“Of course.”

Leon’s spot was located on the eastern side of the cliffs, near themouth of a tomb that had already been thoroughly examined by the French, which meant there probably wasn’t much to discover. After several hours of fruitless labor, the lunch bell rang. Charlotte’s back was sore, her shoulders ached, and the rays of the sun burned feverishly on any exposed skin. But she stayed on, determined to make the most of her one opportunity, which meant she was alone when her spade hit something hard. Her fatigue faded away at the sight of a smooth surface, one that had been purposefully laid down, most likely thousands of years ago. She worked faster, her breath catching in her throat, and eventually uncovered what was unmistakably a stone step situated only a few feet from the entrance to the other tomb. An odd placement, but not unheard of. She let out a small cry of triumph, one that came out strangled as she hadn’t stopped to drink water in ages.

She breathlessly informed Mr. Zimmerman of her find. He brought over two of the strongest Egyptians, who used pickaxes to carve out the space around the step, which led to another. And then another. By the end of the day, the stairway had been cleared and part of a door was visible.

A door to a previously undiscovered tomb.

While the excavation season had yielded several important artifacts such as oil lamps, wine jars, and the fertility statuettes, unearthing a new tomb was a remarkable feat. And what if it was another Tutankhamun—an unspoiled tomb full of riches?

It would take another day to fully clear the entrance. That evening at dinner, Charlotte buzzed with excitement, as did the rest of the team, and she was treated like an equal, with Henry insisting on clearing the dirty dishes so she could continue answering everyone’s questions. The only sourpuss was Leon, of course, who sulked in the corner.

The next morning, even though Charlotte could tell Mr.Zimmerman was as eager as she was to get inside, they first had to wait for the arrival of an inspector from the Department of Antiquities, as a representative was required to be present for any new discoveries. The man arrived after an excruciating hour-long wait, and then he and Mr. Zimmerman spoke quietly with each other before the man gave a nod and they were allowed to proceed.

Outside the entrance, Mr. Zimmerman held out his hand. “After you, Miss Cross. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Chapter Three

Annie

New York City, 1978

It was never a good sign when Annie’s mother played the Rolling Stones on the dusty turntable in their basement apartment. While the dulcet tenor of Jackson Browne or the harmonies of Styx signified that Joyce was more or less content, Mick Jagger yowling about being shattered meant Joyce was as well.

Annie heard the music blasting as she closed the front door of the brownstone firmly behind her. She’d been cleaning their landlady’s apartment—which consisted of the three floors above their own—the entire afternoon, and her back ached as she maneuvered down the steep steps that led to the sidewalk. Thank goodness Mrs. Hollingsworth was up in her bedroom on the second floor recovering from a twisted knee, or she’d have been stomping around her parlor in a fury at the bass droning through her parquet floor. Annie did a quick U-turn, closed the small metal gate behind her, and turned the stiff doorknob that led to the basement apartment’s front door, tucked directly beneath the steps she’d just descended.

When she and Joyce first moved in, six-year-old Annie had imagined their hideaway as a fairy’s cave, a place where they could be safe. At nineteen, she recognized that they lived in a hovel of sorts, with rats scurrying outside the barred windows late at night and the damp smell of mold seeping through the brick walls in the spring. Joyce still insisted on calling it a “garden flat” when speaking to others, even though the garden out back consisted of a series of uneven bluestone squares edged with desolate tufts of ragweed.

On top of her job waitressing at a diner on Lexington Avenue, a few days a week Annie scoured Mrs. Hollingsworth’s apartment in exchange for discounted rent. Her duties included scrubbing Mrs. Hollingsworth’s toilets and dusting the floor moldings of every room, dragging a cloth along the top edge like some hunchbacked servant girl. Right now, all she wanted was to make herself some macaroni and cheese and curl up on the couch with the latest issue ofVogue. But her respite wasn’t coming any time soon. She walked over to the record player and carefully lifted the needle before turning it off. Blouses were piled up on the one armchair, and several skirts were draped over the couch.

Joyce flew out of the bedroom in a silk slip, eyes wide. “Where have you been?”

Even in an agitated state, her mother was a beautiful woman. At thirty-nine, she was often mistaken for being in her late twenties, and it was no surprise that her face, with its with baby-smooth skin and upturned nose, had at one time been celebrated by top fashion photographers.

“I was cleaning.”

“Brad’s due in an hour and nothing fits. Nothing. We’re supposed to be going to Mortimer’s and then Régine’s for dancing, and I can’t look like some frumpy nun. You have to help me.”

“Not all nuns are frumpy. Julie Andrews wasn’t.”

“She was a novitiate, not a nun. And she didn’t last very long.”

Annie pointed to a brushed-silk dress in a grayish silver. “What about that one? It’ll look great on the dance floor.”

“The color is boring. I can’t look old. I simply can’t.”

Annie sighed. “How about if I play around with it? Maybe lift the hem a few inches?” She’d seen a similar design in last month’sBazaar, with dolman sleeves. Annie’s love for fashion had begun when she’d gotten a set of paper dolls for Christmas one year. She’d created dresses, coats, and hats for each one in bright colors and then gotten sucked into the glossy pages ofMademoiselle, working her way up to the serious, grown-up styles ofBazaarandVogue. Clothes protected; clothes were armor. Clothes were a distraction when things got difficult.

“Could you? And maybe lower the neckline as well?”

Annie grabbed the dress and headed to the bedroom, where her sewing machine sat in a corner. On the bed was a Macy’s bag.

Annie’s stomach dropped. “What did you buy?”

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