Page 17 of The Stolen Queen

“Right.” The woman exchanged a worried glance with the worker sitting next to her. “Do you want to take it in, Mona?”

“Um. No, thank you.”

Just then, a wisp of a girl rushed by. The woman named Mona grabbed the girl’s arm. “Wanda, this just came in.” She took the boa from Annie and handed it to Wanda, who accepted it with a trembling lip. What on earth was going on down here in the bowels ofthe museum late at night that made everyone so worried? Annie couldn’t help but think of the sweatshops from the 1910s she’d read about in history class, where young girls slaved for hours making shirtsleeves.

Wanda disappeared through a closed door.

“What is this?” she asked the woman named Mona.

“It’s the Costume Institute workroom.”

“You work here?”

Mona let out a loud scoff. “God, no, we’re docent trainees.”

“Docents? Like you give tours?”

“One day we will,” said the other woman, who didn’t seem as offended as her fellow worker by Annie’s gaffes. “I’m Priscilla, by the way. And this is Mona. We volunteer our time to the museum.”

Priscilla’s vowels were those of New York City’s upper class, ladies who lunched at expensive bistros and summered on the East End of Long Island. On second glance, the occupants of the room were all over forty, with styled hair and diamond studs in their ears. This was no sweatshop.

“What are you working on?”

“The exhibition for the Met Gala,” answered Mona in a vague European accent.

Of course Annie had heard of the Met Gala, a big party for high society that was held once a year. With a start, she realized that this Diana everyone was talking about was, in fact, Diana Vreeland, the former editor ofVogueandHarper’s Bazaar, who now worked at the Met as some kind of consultant. She’d read her editorial letters with glee month after month.

“When is the gala?” asked Annie.

“November twentieth, which is why we’re here into the late hours of the night.” Mona seemed more proud than upset by the idea ofworking late. “The theme this year isDiaghilev: Costumes and Designs of the Ballets Russes.”

Annie had no idea what she was talking about. Annie looked around the room and noticed several mannequins dressed in bright outfits that were not at all like the ballet costumes worn today.

“These are for dancing in?”

“Diaghilev was a choreographer from the early 1900s who formed a dance company called the Ballets Russes,” explained Priscilla. Her delivery was rote, as if she was recalling a series of memorized facts. “His sets, costumes, and choreography revolutionized art, fashion, and dance. On the fiftieth anniversary of his death, we’re celebrating the vital design and vibrant colors he brought into the world.”

“Well done, Priscilla,” Mona said dryly. Priscilla gave her a wide grin in response, missing Mona’s patronizing tone entirely. The two women were a study in contrasts: Mona with her dark hair and aquiline nose versus Priscilla’s blonde curls and blue eyes. Priscilla’s lids were brushed with eye shadow that matched the exact shade of her irises, which had the unfortunate effect of making her look permanently stunned.

“How does one become a docent?” asked Annie.

“First, you have to apply, and then you have to go through the training, which is quite extensive,” said Mona. “We come every Monday when the museum is closed and spend hours with the curators and other staff members, learning everything about the Met, from the layout to the provenance of the artwork. ‘Museum fluency,’ it’s called.”

“We have to know our way around,” offered Priscilla.

“That sounds fun,” said Annie.

“It’s hard work,” said Mona.

“It’s more difficult than getting into an Ivy League school,” addedPriscilla. “For example, today I had to talk about a randomly chosen piece of art for three minutes straight. I did fairly well, considering, right, Mona?”

“Sure you did.”

Priscilla’s enthusiasm dipped ever so slightly. “The critiques can be quite withering. But eventually you’re allowed to do research and present to the staff. If you pass, you’re considered ‘floor ready.’ If not, you’re out.”

Being a docent sounded like a dream job to Annie. But then again, it wasn’t a job. “You’re volunteering your time?”

“Of course,” said Priscilla. “It’s an honor to be here—and most of us are already involved in the museum in some way, anyway. As donors and whatnot. The past few weeks, on top of our regular studies and classes, we’ve been lucky enough to assist Mrs. Vreeland with the gala.”

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