Page 22 of The Stolen Queen

“Kids have a tendency to do that.”

“Not yours, I’m guessing.”

Helen wandered over to an ebony oboe. “Sometimes I wish they would.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re such a serene, calm family, doing what’s expected of us. That’s what my parents hammered into me, and same with Brian’s. I hope we’re not doing them a disservice.”

“Enjoy it, trust me.”

“I think you have to keep in mind that Lori is Mark’s problem, not yours. She’s not your daughter.”

“Yes, I know.”

“She’s only eighteen, after all.”

“When I was her age, I was working hours a day at a dig in Egypt, not leaving ice cream out for someone else to clean up.”

“It’s a different time. But I get it.”

“I’m trying so hard to connect with her, but she wants nothing to do with me. No matter what I do, I still come off as the wicked stepmother.”

“Is there any other kind?”

Charlotte laughed. She’d complained enough for one day. “How’s the altarpiece going?”

Helen had spent months working on a series of panels from the 1400s. The gilded finish was covered with centuries of grime, which she’d painstakingly cleaned inch by inch with a Q-tip. Now it was Helen’s turn to complain. She moaned about the travails of replacing the bare sections with twenty-four-karat gold leaf, which was both expensive and difficult to work with.

“What about your lady pharaoh?” asked Helen as they wandered by an installation of lutes. “Have you spoken with Frederick yet?”

“I did. Yesterday.”

“Talk about burying the lede. What did he say?”

“He says I need to go to Egypt myself to find proof of my theory.”

Helen let out a hoot. “That’s great!”

“I just don’t see why I need to go. I know I’m right. Why waste the Met’s money?”

“Hold on.” Helen faced her. “You’re saying you’d refuse an all-expenses trip to Egypt? This is about that stupid curse, isn’t it?”

Charlotte knew she couldn’t hide the truth from Helen. “Of course it is.”

Twice, Charlotte had tried to return to Egypt, and both times she was certain Hathorkare’s curse had come back to haunt her, stemming from her time there as a young woman.

The first time Charlotte attempted the trip, early in her career at the Met, her mother passed away the day before she was supposed to leave. The second, sixteen years ago, a plane had crashed taking off from Idlewild Airport, just as Charlotte was waiting at the gate for her own flight. She’d watched in horror with her fellow passengers as the smoke and fire rose up from the marshland where it plummeted. Everyone on board had been killed, and Charlotte was convinced it was her own fault.

“I can’t risk it,” she said.

Helen stopped short. “So you think that you were responsible for your mother’s death, as well as all of those passengers’? The plane had a mechanical short circuit, and your mother had been ill for years, right? Those weren’t your fault.”

If only Charlotte could be as certain as Helen. But after the second attempt, she’d given up.

She carried the curse with her, and simply couldn’t risk it.

Chapter Eight

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