Page 27 of The Stolen Queen

“We call it a broad collar, made of gold, crizzled glass, and a pigment known as Egyptian blue. It’s composed of hundreds of small nefer hieroglyphs, which resemble tiny spoons. ‘Nefer’ is the Egyptian word for ‘good’ or ‘beautiful,’ and the craftsmanship and size imply that it belonged to a member of royalty. The piece was discovered in the Valley of the Kings in 1936, and the back is inscribed withthe name of the female pharaoh Hathorkare, who ruled during the early period of the New Kingdom. It’s one of a kind.”

“A female pharaoh, you say?”

“Indeed.”

“That settles it. I want the broad collar for my exhibition.”

The woman named Charlotte stepped in before Frederick could answer. “Absolutely not. This is not a bauble for some fashion show. We’re still determining whether it should be displayed at all, as I have questions about the provenance.” She glared at Frederick.

Mrs. Vreeland made a graceful flicking motion with one hand, her polished nails shining like rubies. “As far as I’m concerned, fashion is not to be so casually insulted. Fashion is part of the daily air; you can see the approach of a revolution in clothes.”

Charlotte ran her hand through her short hair, making it stand up on end. While her part was streaked with gray, the rest was a dark chocolate color. “What does that even mean?”

Mrs. Vreeland was undeterred. “Not to mention the Costume Institute is part of this great museum for a good reason. I’m sure we don’t need to remind the board how much money the Met Gala brings in each year.”

Charlotte began to speak, but Frederick interrupted her. “That’s enough. Let me handle this. We all must work together.”

“I knew you’d understand, Frederick,” said Mrs. Vreeland.

But Charlotte refused to be ignored. “We don’t need the money. I assure you, the Tut exhibition is going to shower the Egyptian Art collection in riches. You can’t put the collar at risk—it’s too valuable. There are no barriers in the costume exhibition, nothing to keep it safe from the public.”

The woman named Marta spoke up. “I also worry about putting something like this into the exhibition, Diana. It’s not original to the costume or Diaghilev’s vision.”

“You could say the same about the Rodin sculpture that we’re using in the show,” answered Mrs. Vreeland. “I love the idea of integrating two different mediums, and this calls out to me in the same way the Rodin does. I’m simplymadabout it.”

“But it’s not historically accurate,” said Marta.

“Don’t worry about that. I prefer to blend fiction and fact. I call itfaction.”

Charlotte threw her hands in the air. “Now she’s making up words?”

“Enough, Charlotte,” barked Frederick. “My goodness.” He turned to Mrs. Vreeland. “Diana, let’s talk about this over coffee, shall we?”

Mrs. Vreeland took his arm but at the last minute looked back over her shoulder at Annie. “Well done, girl. Show up tomorrow at noon in my office. I’m thinking I could use a new assistant, someone with verve. It’s hard work and long hours, but I think we might make a good match.”

Annie barely stopped herself from jumping up and down, her entire body sizzling with excitement and pride. She’d taken a risk and it had paid off.

Starting tomorrow, if all went well, she would be working for Diana Vreeland, the leader of the fashion world. Certainly, the pay had to be decent, the wages better than those of a maid. She might never have to clean houses or waitress again.

She watched as Frederick and Mrs. Vreeland sauntered out and the others slowly dispersed, all except for Charlotte, who stood staring into the display case, inexplicably shaking with rage.

Annie burst into the apartment and yelled for her mother.

Joyce came running in from the kitchen, one hand on her heart. “What is it? Is everything all right?”

“Everything is wonderful. Guess what, I got a job!”

“Oh.” Her mother deflated slightly. “I thought you were hurt. You gave me a terrible scare.” She pulled away from Annie and walked back to the kitchen. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, which was odd. Without her thick mascara and glossy lips, Joyce was a ghostly version of herself, wan skin over sharp cheekbones. “I was just pouring myself a drink.”

Annie followed her. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon.

“Are you all right?”

“Sure. What were you talking about? A job?”

“Yes. I was asked to be Diana Vreeland’s assistant at the Met Museum. She’s working on the Met Gala for the Costume Institute.”

Joyce’s mouth dropped open. “TheDiana Vreeland?”

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