Page 29 of The Stolen Queen

Mrs. Vreeland scribbled Annie’s name down on the pad and underlined it twice. “Well, Annie, you’re my new helper.” Even in the small room, Mrs. Vreeland’s voice bellowed out like a foghorn. “As the special consultant to the Costume Institute, it is my job to make this exhibition shine, it must beto die. Come in every day at nine and be prepared to stay late.”

“I will. My schedule is wide open.” Annie swallowed. “May I ask, how much do I get paid?”

“Money? A tiresome subject.”

“Only if you have too much of it.”

Mrs. Vreeland regarded Annie with delight. “Excellentpoint. I’m allowed to pay you twelve thousand dollars a year. Will that do?”

Twelve thousand was much more than Annie currently made. She was moving up in the world, all right. “Of course. Thank you.”

“Let’s do an inspection, shall we? See how our ladies are managing.”

Annie followed her new boss into the workroom, and together they walked from mannequin to mannequin, Mrs. Vreeland stopping at each one to assess, adjust, and critique as the docents stood by nervously.

“Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev was a genius,” said Mrs. Vreeland as she wandered the floor. “He took the boring pastels of the fin de siècle and replaced them with bright reds, oranges, and purples. His strong personality attracted all kinds of five-star artists to the Ballets Russes, from Stravinsky to Picasso. He had flair, taste, and he transformed the art of ballet. In our exhibition, we have some of the best of his costumes from seminal ballets such asSwan LakeandThe Sleeping Princess. Just look at this diaphanous dress fromNarcisse,” said Mrs. Vreeland to Annie. “Couldn’t you see it at Studio 54?”

Annie nodded, her head spinning. She’d never been to Studio 54.

“But we have a big problem,” said Mrs. Vreeland.

“What’s that?”

“The bosoms on these mannequins are not right, and because of that, the line of the costumes is all wrong.”

“But they’re the mannequins you specified, from Bergdorf’s,” ventured one of the docents.

“They simply will not do as is. Annie, your first job is to cut off the bosoms from all the female mannequins. I’m off to meet Jackie O for tea. Ta-ta, ladies.”

And she was gone.

Annie had figured that cleaning for Mrs. Hollingsworth was backbreaking, but her arm was practically numb by the time she finished sawing sixty-six breasts off thirty-three mannequins. After that, she was tasked with picking up two stuffed peacocks from a man named Bill who lived atop Carnegie Hall. Annie spent a good hour wandering the two floors of studios that perched over the storied concert hall—she’d never even known that they existed until today—before she located someone who said, “Of course, Bill Cunningham,” and directed her to the correct studio. Then she had to wrestle the birds into a cab without damaging their tails and get them safely back up to the Met. At that point, Mrs. Vreeland had decided that feather fans would make perfect gifts for all the guests at the gala (“Choose a yellow that vibrates”), and so Annie flew down to the garment district to source them. And when the examples she brought back weren’t the exact color Mrs. Vreeland had in mind, Annie barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes before heading downtown once again.

She returned with several shopping bags filled with feathers, but the office was empty. A note on Annie’s desk asked Annie to “coordinate with the Egyptian gadabouts regarding Zobeida’s specialtrinket,” signed by Mrs. Vreeland. The handwriting was flowery, but every lettertcontained a powerful slash that ran the length of the entire word.

Annie was let into the Egyptian Art staff offices by the curator, Frederick, who was on his way out and breezily pointed across the room. “Speak with Charlotte.”

Charlotte, the woman who was dead set against the whole idea of the Costume Institute using the necklace in the first place. Annie straightened her shoulders and walked over. Charlotte was using a loupe to examine a photograph of some ancient building, and didn’t sense her presence until Annie cleared her throat.

She jumped in surprise and the loupe fell onto the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” said Annie, getting down on all fours. “I’ll get it.”

At the same time, Charlotte leaned over, and they just barely avoided knocking their heads together. “Please,” said Charlotte in a curt tone. “I’ll pick it up.”

Annie looked up at her, still on her hands and knees, and nodded.

“Give me a little room,” directed Charlotte.

Annie scooted back and sat on her heels. “Just there. No, a little to the right,” she said as Charlotte groped and finally got hold of the loupe.

Charlotte placed it on her desk and swiveled her chair around to face Annie, who rose to a standing position with as much grace as she could muster.

“Yes?” Charlotte said, wrinkling her forehead. It was hard to guess her age. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and her jawline was sharp. Her eyes had heavy lids that lent her an air of elegant detachment. “Are you here to purloin more of our antiquities?”

“Um, just the one. Mrs. Vreeland asked that I come here to coordinate the transfer.”

“Coordinate the transfer?”

---