Page 50 of The Stolen Queen

If you want your research back,

you better mind your own business.

Charlotte dropped the paper like it was on fire and immediately patted the top of her desk. Her colleagues always joked about how neat Charlotte’s desk was—she preferred to keep what she was working on front and center, with everything else tucked away in the drawers. Front and center was exactly where she’d left her Hathorkare file. But it wasn’t there. She yanked open the bottom drawer of her desk and leafed through the tabs: “Tut Exhibition,” “Budget,”“Staff,” “Inquiries.” Everything was accounted for except for the one file she was looking for. The thick, worn manila folder that contained the photos, her notes, the geographical surveys, everything to do with her findings. All the work she’d done the past three years.

She glanced around, her hands shaking, throat dry. She checked the trash bin under her desk, thinking maybe the cleaning staff had tossed it out. But that was empty. She looked around her colleagues’ desks on the off chance someone had picked it up by mistake, not that any of them would ever do such a thing.

Still nothing.

Three years of work.

Gone.

Shaking, she checked the desk drawers again, the trash can, the floor around her desk. Who would take her research? And why?

Mind your own business.It must have something to do with the fact that she was questioning the provenance of the loaned broad collar.

Whoever had taken the file knew how important it was to her. No doubt someone didn’t like her inquiring about the collar, wanted her to keep quiet, not cause a fuss. Which meant her hunch about the shady provenance was correct. In her head, Charlotte ran through a list of who had known about her research project. She’d kept mum about it on purpose, knowing that her theory might be wrong, and also because she didn’t want anyone else to steal the idea and publish it before she had a chance to. Frederick knew, of course, and Mark and Helen. She’d enlisted the help of one of the museum’s librarians several times, but she hadn’t gone into detail as to why she was requesting the particular materials. Her head spun with the possibilities.

If only Mark were with her now, to help her think it through.

The bass notes of the music pounded away, making it hard to concentrate. But then her ears picked up another sound, something shrill, not in tempo with the beat.

Like people were screaming.

Something was wrong.

Forgetting the lost file for a moment, Charlotte ventured back out into the galleries, cocking her head. The noise wasn’t coming from the Temple of Dendur, where the crowd was. It was coming from below, rising from the basement level, where the exhibition hall was located.

“Guards! Is anyone up here?” she shouted. There was no answer. Whatever was going on, she had to see if she could help.

But as she turned to go, something caught her eye. Just to her right was the gallery where she’d hidden from the gossiping technicians, where her favorite statue was located.

And where an empty pedestal now stood.

The Cerulean Queen was gone.

Charlotte approached the empty pedestal. Maybe it had been taken away for cleaning, or for research purposes, although surely she would have been informed of that. Then again, she’d been so busy and distracted lately. As she grew closer, she gave a silent prayer that a small card reading “Object temporarily removed” would be sitting in place of the statue, which would mean it was somewhere safe in the basement, being studied or polished. But there was no card.

The Cerulean Queen had been plucked right off its stand.

The Queen was one of the most well-known and loved pieces in their collection, and to have it go missing was a nightmare, for the museum and for anyone who loved ancient art. The statue was delicate and, in the wrong hands, could be irreparably damaged. Even more damaged than it already was.

In the dim light, a sudden movement caught her eye. A shadowy figure slipped out of one of the galleries to her left, a man in a dark suit.

Thinking it was a security guard, Charlotte yelled for help. He stopped for a moment, without turning around. The way his body stiffened at the sound of her voice was not normal. And he held some kind of bag in his right hand.

This was no guard. It was the thief.

Charlotte flew at him, not thinking, yelling as loudly as she could. He took off, running north before taking a sharp right turn, down the stairs to the exhibition hall, Charlotte following as fast as she could. On the landing she spied him weaving through the crush of people who were making their way up to the main floor, yelling and tripping over each other to get away from whatever terrible thing was going on down there.

Every instinct told her not to follow the man into the crush of bodies, but she couldn’t let him escape.

Charlotte took a deep breath and dove straight into the advancing crowd.

When Charlotte entered the exhibition hall of the Costume Institute, her first thought was that maybe a bomb had gone off, as the air was filled with bits of debris. Only when she looked up at the spotlights did she comprehend that whatever was in the air wasn’t falling; it was flying. The room was filled with insects of some sort.

It brought to mind the locust plague she’d experienced in Egypt, when they’d been inundated by millions of them for days on end. But these weren’t locusts. They were small and dark, attracted by the spotlights. The creatures cast erratic shadows around the entire room, making it feel like it was vibrating.

---