Page 58 of The Stolen Queen

“No, you’re not. You were only helping me out. And keep in mind the real villain is whoever switched my request from butterflies to moths. Someone was out to get me. You got caught in the cross fire, and I’m sorry for that.”

“The guard’s job is to inspect all packages going in and out. I screwed up.”

“Because I distracted you.”

When he turned to look at her, she expected his eyes to be filled with anger and blame, but he just looked tired. “Yeah. Because you looked so pretty.”

Her insides melted. No one had ever said that to her before. That kind of compliment was usually reserved for her mother, not Annie. They looked at each other for a moment; then Annie broke the silence. “Will they definitely fire you for this? It seems drastic.”

“The security guards are part of a union, so I do have some protection. It will take them a few weeks to sort it all out. Or not.”

“What would you do instead?”

“Well, I’m not going to apply to get my bachelor’s degree anymore. What’s the point?”

“You mean you won’t try to be a technician?”

“Who would hire me, after this?”

“Maybe the union will help you explain everything and you’ll be able to stay on at the Met.”

“That would be great. I guess we’ll see.”

Annie wondered what would happen next for her. She imagined herself locked in a jail cell, barraged with questions from the FBI that she couldn’t answer.

On top of that, she wasn’t allowed back in the museum, and the thought devastated her. To no longer be able to wander the halls and revel in its history lessons would be a bitter loss. None of the other New York museums, grand as they were, even came close. But then again, having to pass by the empty pedestal for the Cerulean Queen and be reminded of her part in its theft, even if it was unintentional, would be awful enough.

She said goodbye to Billy, looked up at the glorious facade one last time, and headed out into the dark night.

Annie steeled herself before opening the front door to the apartment. The lights inside were blazing, which was odd. She’d expected it to be pitch dark, the only sound her mother’s sobs from the bedroom.What a pair they made: Annie, unable to keep a job for more than a week, and Joyce, unable to keep a man for more than a month. How did other people in the world manage to keep up the momentum? They got jobs, got promoted, met someone, got married. She and her mother were stuck in some loop where they would never be free from each other. In twenty years, nothing would have changed. Joyce would be making the rounds of the local bars like some washed-out Tennessee Williams heroine, and Annie would be making ends meet by cleaning the townhouse upstairs for whoever bought it after Mrs. H died. It was pathetic.

She’d been given the chance of a lifetime and blown it. Not only for herself, but she’d brought Billy down with her, which made it so much worse. She should’ve known a job like that of assistant to Diana Vreeland was beyond her capabilities. Her education was lackluster, her knowledge of the wider world even worse. It was amazing she’d lasted a day. Still, she hadn’t imagined the fact that she’d been able to do well, for a time. Maybe if she’d gone to one of the fancy private schools on the Upper East Side, she’d have known right away that the butterflies were a metaphor, and not done such a stupid thing as letting loose fabric-eating insects in a clothing exhibition. She flushed in embarrassment, just as she had when Mrs. Vreeland rebuked her in the security office.

Inside the apartment, the radio softly played classical music and there was a strange aroma in the air. She found Joyce in the kitchen wearing an apron over her dress, removing something from the oven.

“Mom?”

“Ah, Annie. Move the kettle, will you?”

Annie lifted it off the stove and Joyce carefully set down a baking pan. Annie leaned in and sniffed. Joyce had made banana bread. The very idea left her speechless. Her mother hadn’t done anything like that in ages.

“When I got home, I noticed there were some bananas that had turned, so I threw this together,” said Joyce with a wink. “I figured you might want a bite after running around all evening after Diana Vreeland. Are you hungry?”

She was. Starving, in fact. She hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast.

She sat down at the counter and watched her mother as she peeled off the oven mitts and carefully cut a slice. The bread hadn’t had enough time to cool and fell apart on the plate. Normally, that would have sent Joyce into a sea of tears at her incompetence, but she only laughed as she passed the clumpy mess over to Annie. “It’s too hot, wait a minute for it to cool down. How was the gala?”

“Um, fine.” Annie didn’t trust this version of Joyce one bit. There was a chance she was overplaying the mother role, holding herself together in the face of another breakup as long as she could before the mask disintegrated and she either threw the entire tin of banana bread across the room or crumpled to the floor in sobs.

“Tell me, who was there I would know?”

“Diana Ross. The mayor.” Annie’s mind went blank. Not that it mattered, as her mother was barely listening to her, instead softly humming along with the music. “How was your night?”

“Oh, grand.”

Joyce reached around the back of her apron and untied it, then folded it carefully into a square. She laid it on the countertop, one hand lingering on top of it. Only then did Annie understand what was going on.

A large opal sat atop her mother’s ring finger, the milky white stone glinting with hints of iridescence.

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