Page 89 of The Stolen Queen

Mona was obviously proud of what they’d done and eager to show off. “In order to steal the statue, I needed to gain inside access to the museum, and the best way to do so was by securing a place in the docent-training course—that way I could roam freely. The waiting list at the Met was ridiculously long, so the one-year loan was a way to fast-track my application, bump me to the head of the line. Then it was just a matter of figuring out when to pull our plan off. Unfortunately, you started asking questions, which made me think you needed to be put in your place.”

“So you stole my research file.”

Mona gave a catlike smile.

“How did you get into the administrative offices? And how did you even know about it in the first place?”

“Mr. Lavigne complained about your research when we had coffee one day. Before the Met Gala, when the Egyptian wing had cleared out, I persuaded one of the Lebanese janitors to let me in. It was easy enough to convince him that I was a curator and had forgotten my key with a little Arabic sweet talk. I figured I’d steal something valuable of yours so you could see what that feels like.”

Touché, thought Charlotte. “Where did you get the broad collar?”

“What do you care about that?”

“It’s a beautiful piece. I’m curious.”

Mona puffed with pride. “After my parents separated when I was a baby, my mother ran the Farid Gallery in Cairo and my father took over the branch in Geneva,” said Mona. “I’d visit him during the summer, but I rarely went outside—the other children were cruel to me. Instead, I entertained myself with what I found around the house. One day, I pulled out a drawer in his study and found it tucked way in the back. I put the collar around my neck, pretended at playing princess. When he caught me, I’d never seen him so angry. I thought he was going to murder me.

“As I grew older, I realized his hypocrisy. This respected antiquities dealer who spoke out against the black market had a hidden treasure. A few years ago, I went to visit and took it with me when I left. He arrived in Egypt not long after, searching for me. He was furious, not only because of what I’d done, but because he suspected I’d gotten involved in Ma’at and didn’t approve. When he finally tracked me down in Luxor, he demanded it back, but I laughed in his face, told him he should go to the police if he wanted it so badly.”

“How did your father acquire the broad collar in the first place?” Charlotte’s heart raced as she tried to process what Mona was saying.

Mona shrugged. “No idea. Never bothered to ask. It was a means to an end. We dangled it in front of Mr. Lavigne at the Met, had a forger produce some foolproof fake documentation, and soon enough, the Met agreed to the loan.”

“Why did the other children tease you?” asked Annie.

Another waste of a question, but Mona’s expression turned ugly. Annie had hit a nerve. “When they heard me speaking with my father, they said I must be adopted.”

“Why?” Charlotte straightened.

“Our accents are different. I was raised in Egypt speaking Arabic, but my father wasn’t. They laughed when I spoke with my strange accent.”

“Where was your father raised?” Charlotte tried to sound cavalier, not desperate.

“He was born in England.”

With shaking fingers, Charlotte reached into her handbag and pulled out the ripped photo of Henry. The same one that had sent Heba running into the back of the store to find a pair of glasses she didn’t need.

“Is this your father?” Charlotte asked.

Mona stared at the photograph, taking it from Charlotte’s hand to study it closer. “Yes, when he was younger, though. Where did you get this?”

“He was my husband,” Charlotte said simply. “Henry Smith.”

Mona shook her head. “My father’s name is Darius Farid.”

Charlotte stared at Mona, momentarily at a loss for words. Three years ago, Henry had argued with Leon about his daughter, and also had a confrontation with Mona.

Mona, his daughter.

Charlotte guessed that Mona was probably around the same age as Layla would be. Yet as much as she tried, she didn’t feel any kind of connection with the rigid woman standing opposite her. Wouldn’t a mother recognize her daughter, even after so many years? Wouldn’t there be some kind of pheromone or something that drew them together? Charlotte studied Mona’s features, trying to see if there was any resemblance at all. She had her father’s ears, visible when she tucked her hair back. But what of Charlotte?

“Darius FaridisHenry Smith,” Annie said.

Charlotte gathered herself. “This is uncomfortable to bring up; I’m not sure how to say it. Henry—Darius—and I had a child together. A child I never saw again, a child who was only three months old when she and Henry disappeared. I’ve been looking for her. She would be around your age, I’m guessing.”

The color drained from Mona’s face. Charlotte imagined the thoughts that were swirling through Mona’s head: What if she was the daughter of Henry and Charlotte? What if her strident patriotism for Egypt was all wrong and, in fact, she had no Egyptian blood in her at all?

What an awful reunion, if that was true. A mother and daughter staring at each other, an intractable void between them. A far cry from the tear-filled hugs that Charlotte had envisioned the few times she’d allowed herself to imagine such a thing.

---