Page 11 of The Stolen Queen
“Now?”
“Yes. Go upstairs into my closet and take out the feather boa that’s hanging in there. Somewhere on the right side, I think.”
Reluctantly, Annie did as she was told. It was almost worse to have had a few bites of food than none at all. Her stomach craved to be filled. Mrs. H’s closet bloomed with gowns and dresses from another era, ones that the widow probably would never wear again. While the designs were out of date, some of the fabrics would be perfect turned into tunics or skirts. Annie took down the feather boa, which had been dyed a strange pea green color, and sneezed.
Back downstairs, Mrs. H placed the boa into a shopping bag. “Now take it to the Met Museum.”
Annie must have heard her wrong. Or maybe Mrs. H was losing her marbles.
“I’m sorry, you want me to take this to the Met. Now?”
“Yes. They’re waiting. Go in the side entrance on 84th Street. Tell them it’s for Diana, and make sure she gets it and knows who sent it.” She pronounced the name in a fancy way,Dee-AH-nah.
“Diana who?”
“For goodness’ sake, enough with the questions. Go on, and I’ll have the spaghetti heated up for you by the time you get back. I even have some ice cream for dessert.”
“What flavor?”
“Strawberry.”
Annie’s favorite.
Chapter Four
Charlotte
New York City, 1978
All afternoon, Charlotte considered canceling her meeting with Frederick about her Hathorkare research. After the shock of seeing the broad collar, she was in no state to present such a complicated proposition to her boss. The museum system had very clear hierarchies that could not be circumvented, and without Frederick’s backing, she wouldn’t be able to get her article published. So much rode on this one conversation.
Just before six o’clock, she came upon Frederick outside the door to the staff offices, watching a group of women assembled around the Cerulean Queen.
“Docent drama time.” He nodded in the direction of one of the docents in training who stood nervously beside the sculpture. She had blonde hair heavily sprayed into place as if a gale might blow through at any minute, and opened and closed her mouth like a guppy. “How wrong do you think the poor dear will get it?”
Charlotte didn’t envy her; the rigid pedagogy of the docentprogram was probably more difficult than graduate school, in many ways. After ten months of intense training in art history, replete with exams, papers, and practice tours, qualified docents became the face of the museum, leading adults and school groups on tours and subjected to frequent peer reviews. Those who slacked off were asked to leave—even though the position was unpaid.
Early in the docent-training course, each applicant was randomly assigned an artifact or artwork and expected to offer up a presentation, no prior research allowed.
“I think she’s actually quaking,” Charlotte said, trying to match Frederick’s bonhomie. “I still don’t understand the point of putting them through this kind of torture.”
“It makes them see the piece with fresh eyes, the way our visitors do.”
“I suppose.”
“This is an Egyptian statue,” the woman began, studying the piece intently, as if the lips might open and tell her what else to say.
“So far, so good,” said Frederick under his breath, giddy with delight.
“It helps that thisisthe Egyptian wing,” answered Charlotte.
The woman cleared her throat. “It was, unfortunately, not intact when it was discovered.”
“As evidenced by the fact that half her head is missing.” Frederick chuckled. He was in a good mood; maybe, in spite of Charlotte’s unease, this evening would be the perfect time to approach him about her Hathorkare theory.
“How long do they have to present?” asked Charlotte.
“Three minutes.”