Chapter Thirty
Charlotte
At home, Mark was careful with Charlotte at first, holding her like she might break, but then they got coffee and sat in the living room and she told him everything she’d learned, everything she and Annie had done, and by the end of her story he kissed her hand and told Charlotte how proud he was of her. When she added that she now had to go to Switzerland to find Henry, he insisted on coming along.
She changed the subject. “How is Lori?”
“Well, she didn’t get the soap opera,” said Mark. “But she did land a national commercial for toothpaste, which apparently, after it airs, will bring in some ‘serious dough,’ as she called it.”
“That’s great news.”
“Yes. So you can have your office back, finally.”
“That’s all right. Lori can stay there.”
Mark shook his head. “No, you’ve put up with enough.”
“What I mean is, I’m going away, and I may not be back for a while.”
“I thought we were going away. Didn’t I just say that?” he asked testily.
She’d mulled over this conversation during the plane ride home, when she’d realized she wasn’t looking forward to returning to the apartment. It wasn’t her home, never had been. In fact, as she looked around the room, she didn’t recognize anything as hers, not the books in the bookshelf, nor the armchair by the fireplace, nor the silk curtains on the windows. Her imprint was difficult to find because the apartment had first belonged to Mark’s mother, followed by his wife. For whatever reason—Charlotte was always too busy with work; interior decorating didn’t appeal—she’d never claimed any spot other than her office as her own. It was as if she’d known deep down she wasn’t going to be here forever. “I don’t want you to come with me,” she said finally. “I need to take some time. Alone.”
“For how long, exactly?”
“I don’t know.”
He sat back on the couch and placed his hands on his legs. “Huh. What about your job? King Tut opens in two weeks.”
“Please don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”
He took a breath. “You’re right, I’m sorry. What is it you’re trying to say?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m leaving for good, Mark. I love what we had, but it’s time for me to move on. This isn’t working, and I feel like I’m in the way.” She shook her head. “No, that’s not it, or at least not all of it. We want different things for our lives. You want a wife, and I need to be free.”
To her surprise, he didn’t seem hurt or shocked. Maybe he was thinking of Lori and how, without Charlotte present, they would be able to reconnect in a way that was impossible right now. Or maybe he was putting up a brave front to save face.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Charlotte,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about our relationship ever since our discussion on the steps of the Met. The fact that you only recently told me about a momentous event in your life indicates that yes, maybe you’re looking for something different. That I’m not the right man for you.”
But I’m not looking for a man , Charlotte thought. The narrow way he framed the issue only served to confirm that she was making the right decision, as difficult as it was. “You deserve someone who is as committed as you are, and I can never be.” She paused. “I’m sorry if I misled you.”
He laughed softly. “You never misled me. I just refused to see it, until now. I guess I hoped eventually you’d be all mine.”
An impossible ask.
Because only Layla could claim that mantle.
The next available flight to Switzerland didn’t leave for two days, so Charlotte enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with Mark and Lori the next morning before heading to work. Mark had told Charlotte the prior evening to take all the time she needed, that there was no need for her to rush to pack her things or find a new place to live, and now that the air between them was finally cleared, she was able to see him in a new light. The gentle kindness with which he treated his daughter, and way the two teased each other and laughed, brought tears to Charlotte’s eyes. She was lucky to know them both, and hoped she could remain in their lives in some way.
At the Met, Frederick sidled over to Charlotte as soon as she sat down at her desk.
“Welcome back, conquering hero,” he said, giving a slight shake of his head. “How was Egypt, then?”
“It was beautiful,” answered Charlotte.
“Quite the detective you were, tracking down the Cerulean Queen. Of course, now we have to give the broad collar back to the Egyptian authorities, which is a shame as our one-year loan only lasted two weeks, but so be it.”
Of course he focused on the negative. “It had been stolen, of course it has to go back.”
“We don’t even have our Queen, or at least, not for a while. The Egyptian Museum has asked for some sort of time-sharing arrangement: They get it for a year, then we do. The director is actually considering it.”
“As long as they keep it safe and sound, I don’t see why not. It was theirs to begin with.”
He pulled his chin into his neck like a chicken whose egg had just been stolen. “That’s not the Charlotte Cross I know. What happened to you over there?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, I’ve been giving interviews to newspapers nonstop. I’m exhausted, but thanks to you we have a happy ending.”
“You’re welcome.”
He lowered his voice. “What about your other project?”
“Hathorkare?”
“Yes. Anything?”
“We identified her mummy, but that news will be broken by Omar Abdullah at the Egyptian Museum.”
“I see. Were you able to uncover any evidence disputing the fact that Saukemet II destroyed her images in revenge?”
She thought of the faded hieroglyphics. There had been no return message from Helen this morning, unfortunately. And Hathorkare’s tomb was irreparably damaged. “I’m afraid not.”
Frederick looked like he was about to rise into the air, his relief was so palpable. “That’s too bad. But at least it means we don’t have to change her entry in the department catalog.”
It also meant Frederick’s standing was secure.
She was gathering the courage to tell him that she was leaving again, this time for Europe, when her phone rang.
She picked up the receiver. “This is Charlotte Cross.”
A familiar voice answered. “Charlotte, it’s Helen. Come downstairs. I have something you might want to see.”
“Annie!”
Charlotte called out to Annie in the basement of the Met, thrilled to see her.
“You haven’t left for Switzerland yet?” asked Annie, giving Charlotte a generous hug. She wore platform heels, striped pants, and a man’s vest over a white blouse, and walked with a newfound confidence.
“Not yet. In fact, you have to come with me.”
Annie checked her watch. “I’ve been summoned to see Mrs. Vreeland, but I’m early. Where are we going?”
“To visit my friend Helen.” Charlotte explained about the phone call. “I don’t know if it’s good news or bad, but either way, it would be nice to have you there.”
“Of course.”
Charlotte led the way into the Met’s conservation workshop, where several oversized paintings in various stages of restoration perched on paint-splattered easels. On the other side of the room were large worktables used for panel work and varnishing. Helen’s altarpiece panels were near completion, with only a few sections of gilding left on the final panel. The other two looked much like they would have when they were finished in the 1400s, a substantial achievement.
However, Helen’s chair was empty.
“Over here!”
She waved to them from a door near the back of the room. Inside was a projector and a large screen. “Come in, sit. How was your trip?”
Charlotte introduced Annie and gave Helen a quick summary. “You’re really sweet to put your work aside to play with my slides. I know they’re not very good.”
“You’re telling me. You didn’t give me much to work with.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. She hadn’t realized how much she was hoping for a miracle. “What a waste of time. Thanks for trying.”
“Oh, I did more than try. I’ve been here all night.”
“All night? You didn’t have to do that.”
“Your note said it was urgent, and I have to say I was intrigued.”
Helen turned off the lights and turned on the projector. The faint images that appeared looked even worse on the bright white screen than Charlotte remembered, only pitiful wisps of random color and lines.
“Ugh,” said Charlotte. “I can’t make out a single symbol.”
“That’s true,” said Helen. “But instead of projecting the slides onto a screen the way I’m doing now, I used a large piece of drawing paper and painstakingly filled in whatever I could discern. I have a few more slides left to do, but I wanted you to see the initial results.” She turned off the projector, turned on the lights, and retracted the screen. Behind it hung the result of her efforts: marvelous, fully colorized hieroglyphics and paintings from the walls of Hathorkare’s tomb as they must have looked right before it was sealed.
Annie squealed with delight.
Charlotte drew close and pointed to the symbols. “These are incredible. Over here, she’s shown as a masculine ruler, from the reddish skin and the way her left foot is extended forward, but the text retains her feminine name. This depicts her divine birth and coronation. And over here she’s making an offering to her husband, Saukemet I. This last one includes the cartouche of a scribe who worked first for Hathorkare, and later for Saukemet II, Ankhsheshonq.”
A vague memory rose in Charlotte’s jet-lagged brain of Henry making fun of the name after she mentioned she’d translated an ostracon between the scribe and a master craftsman. Sounds like a camel’s sneeze , he’d said.
Ankhsheshonq.
She closed her eyes, remembering the Egyptian heat, the feel of limestone under her fingertips. “Huh.”
“What?” asked Helen. She and Annie gathered on either side of Charlotte.
“Ankhsheshonq,” she repeated. “When I was first in Egypt, one of my jobs was translating contracts, wills—even shopping lists—found in a small village near the Valley of the Kings, all the day-to-day evidence of what life was like in ancient Egypt. One of the pieces was a contract between the scribe Ankhsheshonq, acting on behalf of Saukemet II, and a master craftsman. What stood out at the time—and I’d forgotten this completely until now, as I had no context—was that instead of being asked to decorate a temple wall, he was being asked to alter an existing relief, by carving it out and changing the cartouche from the former queen to that of the future king. Hathorkare to Saukemet III.”
“So Ankhsheshonq was involved in the campaign to erase Hathorkare?” said Annie.
“Yes, but I can’t remember the wording of the contract exactly.”
“Where did the ostracon end up?” asked Helen.
“I have no idea. Possibly here at the Met, if we’re lucky.”
The three headed to the Met’s library, where the librarian handed over a copy of the Egyptian Arts Collection Catalog, Volume I . Charlotte turned to the index and ran her finger down a column. She found the corresponding page and gave out a yelp. “Yes! That’s it. It’s here in the building.”
They flew off to the storage area listed in the entry.
Charlotte had a new appreciation for the catalog, even if it included sexist views of Hathorkare and was a beast to update. Its format also made locating anything in the collection easy, and in no time they were standing in front of a large cabinet in one of the smaller basement storage rooms. Charlotte gently pulled out the third drawer from the bottom.
Inside, several large pieces of limestone filled with hieratic writing lay in shallow, custom-made foam dishes. “This is it,” said Charlotte. “Oh my God.”
“What?” said Annie and Helen in unison.
She pointed to one of the shards with her pen without touching it. “Here Ankhsheshonq writes that Saukemet II only wants the images of Hathorkare as a king to be erased. He requests that, when possible, her likeness be replaced with that of his son, who is to be referred to as ‘Egypt’s next divine king.’ Here it has the date.” Excitement rippled through her. “Do you know what that means?”
“You have proof that the erasures were ordered long after Hathorkare’s death, as well as the reason why,” Annie proclaimed.
“Exactly. Saukemet II was worried about his son being trounced by a female rival, not angry at his long-dead stepmother. And to think it was right under my nose all along, locked away in storage, long forgotten. When I first translated the contract, I didn’t understand its importance. Hathorkare was a minor pharaoh, so no one really cared. But now we have solid evidence of the reason why the erasures occurred, as well as the date. We did it!”
“ You did it,” said Helen.
“Group effort, shall we say?” said Charlotte, putting her arms around her friends.
“Frederick is going to have a fit,” said Helen.
Charlotte thanked Helen profusely, promising to fill her in on the rest of the details from the trip as soon as she had a spare minute, then gave Annie a hug and wished her good luck in her meeting with Diana Vreeland.
Poor Frederick. He’d challenged Charlotte to find proof, and she had, but the joy derived from the validation of her theory was tempered by the impact it would have on her boss. He wasn’t an easy man to work with, but she wished him the best. Hopefully the financial success of the King Tut exhibit would lessen the blow of a junior colleague undermining his area of expertise.
Just as Charlotte had been reluctant to return to the apartment she shared with Mark after her adventures in Egypt, it suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t want to have to spend another day in her cubby at the Egyptian Art department, either. Her time in Egypt had been painful and wondrous, but she wasn’t ready to leave it behind. Not just yet.
Furthermore, she’d saved a good deal of her salary, and had nothing left in New York to tie her down. Which meant she had the freedom to choose what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, and where she wanted to do it. With growing excitement, she considered going to Switzerland to track down Henry and then heading straight to Egypt.
Mark, no doubt, would say she was being rash. She had a position most would envy, and she’d miss her fellow employees at the Met, from the security guards who greeted her each morning to the technicians and handlers who loved the objects they encountered every day as much as she did.
But it was time to move on.
She went straight to Frederick’s office and told him about the evidence she’d uncovered. He looked at her in disbelief and rose out of his chair. “I need to see this for myself.”
Charlotte stopped him. “There’s something else.”
He sat back down with a frown. “Yes?”
“I have some family business I need to attend to, in Europe. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”
“You can’t. King Tut—”
She cut him off. “I’ll be heading to Egypt after that. That’s where I belong, and there’s so much lost time to make up for.”
He cocked his head, as if she had to be joking. “You’re saying you’re leaving the Met?”
“I suppose I am.”
“May I remind you that you’re sixty, Charlotte?”
She remembered Annie’s advice. “So what? In three years I’ll be sixty-three and wishing I’d done so when I was sixty. It’s just a number.”
“You can’t go. What about me and the exhibition?” he pleaded. “You’re too old to be making drastic life changes, stop and think for a minute.”
How lovely of him to make it so easy, thought Charlotte. “Thank you for all the responsibility you’ve given me, Frederick, and I’m sorry to miss the King Tut exhibition. But this is what I have to do.”