Chapter 30 #2
“Look at this one,” she whispered, pointing to the photograph of a cable car, its wires slicing the foggy sky. “It’s titled Modern Urban Life. Stieglitz took this picture with a small 4x5 camera. It gave him greater freedom to roam the city and use natural elements.”
“I wonder what he would’ve done with an iPhone camera.”
“With an eye like his, his photographs would be museum-worthy regardless of when or how he took them.”
“Look at the next one. What movie does it remind you of?”
Marcelle moved to the next photograph. “The Titanic, but it’s titled The Steerage.”
“I’m going to sit on the bench over there to sketch while you roam.”
Marcelle drifted from one photograph to another, pausing in front of each to tap her nail against the gilded frame or press her finger along the curve of her cheek.
Studying her face and body language, Clay worked feverishly, desperate to capture the faint melancholy that faded across her features.
The pencil scratched against the paper, a faint sound in the quiet gallery.
But while his fingers worked, heat coiled through his chest. He fantasized about exploring every hidden part of her, and a sudden tremor in his hand marred a line of her jawline.
He bit back a curse, the fantasy snapping into sharp focus.
While sketching her long neck, he also sketched the woman’s long neck in the photograph Marcelle was studying.
“Who’s the woman?” Clay asked, tilting his head.
“Georgia O’Keeffe.”
“Wasn’t she a modernist painter?”
“Yes.” Marcelle glanced at him. “And you probably studied art in college.”
“I took drawing, painting, and illustration courses at Georgetown. Then I spent a semester going to court and sketching defendants, attorneys, judges, and juries.”
“I’m impressed.” Marcelle turned back to The Steerage, studying it again. She shifted her weight, then moved closer—then stepped back. “Clay, come here.”
He stepped up beside her. “What do you see?”
“Not what.” She leaned in and lifted a finger, stopping just short of the glass. “Who does she look like?”
Clay stepped forward until his nose was inches from the photograph. “Violet.”
Marcelle searched his face. “Is it Violet—or does it just look like her?”
“With Violet, you never know, but I don’t see her traveling in steerage. What year is this?”
“According to the placard, Stieglitz took the picture in 1907.”
“Watch the door.” He reached for his phone. “I’m going to take a picture.”
“I don’t think you can do that.”
“Do you want to hear the story about David McBain and Tavis Stuart stealing a sarcophagus from here in 1896?”
She clapped her hands over her ears. “No!” Then she dropped them, eyes darting around the room, and whispered, “How’d they do that?”
“The brooch carried them away.”
“Where is it now?”
“At Mallory Plantation, along with dozens of other antiquities.”
“Were those stolen?”
“Aren’t all artifacts stolen from somewhere?” He snapped several pictures to study later.
“Come on. Next stop—Egypt,” Marcelle declared, leading the way.
The air grew stiller as they entered the wing.
Ignoring the towering statues that lined the main hall, she navigated directly to a side aisle.
Her pace was quick, determined. She halted at a waist-high display case, pressing her hand to the glass.
Inside, spotlit like jewels, a dozen scarabs lay in silent repose, each one a masterpiece of intricate, ancient design.
“Do you know why the scarab was important to the Egyptians?” Clay asked.
“No, but I guess you’re going to tell me.”
“According to the Bulletin, it’s a spiritual metaphor. It represents the eternal cycle of life, birth, death, and rebirth.” Clay inspected them. “Some symbols look familiar.”
“Where would you have seen them?”
“In the clean room at Mallory Plantation. I need to take some pictures. Would you play lookout again?” While she covered his back, he snapped several pictures. “I don’t know the significance, but I strongly feel there is one.”
“What about Hatshepsut?”
Clay stopped before a reconstructed statue. His eyes were drawn to the queen’s strong, immutable face. He quickly sketched the profile. A shiver raced down his spine. He leaned closer, and a gasp caught in his throat.
“It’s unsettling. We’re likely just fixated on Violet, but I swear there’s a definite resemblance between this ancient queen and my mother.
“She’s on our minds. There’s no way she could be involved.”
“Her lover, Erik Fraser, was in Egypt around 3025 B.C. and fathered a child he brought to the future. Paul is JC Fraser’s best friend. If Erik was popping in and out of Egypt, why not Violet? But why were they there? What were they looking for?”
Clay sketched more pictures of Hatshepsut.
“Egyptians had an extraordinary knowledge of architecture, mathematics, astronomy, shipbuilding, navigation, and medicine. They also possessed an amazing intellect and imagination. And they had the time to experiment with ideas, gaining a deeper understanding of the universe. Who’s to say they didn’t discover a way to cross the space-time continuum and create a method of time travel? ”
“And then what? Do a little hocus pocus and harness the power? Then, proof they created magical brooches?”
“Erik told Aislinn’s mother a complicated story about Thorfinn the Mighty, who lived from 1009 to 1065.
According to the story, Thorfinn bought twenty-five gemstones in Rome to give to his wife.
When he died, his wife asked a sorcerer to write a love spell to heal her broken heart.
She had the spell engraved on each stone.
Then, a silversmith crafted the brooches out of silver he had stripped from a space rock.
The silversmith or the sorcerer somehow threaded the magic into the silver. ”
Marcelle laughed. “Silver from a space rock combined with a sorcerer’s spell created the time-traveling brooches. Sorry, I’m more inclined to believe the Egyptians were involved, and your mother was part of the process. We should ask her.”
“Why? She’ll just lie.” Clay growled, mostly because his desire for Marcelle had hit him squarely in the groin, and he couldn’t do anything about it right now.
“Your pulse is throbbing in your carotid artery. You need to take a breath or two.”
He needed more than breath right now. He planted two fingers over the artery. “You’re right.” His words came out a little scratchy. “Talking about Violet is not good for my blood pressure. We’ll learn nothing from her. She swore an oath to some higher beings and won’t betray her masters.”
“Maybe she is the master. Did you ever think of that?”
“To quote Remy. Fuck! It’s possible. Violet’s here and there, married and widowed. What else?”
“Queen of Egypt.”
“Why not? Add that to the list.”
“And she might’ve been in that steerage picture,” Marcelle said. “Maybe it’s like a Rorschach test, and everywhere we look, we see her in inkblots.”
“When we get home, I’ll have David McBain analyze the photograph and my pictures of Hatshepsut. If there’s anything there, he’ll find it.”
“Here’s a thought,” Marcelle said. “What if her purpose was to save the ancient knowledge stored in the library at Alexandria, allowing the world to develop as it should have?”
“So that’s why she’s here and there and everywhere? She’s looking for clues to its location. That thought gives me a major headache,” Clay said.
“Or maybe she’s a clone.”
He laughed at that. “You’ve put Violet in an early 1900s photograph, turned her into a savior of the Library of Alexandria, and now made her a clone. You have a very vivid imagination.”
“Don’t forget a Queen of Egypt.”
“In Violet’s case, anything is possible.”
“Look at the way she zoned out the other night. Maybe she does that when she’s asked questions she can’t answer.”
“This is getting ridiculous. Here’s the deal. I propose we postpone further discussions of Violet until we’re with someone who might have answers.”
“Who would that be?”
Clay shrugged and then said, “Elliott. He always knows more than he lets on.”
“Why’s he so secretive?”
“Elliott plays his cards close to his chest to protect the family until he’s figured out the dangers and the rewards. Then he passes out words of wisdom.”
“He sounds like a complicated man.”
“He is. But I almost think Meredith is even more complicated. It’s hard to figure out where you stand with her. She comes on too strong, but once you push back and set boundaries, she’ll be your best friend and advocate.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I meet her,” Marcelle said distractedly.
“What’s wrong?”
Marcelle stepped over to the bench and plopped down.
“I don’t understand any of this. What we’ve been discussing sounds like a plot in a sci-fi novel.
I feel like a marionette is manipulating my strings and leading me down a path, uncovering one tidbit of information after another.
For what purpose? What’s this all about? ”
“We won’t know until it’s over, and the pieces fall into place.
Remy and Skye have a storyline. Bastien and Kaitlyn have one, and so do we.
We’ll all write an after-action report. Then David will dump all the info into a giant cauldron, say a few magic words, and create a potion that we’ll drink and become enlightened. ”
Gales of laughter nearly sent her tumbling from the bench, but Clay snagged her mid-fall, his arm a stabilizing anchor around her waist. “Thanks for saving me.”
“Glad I was close enough to catch you.”
She stood and smoothed down the front of her dress.
“This has been the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had with anyone.
And all I can say is if Violet is pulling my strings, I’m yanking that controller out of her hands and bonking her over the head with it.
” Marcelle took a deep breath and then another.
“Let’s go back to the mansion. I need to get some practice time in. ”
“Do you want me to accompany you?” he asked.
“Back to the mansion or on the piano?”
“Both.”
She tapped her chin, feigning serious consideration. “Yes, to walking me back, but no thanks to the other. I need to practice the fundamentals. You know, scales, arpeggios, and lip slurs.”
“If you know Bastien’s favorite tunes, I’d like to rehearse the songs he’s likely to play tonight.”
“Let me practice for about thirty minutes. Then we can rehearse. Now let’s get out of here. This place is giving me the willies.”
“Whoever thought the Metropolitan Museum would make anyone uneasy?”
“Fans of Preston & Child’s Pendergast books. One of their books takes place here.”
“Wrong museum. It was the Museum of Natural History.”
A wide smile brightened her face. “So, you’re a fan, too. One more thing we have in common. Come on. Let’s go drink some wine and make music.”
There was another kind of music he preferred to compose.
It began with the feather-light brush of a fingertip against the vulnerable hollow of Marcelle’s collarbone, ascending the scale to the quickening beat of her pulse at her throat.
The crescendo was inhaling the warm, intimate vanilla scent of her skin.
That melody, that symphony, was the only music Clay truly ached to create.
“I’m with you, kid,” he said.
“Oh, I love Casablanca. It’s one of my favorite movies.”
He twirled her into his arms. “I love discovering how much we have in common. You are one of a kind, Marcelle LeBlanc.”
“I’m glad you think so, because I believe you’re one of a kind, too.”
“I should tell you I might be half alien.”
She threw her head back, and her laughter pealed out, a sudden, joyous sound that cut through the hushed air, making the nearest visitors jump and turn. “Is that another one of Violet’s tales? Man, she’s a piece of work. I doubt everything she says.”
“Good, because I do, too.” He meant it more than he’d meant anything in a long time.