Chapter 5
WORTH ITS WEIGHT (CLEO)
We spend the next few hours combing the long list of vetted experts and art aficionados PopPop left behind.
The way Holden described it, I thought it’d be like a dozen people at most.
Instead, there are closer to a hundred.
All brilliant, world-renowned curators and collectors PopPop met during his travels at exhibitions, charity galas, museums. Dealers—so many dealers—and guys armed with degrees from top schools.
I think he had a system. This looks like it was scraped together from an old database or rolodex or something.
If he ever had a way to classify how useful these people are for my situation, it’s gone to the grave with him.
So here I am, sitting in his library, trying to hash it out while I fight melancholy memories from crowding in.
To my surprise, Holden has been decent since breakfast.
After he took off to shower and clean up, I know he’s in the house—he has that presence that’s impossible to ignore. He’s already checked the basement and all the security systems at least twice today, I’m sure.
But instead of hovering around like a hawk, the way he did when I was a kid and he wouldn’t trust me for five minutes, he’s given me space.
Surprisingly considerate.
Or I wonder if he’s just accepted that we have boundaries now.
He offered to help, but he doesn’t have a grip on art or history like I do.
Once I’ve found the right team to vet the Hera Egg, that’s when I’ll need Holden’s brains and muscle. I’m sure he can run FBI-grade background checks and accompany me to meetings.
Anyone who tries to touch this thing with a giant standing over my shoulder must have a pain kink.
And thanks to Dad’s friends, it’s not like I was born yesterday. I’m confident I can sniff out anybody super shady.
Plus, the list is verified, vetted, all good people with institutional experience my grandfather trusted. Supposedly.
It’s just a matter of finding the right ones.
Filtered or not, the art world is full of piranhas, and we have to be vigilant. A ton of awful grifters out to lie, whatever they need to do to make a (dis)honest buck.
The horror stories are rampant.
Dealers selling stolen artwork for a song.
Jaw-dropping forgeries that make the rounds.
Sometimes—like now, I hope—the real deal emerges, and everyone starts drooling. Collectors and historians want to get their paws on a priceless gem, and that’s when the greed kicks in.
Years of high-powered experience and three PhDs won’t override human nature.
Sometimes, rules get bent by smart, moral people. Laws get shredded and bribes get passed around like candy. And when emotions take control, even the best intentions cause good people to get hurt.
Ugh.
I’m sure PopPop excluded obvious bad actors a long time ago, but I’m still leery. If they have loose tongues or seem too interested, that could be a red flag.
I hate my paranoia already, how the egg feels like a mummy’s curse more by the hour.
But I need someone I can absolutely trust to keep this quiet until I’ve made a final decision.
Tread lightly. That’s law.
Holden backing me up helps, knowing the rich, educated art bosses will look at me like I’m dinner.
The second they see a young, unprotected woman, they might see prey. A prime target to pull one over.
Even the family name can’t shield me from that.
But with Holden’s death stare, he’ll make them think twice. An immature little part of me hates that he’s useful.
Because that confirms PopPop was right when he made him my unwanted protector—or rather, the egg’s bodyguard.
Speaking of eggs… breakfast was orgasmic.
Classic American. Sinfully simple.
Cozy and comforting when I needed it the most. Who knew he could do that?
Now, he doesn’t get a total pass. I’m not selling myself out for one good meal. But I guess, maybe, he’s not the stone gargoyle I expected when we butted heads yesterday.
Maybe. Jury’s still out.
I look up and sigh.
“Don’t look so smug. I said you were right,” I whisper to the photo on the desk. Gramps with the kids. He’s standing with a grinning Margot and a surly-looking older Ethan. I’m in the background, my head just peeking around his back.
I can’t be much older than seven.
Shaking my head fondly, I get back to trying to figure out who I can trust to even discuss the Hera Egg. I’ve crossed off about half the names on the list already from my online sleuthing.
I want someone who values this treasure for its beauty and its history. Not just because it’s a wagyu cash cow.
Honestly, that’s where Dad went wrong, why he never found success.
Art isn’t transactional. In an ideal world, it shouldn’t be.
He expected overnight success, fame, money for mid sculptures that never wowed anyone.
That’s a lesson I’ll take to heart. If you want to make big things happen, you have to do it right.
So I dive into the next one, punching the name into my search on the laptop.
Jasper Fairfax.
The deeper you dig into these people, you sometimes find little hints of trouble. Shady side ventures, connections to cutthroat art dealers, even an indictment or two for flirting with stolen antiquities in the last five years. Probably after Gramps threw this list together.
A lot can happen.
It doesn’t make the news like the celebrity scandals and it usually falls short of criminal charges, but it’s enough to scream caution.
Almost an hour later, Jasper still seems clean.
His credentials look solid. I cross-checked them to make sure they’re legit, and they are. He’s done a lot of charity work without bringing in money wolves who only see dollar signs.
He has high praise and accolades from credible people, too. His website and socials look clean.
So far, so good.
Only one way to find out if he’s as neat as he looks…
I grab my phone and type in his number, waiting as the call connects.
“Jasper Fairfax’s office. How may I assist you?” a cool female voice answers.
“Hi, I’m calling about an artifact I’d possibly like to have appraised with Mr. Fairfax’s assistance.”
“Oh, sure. What’s your name? I’ll put your details through and he’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Cleopatra Blackthorn.” I hesitate before I give my full name.
“Blackthorn?” Even in New York, the name perks her up.
Sad, but nothing new.
In the art world, there are two responses to hearing the name Blackthorn.
You have the people who think of PopPop, his power and wealth and years of respected art collecting.
Then you have the people who think Dad. Gordon Blackthorn, failed sculptor, legendary grifter. Not someone you want to be associated with.
But from the cheery shift in her tone, I’m guessing she thinks Gramps.
“Wonderful, Miss Blackthorn! Thanks. Shall I have him call you on this number?”
“Yes, please.”
“He’ll be in touch as soon as he can.”
I hang up and stare blankly at the black screen.
I hate having to play coy when my mind hums with a thousand questions. I can’t just come out and admit I have the Hera Egg for obvious reasons.
I’m glad the family name has enough aura to make Fairfax return my call. If I wasn’t a Blackthorn, I wonder if she would’ve demanded more details before promising a response.
And I don’t have to wait long.
I’m two more names down my list when my phone buzzes on the desk with a New York area code and an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Miss Cleopatra Blackthorn?”
“Speaking.” I tense.
“Ah, so good to speak with you,” a pleasant, refined voice says. “Thank you very much for calling. My assistant, Kyla, told me you have a significant piece you’d like my consultation on?”
“That’s right,” I say carefully. “Ideally, I’d like to bring it in.”
He hesitates.
I wonder if I’m asking for too much, too soon, all while I’m holding my cards close to my chest. Will anyone waste their time if they don’t know what it is?
“I must confess, I don’t often schedule time for a personal appraisal with everyone. However, Leonidas Blackthorn’s reputation speaks for itself. Are you calling on behalf of Scott and Elvira? I helped move a few items they inherited recently to auction.”
“Um, I’m from the other side of the family, actually,” I say weakly. I hope to God he doesn’t think about Dad. “Leonidas was my grandfather. I only inherited one piece from him, but it’s a beauty. Very rare. We’re talking possible unicorn.”
“I see. From his Far Eastern collection? The Japanese murals he acquired over the last decade were godsends for research.”
“No, this one is… a little hard to classify.” I’m being so vague it hurts. “But what does your appraisal process look like?”
“Well, first I’d need to see the item in question, certainly,” he says, each word enunciated carefully.
From the way he speaks, I imagine an older gentleman with greying hair and a thick mustache.
Probably a cane. Basically, the genteel art fiend with a lifetime of dealing with treasures under his belt.
“Then I’ll have to do some research. The rarest pieces must always be authenticated, you understand.
I typically need to connect with experts abroad to help determine a firm price.
If you have any documentation to support it, that would be tremendously helpful. ”
I nod. He’s telling me everything I want to hear.
“Sounds reasonable. I saw online that you’re an expert in European artifacts,” I say.
“My reputation never whispers, young lady.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re quite right. My heart belongs to Mediterranean art, ancient or modern, but that’s hardly my only mistress. There are so many precious things in this world worth protecting.”
“Yeah. So many lost to us, too. It’s not always about the money.” I wait to see if he disagrees.
“Absolutely. After the valuation, are you looking for a buyer? An auction, perhaps? We had great success with that when we put up several pieces from your grandfather’s collection.”
“Probably a private sale,” I say. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with it yet, but I just want to find it a good home. Somewhere it will be truly appreciated.”