12. Galahad
Galahad
The Raven’s Vigil was an old, classic British pub with dark wood paneling and brass fixtures gone slightly green at the edges.
Arthur had recommended it for a reason—the front entrance was visible from most seats, had a back exit through the kitchen, and had lots of windows that let me monitor the street.
It also had a few corner booths where Grace could show Dr. Caulfield the egg without prying eyes seeing it.
I’d positioned us in one of those booths, with a clear view of the entrance and the path into the kitchen. Grace sat beside me, and I wore the travel pack containing the egg, both of which I’d insisted on because they were decisions that made it easier to move us if we needed to leave fast.
She speared a fry with her fork and dipped it in her ramekin of mushy peas. “This is incredible. Why don’t we have fish and chips like this back home?”
“Different fish. Different potatoes.”
“It’s the vinegar.” She took another bite, closing her eyes as she chewed. “Malt vinegar is so much better than apple cider vinegar.”
My own plate was half-finished. The cod had a crispy batter and was sufficiently flaky inside, but eating wasn’t my priority.
Grace lifted her pint of Guinness, took a sip, and wrinkled her nose. “This, however, is way too strong. Want to trade?”
Part of me wanted to point out she’d insisted on ordering whatever was the most popular at the Vigil, and I’d warned her it would be strong. But I nodded toward my water. “I’m fine.”
“Right. Because hydration is a critical strategy.” She said it lightly, clearly teasing me. Her knee bounced under the table. Excitement, not nerves, she’d said. She’d been wired all morning.
It was a vast difference from last night.
After my shower, I’d found her asleep on top of the covers, still in her hotel robe, with her phone on the duvet next to her hand.
She must have fallen asleep reading, as she had on the jet.
Maybe it was the shower or finally being in London, but she’d looked so peaceful it had made my chest ache.
When she was awake, she was always moving, always smiling, always trying to make everything fine. But asleep, she was soft and gentle.
I’d stood there for too long, watching her. Wondering what it was like to be so fucking optimistic about everything. Had I ever been like that? Probably when I was five or six? Before I’d registered what the real world was like?
Did it even matter?
I’d eventually pulled a throw blanket from the sitting room and draped it over her, careful not to wake her. That was the job: keep her safe, and once she was safe, make her comfortable.
The door opened, and a man stepped in who immediately scanned the crowd.
Mid-fifties, brown hair graying at the temples, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt under a tweed vest and carrying a leather satchel over one shoulder.
I recognized Dr. Caulfield from the photos I’d pulled up during last night’s research.
I raised a hand, and he spotted us, crossing the pub with an easy stride.
He extended his hand to Grace first. “Ms. Laurent? I’m Brandon Caulfield. A pleasure to meet you in person.”
Grace shook his hand, her smile bright. “Thank you so much for meeting us. This is Garrett Cruz. He’s handling security for the trip.”
Caulfield turned to me. Firm grip, dry palm, good eye contact. “Mr. Cruz.”
“Dr. Caulfield.” I released his hand, stood, and took off the padded case I’d worn across my body. “Let me give you some space.”
Caulfield slid into the seat across from her, setting his satchel beside him.
I handed her the case and stood by her side of the booth, angling my body to block observers while remaining part of the conversation. A server started in our direction. I caught her eye, gave a small shake of my head, and she redirected smoothly, moving to another booth.
“I must say,” Caulfield told Grace, “when Samantha first described what you might have, I was skeptical. These things usually turn out to be high-quality reproductions. The Fabergé workshops inspired countless imitators.” He leaned forward. “But the photographs you sent were intriguing.”
“We brought it.” Grace set the case on the table between them.
“May I?” Caulfield asked Grace.
She nodded.
He opened the case, and his breath caught.
“Oh my.” He lifted the blue enamel egg, pulling his phone from a pocket and a stand from his satchel.
Instead of using the outdoor light, he mounted his phone in the stand and turned on the flashlight, holding the egg underneath it.
“The color is extraordinary. This shade of blue is called bleu roi. Fabergé used it on several of the Imperial Eggs.”
“The jeweler back home said the gold was real,” Grace said. “And the stones.”
Caulfield produced a loupe and examined the surface. “The enamel appears to be guilloché, which is consistent with Fabergé’s technique. Multiple layers, each one fired separately. You can see the depth, the way the light moves through it, and how the color almost hovers above the surface.”
He pressed the small catch, and the egg opened to reveal the golden yolk. Another soft sound escaped him. He lifted the loupe again, studying the seam.
“The hen is inside,” Grace said.
He opened the yolk and sighed as he withdrew the hen. “She’s beautiful.”
Grace pointed to the seam on the hen’s breast. “This one opens, too, but I’m not sure how.”
Caulfield nodded slowly, lowering the loupe. “I’d prefer not to attempt that here. If the interior mechanism has degraded at all, forcing it could cause damage. I have the proper tools at my office.” He raised his brows at her. “We can go now, if you’re available?”
“We’ll schedule something,” I said from my position.
Caulfield’s gaze flicked to me, then back to Grace. “Of course. I understand caution.” He set the loupe down and reached into his satchel, pulling out a worn leather portfolio. “In the meantime, let me show you something.”
He opened the portfolio to reveal a black-and-white photograph.
It was blurry, but showed two tall display cases full of Imperial Eggs.
“This photograph was taken at an exhibition in 1902. Most of these eggs are now accounted for, whether they’re in museums, private collections, or some still held by the Kremlin.
But this one...” He tapped the image. “You can barely make it out in the back, but it’s certainly egg-shaped and roughly the same size as the first egg.
It doesn’t match any of the other known eggs. ”
“You think the photograph is of the Hen with Sapphire Pendant?”
“I believe it is,” Caulfield said. “And this one is the right size and shape. The real one’s been missing since 1922 without any confirmed sightings or auction records.
” His eyes cut briefly to the window. “If your egg is what I think it is, Ms. Laurent, you’re holding a piece of history that collectors have been searching for for over a century. ”
“How much would it be worth?” Grace asked.
“Authenticated by experts, but without a solid proper provenance chain?” He shook his head slowly. “Twenty million, at least. More if we had provenance.”
Grace didn’t blink. “I did some research before we left, and twenty was about what I’d expected.”
“Of course…” Caulfield held his hands out. “This egg? It would cause a sensation, and the price would depend entirely on who wanted it badly enough.”
“How does the sale get structured? I assume you don’t simply wire twenty million and hope the authentication holds up.”
“No, quite right.” Caulfield eased back, waggling a finger at her.
“It’s an appropriate question, though. For pieces at this level, authentication and payment are typically mutually conditional.
The funds would be held in escrow with a specialist firm and released upon formal authentication by an agreed-upon panel.
The seller can’t be paid without authentication, and the buyer can’t take possession without payment. ”
Grace nodded, something shrewd and unexpected showing from underneath the chipper coffee shop owner exterior.
This was a side to her I hadn’t been expecting, but it was good to see she was prepared for the conversation.
“And a specialist firm because a regular bank wouldn’t have the expertise to verify the terms were met? ”
“Precisely. There are perhaps three firms I’d recommend. I have relationships with two.”
“That’s wonderful.” She sighed, staring down at the egg. “It was my grandmother’s. She passed away last year, and we found it in her jewelry collection.”
“And whom did she acquire it from?”
“I don’t know, but if you had resources that could help me figure it out, I’d appreciate it.”
Caulfield pulled a pen and a small notebook from his satchel. “It would help to have her history, such as where she lived or where she traveled. Any connection to Russia, or to the émigré community after the Revolution.”
“She grew up in London, lived here during the war, and moved to the States after she met my grandfather.”
“Fascinating.” Caulfield jotted notes as they spoke. “And after? Did she travel to the Continent?”
“We’re still piecing the details together.”
“What about your timeline here in London? Where are you staying?”
“That’s not relevant,” I said.
Caulfield’s pen stopped. He looked at me, and something shifted behind his eyes.
He was now officially aware he wasn’t only marveling at a piece of history with a pretty woman.
He was dealing with me, too. “Of course. I apologize. Occupational habit. When I’m researching provenance, I like to learn as much as I can.
” He stashed the pen. “Why don’t we schedule a follow-up appointment?
I’m available anytime tomorrow or the day after. ”
“We’ll be in touch,” I said.
But Grace said over me, “Tomorrow works.”
“Wonderful. Shall we say ten o’clock?” He slid his things back into his satchel when Grace nodded to him. “Before I go, would you mind if I took a few photographs? For my records.”
“Of course,” she said.
Caulfield took his phone off its stand and snapped several shots of the egg from different angles, including a few of the open yolk with the hen visible inside. “This really is extraordinary, Ms. Laurent. I appreciate you bringing it to me.”
What he meant was: I appreciate you bringing me a healthy broker’s fee.
He stood, shook Grace’s hand, then mine. “I look forward to tomorrow.”
I watched him cross the pub toward the door.
He walked quickly, didn’t look at anyone as he went.
Just before he stepped outside, he paused and glanced out the window—a quick look, barely a second.
The street was busy with what appeared to be a standard lunchtime crowd of tourists taking photos of the scenery, office workers eating on the go, and people with their faces glued to their phones.
Nothing overtly wrong. But Caulfield had walked so fast through the pub that the stop before leaving stood out. No one did things like that without a reason.
I shifted so I could see him as the glass-paned door closed behind him. He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped briefly, pocketed it, and was gone.
“Oh my god, Garrett!” Grace practically squealed, her smile beaming. “Do you think it went well? I think it went well. He seemed genuinely excited. Did you see his face when he opened the egg?”
“I saw it.” I sat on the edge of the booth seat, keeping an eye on the door.
“So? What do you think? He thinks it’s real, doesn’t he? Oh my god, Didi had a real”—she clamped her lips shut, then whispered—“Fabergé egg!”
What did I think? I thought he’d wanted to ask too many questions that had nothing to do with authentication.
I thought his interest in our timeline and location was a red flag.
I thought the way he’d glanced out that window before leaving suggested he was looking for someone. “I think we should be careful.”
Her smile dimmed. “You think that about everything.”
“That’s why you’re still breathing.”
“Garrett,” she sighed. “He’s a respected expert. Samantha vouched for him and so did your friend Jean.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t qualified.”
“So what’s the problem?”
The problem was instinct. The problem was decades of learning to read people in situations where a wrong read got you killed.
Jean and Samantha had vouched for Caulfield as an expert, not for him as a person.
And I wasn’t jumping to the conclusion I could trust him yet.
Fuck, I hadn’t even jumped to the conclusion I could trust Grace yet, even though she hadn’t given me any reason not to. “There’s no problem. I’m cautious.”
I signaled for the check. Grace was quiet while I paid, her excitement visibly shifting into something more like impatience.
Outside, the afternoon sun had broken through the clouds. London stretched around us, all old stone and new glass, red buses and black cabs, with people flowing all around. I wore the travel pack with the egg inside, keeping one eye on Grace and the other on the rest of the world.
She took a deep breath and smiled again, as though breath was all it required. “Okay. So. The Tower of London next?”
“Not yet.”
“Yet? When? You said?—”
“I said if the meeting went well, and I felt it was safe.”
“The meeting did go well.”
I directed her toward the Tube station, and she fell into step with me. “I need to scout the location first.”
“Scout it? It’s the Tower of freaking London. There’s security everywhere. The crown jewels are there.”
“Which is exactly why I need to map the layout. Crowds, choke points, exits.”
“Garrett.” She drew my name out as though she were a toddler begging for a toy.
So help me, if she started pouting, I was going to call Tristan and tell him to get his ass over here and handle this. “This is how protection works, Grace. I visit the site before I take you. Then we go.”
She stopped walking. “Do you do this with all your clients?”
“Yes.” I turned to face her stubborn self. “Every single one of them.”
She stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms crossed. “So you’re going to go see London while I sit in the hotel room?”
“For an hour. Maybe two.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the job.”
Her eyes flashed. “Fine. Scout your location. I’ll just stay locked in my tower.”
She stormed past me, and I let her go. I stayed three steps behind her, where she was in my line of sight and safe.