CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

New York City

August 15

Early evening

After getting the exciting reply from Roald that they would meet Julian in Paris with new information—and the stunning news that Galina needed only six relics to fly the machine—Lily hoped things would shoot them forward like they were blasted from a cannon. Instead, they stood still, as if they were stuck in a stalled car.

Their multiple flights from Montevideo to New York were so involved, so indirect, and so much longer than she had expected that after an extensive layover in Lima—where Becca popped into the airport clinic—and another even longer in Caracas—which Becca mostly slept through—they touched down at JFK airport a full two and a half days after they’d left Uruguay.

What a dragging waste of time!

She and the others hoped their pop-in at the Morgan in New York would be brief.

It became anything but brief.

Their stopover at the Ackroyd apartment at the Gramercy Park Hotel had turned into a lockdown when a suspicious fire broke out in the lobby at the exact moment an explosion at the rear entrance to the Morgan shut down the museum.

“Vela!” Lily gasped. “Someone’s after Vela!”

“The relic is safe,” Dennis, the Ackroyds’ driver, reported. “One of Terence’s agents just called. A heavily bandaged man was spotted leaving the area in the company of three men in riot gear. They are being tracked as we speak.”

“Archie Doyle! It was him and Ebner who killed Bern and Fernando Salta,” Darrell sneered. “Galina keeps trying.”

“We should collect Vela,” Wade said. “Some of us take it to Rome and hide it with the others. It’s not safe here.”

“If I may,” said Dennis. “I don’t believe the relic hunt will be served by you splitting yourselves up. I’ll bring Vela to you when the time comes. I, that is, and a troop of my old Marine buddies.”

“Thank you, Dennis,” said Sara. “That’s much more sensible. We’re not separating again, if we can help it.”

So they agreed to let Vela stay for the moment. But it would be another day before the museum would open, even for them. In the meantime, Dennis, along with four ex–New York City police detectives, acted as bodyguards.

The next morning it happened.

“Good news,” Dennis said. “The bandaged fellow, your nemesis Archie Doyle, was sighted in Brooklyn. The Ackroyds’ private security service has him covered. The Morgan will open its doors for you—only you—the moment you arrive.”

“Yes!” said Lily. “The ice is finally melting!”

A half hour later, they were welcomed through the doors of the Morgan’s old Thirty-Sixth Street entrance by Dr. Rosemary Billingham, the ancient curator of ancient artifacts.

Becca liked her, despite, well, the quirkiness of the woman who had helped them decode a vital clue in their search for the Serpens relic. One of the odd and endearing traits about the curator was her chopped, slow way of speaking.

The moment she saw them at the entrance to the museum, she said, “Hell—”

She breathed four or five full breaths before she completed the word. “—o.”

“Hello,” said Becca. “Good to see you again.”

Rosemary shut the door behind them. “Well, you’d better come fart—”

They waited through several more breaths. “—her into the lobby, and tell me ev—erything.”

“Thank you for seeing us,” Sara said. “I don’t know how much you know, but we have a portrait. We think it’s by Raphael.” She unwrapped the painting.

“It’s not—” Dr. Billingham said.

“It’s not by Raphael?” said Wade. “Are you sure?”

“It’s not—orious in the art world!” the curator said, taking six breaths between syllables. “You must let me fin—”

They all waited.

“—ish my sentence! Now get in the elevator, and I will tap the proper butt—”

Again, they waited.

“—on for the third f—loor. Follow quickly!”

Following Rosemary Billingham quickly was not a problem. The elderly woman moved at a snail’s pace. Becca realized it was closer to her own pace now.

When they entered the restoration lab, Dr. Billingham set the delicate portrait on a small easel and clamped the frame gently in place.

She positioned the movable arm of a large machine in front of the portrait and pressed a button on the machine. The arm moved slowly across the surface of the painting. After it had done three passes, a high-definition computer screen lit up.

“So. So. Yes. Wonder—ful. The features of the sitter’s face have been altered. Not recently. But in the late-sixteenth century. It’s ha—rd to tell what the sub—ject looked like to begin with. He may have been an ass—” She breathed several long breaths. “—istant of the painter, perhaps. But that is—n’t all. The castle has been altered. And there are images un—der the finished painting here!” She waggled her fingers at four faint sketches that appeared on the screen.

They were done in pencil and charcoal, and all four were of a young woman in bed in what seemed to be various states of illness. They were studies, maybe, for a portrait that was never made. The canvas was then reused for the portrait of the young man.

“This is amazing,” said Sara. “Thank you so—”

All at once, a shrill alarm sounded.

“What the devil?” Dr. Billingham cried.

The door to the lab blew open, and a man bandaged from head to toe stumbled in, a pistol in one hand and an umbrella in the other. “Bloody ’ell! This time I made it!”

Dennis and two of the ex–police detective bodyguards barreled in behind and threw him to the floor, while Rosemary snatched up Doyle’s fallen umbrella and began to pummel him.

“I will con—tact you with anything fur—ther,” Rosemary yelped, shooing them from the lab with her usual motion, a flick of her ancient fingers. “Now gggggg . . . o!”

After Doyle’s raid on the Morgan, Wade was happy when his stepmother decided to bring Vela with them to Paris to give to Julian as soon as possible.

Dennis helped them book immediate flights from New York, and they were able to leave that evening, flying in the middle of the night and arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport by midmorning the next day.

Their reunion with Julian was the longest they’d had with anyone for weeks. They hadn’t seen him since Markus Wolff’s ambush of them at the Nice airport over two months before. His forehead was bandaged.

“What happened, man?” Wade asked finally. “Was it Wolff?”

“One of his henchmen. It slowed me down a little, but while I’ve been mending, I’ve worked behind the scenes with Simon Tingle and Isabella to secure Triangulum, Sagitta, Corvus, and Lyra at the Vatican. Vela will now join them. Look, I’m supposed to tell you that the castle in the painting is Königsberg. You’re taking the next flight to Warsaw, with all new passports, while I take Vela to Rome. In Warsaw, you’ll meet Carlo and, even better, Roald will be there, too—”

Sara screamed, her eyes instantly tearing. “Roald! Oh my gosh! I can’t wait!”

Julian smiled. “You won’t have to wait very long. Your flight leaves in two hours.”

“Just enough time for breakfast,” Lily said. “Bec, come on.”

They started down the concourse toward the food court, Wade almost but not quite scooping his arm behind Becca when she stumbled to a sudden stop.

“Becca?” he said. Her face was gray. “Bec—”

“You’re all that’s left now,” she said, taking the diary and her notebook from her bag. “Wade, remember what the Guardians said. ‘Upon my life I will.’ You have to keep going. You have to k—”

Her eyes flickered suddenly toward the ceiling of the concourse, and she collapsed. Wade caught her before she fell to the floor. “Becca!”

“Oh my gosh!” cried Sara. “Becca? Someone call a doctor!”

Wade brushed Becca’s hair away from her face. She had started to shake and breathe in huge gasps as if she couldn’t take any air into her lungs.

“Do something!” he shouted. At who, he didn’t know. “Becca!”

She convulsed in his arms, shaking from head to toe. People rushed across the concourse to help.

“Becca!” he said. “Becca!”

She just shook all over, and shook and shook and kept on shaking.