It was an oil painting of a well-known mustached politician hanging on the far wall of the room. The plaque next to it read: PORTRAIT OF THEODORE ROOSEVELT, 1915.

“It’s a painting of Teddy Roosevelt, Colb. Big deal. There’s probably a million of them.”

“The question is what it’s doing in an exhibit on science and mysticism,” she whispered with a glance toward the unsuspecting curator. “Look closer.”

Tom followed her finger, which pointed to the familiar circled rose symbol—the same one that had been stamped beneath the camera’s riddle had also been painted in red strokes just above the artist’s signature.

“It’s gotta be connected to the photo somehow,” Tom whispered back. He was getting that all-too-familiar butterfly feeling, the same one he got when he was close to an experimental breakthrough. “We need to know if this symbol is anywhere in The Alchemy Treatise.”

“Salvatore?” squawked the walkie-talkie that was hooked to the curator’s belt.

“Yes, Amanda?” he answered.

“Buford Bixby is in the foyer.”

“Tell him I’ll be right down.” Salvatore approached Tom and Colby with his hands clasped behind his back and a phony smile plastered to his face. “I’m afraid our time is up, kids.”

Tom shot a pleading glance toward Noodle. Work your magic.

“Five more minutes?” said Noodle, picking up his cue as he approached the curator from behind. “Please? My great-grandfather would’ve wanted that.”

“I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve already broken enough museum regulations for one day. And the exhibit will be open to the public next month. You can come back then.”

Next month? Tom might already be at a new school in Wichita by next month, but there was no more bargaining with Salvatore. That was quite clear.

Salvatore doesn’t know he’s messing with an Edison, thought Tom as he stopped to retie his shoe and plucked a crinkled gum wrapper from his pocket. As he ran to catch up with the group, he slipped the wrapper over the door’s latch.

“Good luck with your report, young man.” Salvatore mussed up Noodle’s hair like a friendly uncle before heading toward the escalators.

“So what now?” Colby asked. “Wait till next month?”

“We’re going back in,” said Tom, spinning on his heel once the curator was safely out of sight.