She took off her magnifying glasses and rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. Her translation abilities were rusty, which had made reading a slow process. She needed all three of her dictionaries to decipher every other line.
But if she had gotten the translation right so far—and she believed the story’s narrator—then this memoir was written during the time of Cleopatra, who was born in 69 B.C.
Semele studied Ionna’s handwriting, taking in every brushstroke.
Paleography, dating an artifact through its writing, was her expertise. Oftentimes handwriting and the style of script were more precise measures of when a work was written than carbon dating. The shade, ornamentation, and capitalization of letters, the style of parchment, and the ink were all clues, and Semele was a master at time-stamping anything from the classical world.
Based on the handwriting alone, Marcel’s mysterious manuscript looked to be from between 50 and 45 B.C. If Ionna was truly the memoirist, then Semele’s estimate was not off the mark. She would be surprised if she was wrong—still, she wanted to test the manuscript when she returned to New York; she had never seen a two-thousand-year-old text so well preserved. The announcement of this discovery would send ripples through the whole industry. She had to be sure.
She turned off the examining light and leaned back in her chair, barely able to contain the thoughts running through her head.
For now she would say nothing to her client. She didn’t want to create any false expectations in case she was wrong and this manuscript was simply a tale penned by a writer in the Middle Ages. It wouldn’t be the first time a clergyman with an overactive imagination had written an “ancient chronicle.”
Semele looked at Marcel’s cryptic note again, still unnerved by his warning, and fingered the stationery in her hand. It was an engraved four-ply-cotton card, heavy stock, and clearly quite expensive.
The door opened, startling her, and a maid entered.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” the young woman said with a charming French accent.
Semele tucked the paper into her pocket and forced a smile. “Of course not.”
If the maid noticed Semele’s suspicious gesture, she hid it and went about dusting the glass cases. To Semele the chore seemed quite pointless—every surface in the room was already gleaming. She watched the girl make a circle of the gallery, wishing the maid would go away so she could lock up and head to the kitchen for a coffee. She was going to need serious amounts of caffeine in order to make sense of this note.
Why had Marcel written to her? And how had he known her name?
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Semele turned around with a start.
Theo stood in the doorway with an incensed look on his face.
She got up from her seat, at first thinking he was talking to her, but he pulled the maid aside and began reprimanding her in rapid-fire French. The maid murmured a quick apology and scurried out of the room.
Theo must have seen the horrified look on Semele’s face. He shook his head, trying to calm down. “Forgive me. This room is off-limits to the house staff.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Semele said, although she didn’t quite understand what had happened. Did he just fire the maid for dusting?
“Everything going well?” he asked, forcibly changing the subject.
Semele followed his lead and fixed a smile on her face. “Just wrapping up. I’ll e-mail you the list this afternoon.”
The list comprised those items she would be taking back to New York for auction. She knew Theo was waiting to find out how many pieces her firm would be selling. The heirs always were.
To her dismay, instead of leaving, Theo walked toward her. She tried not to step back as he stood next to her at the examining table.
He stared down at the manuscript. “What about this one? What do you think?”
What a loaded question—Semele was unsure how to answer. She decided to play it safe and rattled off a general analysis of the manuscript’s condition, sounding more like a doctor giving a diagnosis. “The pages look fairly well preserved. Some disintegration is showing around the edges, and speckled mold is scattered throughout the text, but no more than one might expect. I also noted water damage on several leaves.”
“But what do you think?” he asked again.
“Um… I’m actually not sure yet,” she said honestly. “I only just discovered it this morning. It hadn’t been recorded in the collection for some reason. Did your father ever discuss this piece with you?” she asked, trying to gauge his reaction.
“Why?” He met her gaze with the hint of a challenge.
Semele could feel heat rising to her face. “Since it wasn’t noted in the collection, I wondered if he had special instructions for it.”
How she would have loved to ask Marcel why he had hidden this piece away and how he had known to address his note to her. But she couldn’t—and she definitely couldn’t ask Theo.
