I push my nose to the edge of the crate. It smells like fresh plywood. The address is written on the box in large black letters—Kieren Alder, Cloud Rift—and arrows point which way is up. But there’s bound to be a packing slip somewhere on the box. On the back, I find the plastic sleeve glued to the wood. I pull it off and open it up. The crate was shipped from a distributor in Dubai. Not shocking—a lot of great art moves through there now. The paintings are listed out: a Caravaggio, a Degas, a Rembrandt, and holy heck, a Klimt.
Next to Monet, who is universally loved, art nouveau is my favorite period. Totally unappreciated. I think I even mentioned Klimt to Evander in my ramblings about one of the carved doors as he walked me here.
Then the date catches my attention. These were bought in May of this year. May. Of this year.
I take a step back and look at the room. There’s no direct aisle back here. There must be a loading door on this side of the room. I start from the windows and move my way around the back wall, touching the large stones, taking in the mortar. But there’s nothing on the back wall. I move over to the wall along what would be the hall, and there is a second door. It’s blocked shut by a stack of other shipping boxes. I stand in the middle of the room and gasp at how much they would have had to move to get this box in, and I’m guessing the other two into the back of the room. And why not leave an alleyway to move through? Why the chaos?
And it hits me. It’s too random. This sort of randomness doesn’t happen. There would be a natural path from years of people trying to find places to push and shove things. No,everything in this room has been placed in it in the last three months. Why?
They’re dragon shiftersrings through my head. This isn’t just a collection. It’s part of their hoard. A hoard that isn’t kept in this room. Somewhere else there’s more, and this is just the bit that they moved here. It’s logical. Right? More than what’s in here? That’s crazy. I’m letting my imagination get away with me. There’s a reason, and I’ll figure it out later. “Rich people do weird shit.” That’s what a barista coworker once said. And rich shifters? There’s that magazine,ShifterToday? The girls bring issues home and leave them on the kitchen table. I’ve paged through it before, not with too much interest, but I’ve picked up enough. Kieren doesn’t know me; he doesn’t want me messing with the majority of their hoard. Possessive? Isn’t that what the articles say about dragons? Long-lived, possessive narcissists who want all the attention on themselves and aren’t willing to share with others. So the fact that this room is just chock-full of relics and precious art has nothing to do with what I overheard.
I straighten a few paintings, getting them back on pallets and off the floor. Before I can catalog the collection, there’s a whole level of conservation that I need to dig into.
“Miss Fischer?” Leo calls from the door.
“Leo! I’m back here. Give me a second, and I’ll weave my way out.” I can’t see him over the tall stack of boxes, but I find him by the door, holding a tray.
“I thought you might like afternoon tea. Or rather coffee.”
“Oh, you are my favorite person in the entire world! Thank you.” I turn in a complete circle, looking for a safe place to put liquid.
“You require a lunch table.”
“Oh, yes. Actually, there’s going to be quite a lot of thingsI’ll need.” I stack a few of the computer boxes on top of each other and motion for him to place the tray down, and he does. Not only does it have coffee but a selection of finger sandwiches and cookies. I frigging love cookies. “Do you know what the budget for other supplies I might need is, or how to go about ordering them?”
Leo nods. “There is no budget.”
My stomach sinks. “I can figure something out to make what I have access to work. Do you think there might be a budget next quarter?” While I was a docent at the museum, I heard about how things could be tight. Patrons didn’t mind spending millions to acquire the art, but the non-sexy work of maintaining the art? That was always a problem.
“Miss Fischer, what I mean is you can buy anything you need to facilitate improvements to the collection. Including expanding with pieces you feel are missing.”
My knees actually wobble a bit. Me getting to buy art? That wasn’t in the job description. But okay, I can make recommendations for sure.
I take one of the cookies and eat the whole thing in a large, unladylike bite and follow it down with some of the best coffee I’ve ever had. Maybe I should have let him make my coffee this morning. “Thank you for this.”
“I’ll be back with some things shortly.” Leo pivots, and I swear he tsks at my impromptu table. Then again, the silver tray my snacks are on probably costs more than all the money I have in my savings account.
“Thank you again.” I raise a second cookie in a toast to him as he leaves, crumbs dropping to the tray. Yeah, I might need to refresh some of my manners, channel my inner grandma.
Somewhere around four, I see a white piece of plastic on the floor. “There you are!” I pull the remote like the one inmy room from under the corner of a pallet so I can lower the blinds and turn the lights off in the main area, leaving only my alcove lights on.
“Miss Fischer,” Leo says. “You don’t need to sit in the dark.”
“It protects the art. Since these things were just moved into here, I’m not sure if the bulbs are the right kind.”
Leo smirks at me, like I’ve discovered a secret I wasn’t supposed to know. “I’ve placed a table in the main room and had the cardboard stack removed.”
“Thank you. I can’t believe I didn’t hear you, but when I get into high focus, the rest of the world fades away.”
“Mr. Slate is the same way. That’s why I came to invite you to get ready for dinner.”
“Oh, it’s that late already? Thank you,” I say and give him a smile before turning back to setting up a tracking spreadsheet. There are pre-made programs for this, and I’ll get one to use when I get the computer connected to the internet. Which I could do if I had my phone.
Shoot, how did I not ask Leo if he’d seen it? Or thank him for having my clothes ironed?
I quickly shut down what I’ve done. But then I can’t help standing back and looking into the darkness of the room. How lucky can one girl get?
I pull the door tightly shut behind me and head back out into the hallway, then down to the dining room. I push the location button on my smartwatch. I hate to admit it, but I seem to have to use it at least once every other day.
