Together, they headed to the receiving room designated for their department, and Lauren thrilled at the sight of crates and lids and sawdust. After Egypt’s declaration of independence from Britain, which came eight months before Tut’s tomb was discovered, archaeologists hadn’t been sending as much back to their home countries as they used to. A revised agreement with the Egyptian government meant most of it stayed there. Nationalist pride surged among the Egyptians, and they were taking much more interest in preserving and celebrating their rich and noble history. Whatever Albert Lythgoe and Herbert Winlock sent back to the Met was granted by special agreement.
Pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves, Lauren lifted an alabaster lotus flower from a nest of wrappings. As she finished unwinding linen from the object’s base, sand sifted between her fingers. She rolled the grains between her forefinger and thumb and imagined brushing the sand away from the object for the first time, after discovering it herself.
Anita turned toward approaching footsteps. “Good afternoon, Mr. Robinson,” she called out as the Met’s director strolled through the door.
“Ladies.” He nodded, his hair and mustache the color of moonlight on the desert. “All is intact from this shipment so far, I hope? As intact as the pieces were before they shipped, at least.”
Lauren brushed the sand from her hands. “We’ve only just begun here, but Mr. Klein didn’t say otherwise.”
“Who?”
“The registrar,” she reminded him. Fred Klein was the most unassuming man she’d ever met, always shying away from attention and meticulous about details. He was well-suited to his job of carefully unpacking every single object that arrived.
“Ah yes, yes, of course. Well, that’s something, I suppose.” The crescents beneath his eyes held more than their usual share of cares.
“Did you need to speak to me, sir, or were you just checking up on the delivery?” Lauren asked.
“I’ve had a meeting with the Morettis. You remember Ray and his wife, Christina?”
“Of course.” They were longtime patrons of the Met, and more generous in their financial support than most. “Their donation to the Egyptian department helped fund the current expedition.”
Mr. Robinson winced. “Right. I’m afraid they think we aren’t sufficiently grateful. Mr. Moretti came today with an offer to give the Met a portion of his collection, but with the caveat that all of his items be grouped together, and the room in which they are housed be named for him.”
Anita released a low whistle. “That’s nervy.”
A smile cracked the placid planes of Mr. Robinson’s face. “Previous directors have gone along with such strings-attached proposals, but I won’t. I explained the museum can’t meet those stipulations since the exhibits change routinely, and we need flexibility with how we use the space. Mr. Moretti rescinded his offer to donate his items altogether. He may choose to withdraw his financial support, as well.”
He looked pointedly at Lauren, though she had no idea what she had to do with the situation. “We can’t afford to lose any more support. We certainly can’t afford bad press, or even the appearance that the Met is exclusive or discriminatory. Given the Morettis’ interest in Egyptology, it would go a long way if you could make some kind of overture to them.”
A ridge formed between Lauren’s brows. “I’m no donor relations expert, Mr. Robinson.”
“You don’t need to be. Just be yourself.”
Anita gestured to the sawdust-packed crates. “Dr. Westlake is most herself when surrounded by inanimate objects. The older the better.”
Mr. Robinson’s mustache twitched. “If you want your department to be as robust as possible, you’ll find a way to steer the Met back into Ray Moretti’s good graces. Don’t underestimate yourself.”
“Why would she do that when you’re doing it so well for her?” Anita muttered so quietly that only Lauren could hear.
“I know you don’t like conflict,” Mr. Robinson said, “which is why you’re so good at making it go away. You should have listed soothing egos as a skill on your résumé.”
The tease drew a smile, but he was right. Her dislike of conflict made it hard for Lauren to push back against him now. “Anita and I are already swamped. We’ve got to sort all Mr. Lythgoe is sending back from the field and get ready for the spring exhibition, too. Next year, I’ll ask him to switch places.” She kept her tone light, but she wasn’t joking. She’d worked here six years and hadn’t once been included on an expedition.
Mr. Robinson’s mouth firmed into a tight line. “Oh no, you are right where you belong, Miss Westlake. We need you right here.”
The words cinched like a fetter around her chest.
Barely covering a huff, Anita broke in. “Dr. Westlake, shall we get on with cataloging these priceless artifacts that only you can understand?”
Mr. Robinson took his leave, and Anita indulged in a gigantic roll of her eyes.
Resigned to the task he’d left with her, Lauren turned her attention to an inscribed coffin and the mummy inside. “Hello, Hetsumina,” she breathed, in awe of how well preserved everything was. “We’ve been waiting for you. What do you want to tell me?” Several moments passed while she inspected the hieroglyphs.
“Not that it bothers me, but you’re doing that thing again,” Anita said.
Lauren lifted a shoulder. “Habit.”
“Sure, I get it. I chew the end of my pencil. You talk to mummies.” Her blue eyes danced with good humor.
