“You’re not wrong. It’s just that here you state that a forged carving made from plaster would be easily discovered if it is scratched or if it chips or breaks.”
That was true. “A scratch, chip, or break would show the integrity of the piece inside. Plaster will be white. If a piece is truly wooden, it won’t be as fragile anyway.”
A deep laugh rumbled in her father’s chest, and she nearly forgot that she was the one with a PhD in Egyptology. “Yes, darling, but can you imagine what a suspicious reader will do with this line? They’ll take it as a suggestion that they ought to take their antiquity and bang it against the wall to see what color it is inside.”
“Surely your readers are more discerning than that.”
“You’d be surprised. I predict that at least a handful of our subscribers will misconstrue your words and end up damaging genuine antiques. Then we could have a lawsuit on our hands, and even if the Napoleon Society would win, we can’t afford the legal fees.” He gestured to the surrounding darkness as if she needed a reminder that restoring the house into a museum was costing them enough. “So let’s avoid all of that by simply omitting that line. Leave the focus on signs that are easier to detect, such as these seams you talk about, a result of anything being molded rather than carved.”
She agreed to his suggestion. “Those seams are such a telltale sign. It’s amazing the clues people miss.”
“It’s not so amazing when you think about it,” Dad said. “People see what they want to see. If they believe a piece is real, they won’t even think to look for things like that. That’s why your articles are so important.”
Quiet settled into the space around them as they exchanged stories of how they’d spent their holiday. “You’ll never guess what Joe’s father gave his mother for Christmas,” she said at length. “A wooden carving of a horse and rider from his new Napoleon Society membership.”
“Is that right? And was she pleased?” Dad layered another slice of prosciutto atop a thick wedge of bread and cheese.
“Oh, very.” Lauren described the scene and told him about the tour of the Met that followed their Christmas dinner. “Sal and Greta said it was their best Christmas in many years.”
With a deep breath, she told him about Joe’s gift to her. “Now all I need are dark glasses and the right shoes.”
“Our expedition leaves in September,” he said. “You’ll ask for the time off soon?”
That seemed premature. “Not before my participation is approved by the board.”
“I have no doubt it will be.”
Familiar resistance stirred in Lauren, a form of self-protection, she supposed, against having her hopes raised and dashed again.Why else would she not share Dad’s excitement? Why else would she not be moved by the anticipation of a lifelong dream coming true?
Logs shifted in the fireplace. Flames bobbed and nodded, then began to gutter. Lauren rose and crossed to the hearth, added more wood, then watched to make sure the fire caught. The house was beautiful, but with these high ceilings, a challenge to keep warm. No wonder the previous owners mostly used it in the summer.
“We do have central heating installed now,” Lawrence told her, “but I can’t justify heating the entire mansion when I’m the only one here. Or even when it’s just the two of us. You don’t mind, do you? It’s like we’re camping.”
She held her hands to the warmth of the gathering flames. “I don’t mind it.”
“Do you remember the last time we spent a night under the same roof?” he asked from where he remained seated on the floor.
“I’ve been trying to recall that very thing,” she told him.
“August 27, 1907. You were fourteen years old, and so desperate for my stories you insisted on staying up all night long to hear them over again.”
Ah yes. But Lauren remembered it differently. It wasn’t his stories she was desperate for but him. “You caught the train to New York the next day. You were leaving for Egypt again.”
“That’s right. I didn’t mind staying up with you, though. I could sleep on the train. I’m sure I did.”
Lauren, however, had fallen asleep in school three times the next day. It had been worth it for those extra hours with her father. But she did wonder now how Mother must have felt, lying alone in their bed. Had she waited for him to come to her for their last night together before another months-long separation? How many hours passed before she realized he wasn’t coming? Had she cried herself to sleep?
Had she been jealous of the time Lauren had taken with Lawrence? Angry?
I’m losing both of you, Mother had written in one of her letters. Guilt needled Lauren for keeping Dad’s attention all for herself.
“Clarke needed me.” The irony of Lawrence’s statement jarred Lauren. If anyone had needed him, it hadn’t been Theodore Clarke.
“I thought you didn’t want to talk about him,” she said quietly.
“You need to know this about Clarke. He styled himself a great archaeologist, but what was his background? Banking. Finance. He knew nothing about excavation. If I hadn’t guided his decisions, he never would have dug where he did in the Valley of the Kings. He never would have made those landmark discoveries that made him famous.”
The first time Lauren had heard this story, she’d believed him. But Clarke’s pioneering methods had been famous for decades. She’d learned in graduate school that he was the one who’d made a grid of the Valley and hired men to systematically work through it, long before Howard Carter picked up where Clarke had left off, famously discovering King Tut’s tomb.
