Charlotte paused to evaluate matters. She saw her cousin Eugenia Cuttle-Plim risk life and limb to pluck a stray thread from the sleeve of pirate maven Mrs. Rotunder. Another pirate was straightening Mrs. Chuke’s golden bee brooch in an act equivalent to the unsheathing of claws. Guns, swords, and hatpins flashed in the electric light. One wrong move and twenty-four lionesses were ready to spring into action—and considering the only antelopes were a few museum staff trembling at the edges of the crowd, chaos was sure to ensue.
Charlotte smiled to herself in a manner that caused Bloodhound Bess, noticing it, to shudder and hurry away to the far side of the gallery.
Spying the exhibition’s curator, Charlotte began to make her waytoward him. She passed two witches debating the correct etiquette for stealing rubies from a baroness—before or after dinner?—and a wizened, white-haired pirate stealing pearls from them both.
She passed Cecilia Bassingthwaite, wearing a plain dress that looked extremely comfortable, and whispering to her husband, who was stroking her back as he listened to every word.
She accidentally murmured the incantation and sent a bust of Erato flying across the room, where it landed in a cradle once belonging to Beryl Black—which either foreshadowed a lovely future for Miss Bassingthwaite and her husband, or was just sheer chance.
And for one awful, heart-stopping moment she thought she saw Lady Armitage, the maddest and most dangerous of all pirates. But it was only a taxidermied cassowary bird that had been included in the exhibition because Beryl once wrestled one to death with her bare hands (or possibly shot it from a distance with a Winchester rifle, depending on whether you liked your stories interesting or true).
The curator was at the far end of the room, fussing with another of Beryl’s wedding dresses, which had replaced the destroyed one. Charlotte found herself wondering if he had an abdomen rippled with muscle and seared with tattoos beneath his brown tweed suit, but the way he gulped as she arrived before him was so unappealing, she felt no desire to undress him and find out. Which only proved the general wisdom that what counts in a man is the quality of his character, not the swelling of strength beneath his sleeves, nor the warm color of skin that promises to taste like salt on a woman’s tongue as she—
“Hello!” Her sudden, brisk greeting caused the curator to nearly leap out of his probably-not-tattooed skin. “Don’t be alarmed,” she told him. “I am not a pirate; I am an archaeologist.”
He peered at her with eyes red-veined from constant wariness. “What, another one? I’ve spoken to three archaeologists and a historian in the past two days.”
“Junior colleagues of mine,” Charlotte said, dismissing them with a flap of the hand.
“Really? Both Mr. Jones and Mr. Brown claimed to be head of the Archaeological Society. Mr. Jones-Joneson was older than my grandfather. And Mr. Umblack had a document to show he ran the archaeological department at Oxford University (although I was suspicious, as there appeared to be a shopping list jotted on the back of it). Mr. Umblack also smelled of floral perfume and had a substantial bosom, but I am not one to judge. All wanted to inspect the amulet and all, regardless of their credentials, were refused permission.”
Charlotte paused a moment to consider this. Then she smiled. “Did you think I said ‘archaeologist’? Oh dear, excuse me, I said ‘architect.’ Yes. My name is Anne Smith. You will of course have heard of me; I was recently awarded Architect of the Year by the, um, Architection Society.”
She held out her hand and the man shook it weakly. Charlotte strove not to grimace or to wipe her hand against her skirt. “I have no interest in any amulet,” she said. “I’ve come to interview you about the design of this exhibition for a special paper to be presented at our next convention. What is your name, please, so I can quote you in my speech?”
A frown began to wither his expression. “You’re actually an architect?”
“Yes.”
“A female architect.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Clearly instinct urged him to argue against the possibility of this, but his brain was swayed by Charlotte’s unassailable confidence. “How do you do, miss?”
“Doctor,” she corrected.
“A doctor of architecture?”
“Just so. Years of education, most edifying. Allow me to show youmy credentials. There might be a small misspelling involved—it seems architect and archaeologist are often confused, ha ha, but pay it no mind.”
“Ha ha,” the curator said tentatively, quite overwhelmed. Charlotte gauged he would be easy to manipulate and allowed herself a small moment of happiness, for everything was going exactly to plan. Well, almost exactly. It should be simple enough to fake a mastery of architection, and in just a few minutes she’d be walking out of the museum with Beryl’s amulet in her possession and her place of superiority in the magical community assured. Take that, Miss Beloved Cecilia Elegant Bassingthwaite.
Propping the briefcase against her hip, she reached for its latch.
“Hello, my darling,” said a deep male voice. A hand covered her own.
And just like that, everything went very wrong indeed.
Charlotte lifted up her eyes in amazement at Alex O’Riley, but was not too much oppressed to make any reply. “How dare you, sir!”
He smiled pleasantly in return. “And you too are dear, my sweet.”
“Ah, now it makes sense,” said the curator, sighing in relief as his world realigned itself properly. “Doctor Smith, I presume?” He nodded to Alex. “Which makes the little lady Mrs. Doctor.”
“Little—!” Charlotte tried to take a calming breath, but it was not easy with clenched teeth. “I amMissDoctor Smith,” she said. And she pulled her hand out from beneath Alex’s, causing a friction that sparked across her skin. He caught hold of the briefcase handle instead.
“Let go,” she demanded.
