Page 19 of Queen of Nothing

Serena fishes her hand into her pocket, then tugs out a ruby-encrusted necklace. “A friend who comes bearing gifts.”

The necklace is one of our more extravagant pieces. She holds it up—and it takes me a moment to realise there’s a peephole hidden in the brass adornment on the door.

“It’s an emergency,” she adds. “And that makes this worth your while.”

Silence is the answer—but only for a few seconds before the rattle and clang of locks.

The door creaks open just a couple of inches.

I look at the dark gap and only see shadows.

Another pause, then the door opens all the way and Serena wastes no time at all before she brushes by me.

I scuttle in after her, into dense shadows.

The door shuts behind me.

The thud of the lock jolts me, and I whip around in the dark. But still, I’m blinded.

Hope this isn’t a serial killer by night, jeweller by day.

Something brushes by me, and my skin prickles.

I cringe back into what feels like a wall and listen to the footsteps that lead the way through the shadows.

Then a switch is flicked, loud in the silence, and a faint orange glow presses against the dark.

I squint against the new birth of light.

But I see that I’m in a narrow corridor—one that ends with another door that looks more vault-like than anything.

I chase Serena’s heels to the metal, barred door, closer to the man who hasn’t tended to his stubble in a few days, and whose eyes are puffy and bloodshot—so I know we pulled him out of his sleep.

He must live here.

But that should mean there’s another door somewhere in this corridor. It must be hidden, because, as I look over my shoulder, I only see the walls and the entrance.

The groan of metal strikes down the hallway, and it wrenches my gaze back.

The man pushes against a solid bar stroked across the door—and then reaches into the room on the other side and flicks a light switch.

He leads the way inside, and the moment my sight adjusts, I smile at the luxury of it all.

Glass casings encircle elegant chaises and armchairs that I’m sure have been snatched right out of a French palace; the walls are decorated with prized display pieces, from the Monet in a golden frame and the three Stradivarius violins, over to the wall lined with actual pieces from the Amber Room.

But I falter.

Hesitation strikes me, and my eyes widen at the beauty, the rarity, of the Rembrandt painting that takes up a whole wall of its own.

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.

Painted in 1633, lost in 1990. Never seen again—or so I thought.

A faint scoff catches in my throat.

Then I look up at the glittering lights above me.

The glass chandelier is obviously Italian in style, with glass flowers of blue and red weaved throughout it, and it won’t surprise me if this is a genuine piece and not replica.