We ran up the entrance steps. “How long will that work on him?” I said.
“Long enough.”
“If youeverdo anything like that to me, I will make sure you die a painful death.”
“Do you want to find my sister, or do you want to yell at me?”
“Why not both?” I said, stopping at the entrance door and peeking through the glass. There was no one in the lobby; presumably, they were further in, where the action was. “Come on.” I pulled the door open and followed Berron inside.
The cold stone floor and the empty lobby made our steps echo.
“Go ahead, magic yourself up and go see what happened,” Berron said.
“‘Magic myself up?’”
He made an aristocratic handwave in my direction. “Disguise yourself.”
“As what, exactly?”
“That curator you pretended to be last time.”
“What if she’s there?”
“Run away fast.”
I gave him a look.
“Or be the security guard we just saw. I don’t know. Just get in there and find out what happened.”
From farther down the hall came an animated one-sided conversation I couldn’t quite make out. I motioned him to silence, and listened. “It’s the curator,” I said. “The one who knows Victorine.” I paused, considering the options. “I’m not going to disguise myself. I’m going to go talk to her.”
“What if she thinks you’re in on whatever happened?”
“ThenI run away fast.”
We continued down the hall in the direction of the voice.
“There’s anarrowin thewall,” the curator said. She paused, seeming to listen. “Of course I’m sure! How could I be unsure about an arrow in the wall?”
Berron and I rounded the corner into the gallery.
The curator stood at the other end of the room, her back to us. Between us and her stood an assortment of pillars topped with clear rectangular cases.
The case closest to the door contained a tiny gold ostrich statue with gemstone eyes. Pearls and gold ornaments covered its gold-feathered tail. A gemstone bow tie perched on the golden bird’s long neck. The knick-knack could have fit in my hand, and probably would have paid for a second location of West Side Sandwiches.
As we walked on, something crunched under my feet.
Glass. It was everywhere, in small rectangular pieces.
“Who’s there?” the curator said.
“It’s Zelda Hawkins,” I said, following the glass trail like breadcrumbs to an empty pillar.
“I should have known,” she said. “And who’s your friend?” she added, taking in Berron’s height, his looks, and his mustard-colored sweater.
“Him?” I said, glancing at Berron as if he had only just appeared. “He’s my secretary.”
Berron had a coughing fit.
