“It’s a stupid nickname John came up with during a mission.” I waved a hand in Merlin’s direction. Arthur’s call sign had become Arthur. How inventive. Tristan’s was his middle name. Lancelot was Lance. Me? I didn’t drink and wasn’t interested in a relationship when we met, so Merlin thought Galahad—the pure one—was funny.
The plane leveled out, and Grace’s shoulders relaxed. “Tristan doesn’t talk a lot about his time with you guys, but he said you protected artifacts?”
“Speaking of which,” Merlin said as he handed the tablet back to Arthur, “I’d like to hear more about any precautions you’ve planned, Grace.”
She smiled, but hesitated, color climbing into her cheeks. Had my warnings sunk in? Did she realize she hadn’t been taking this as seriously as she should have?
“Physical security is my specialty.” Arthur gestured toward the credenza in the mid-cabin where Grace had stowed her handbag. “If you’re carrying an item of this value, we should discuss proper safeguards.”
Maybe Arthur or Merlin could ensure she understood the risks and didn’t push back after we touched down. They’d keep their voices level and not yell at her. She’d been right about that last night in the kitchen. I’d been angry when I showed up at Tristan’s after the initial call, but sometimes anger and strength were all I had to offer.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and inclined my head. “You should show them.”
“I...” Grace glanced at me, then at Arthur, and eased out of her seat. “It’s been in my closet, hidden under my laundry. No one was supposed to know about it.”
“And yet,” I said, retrieving her bag as we walked to the front, “there was a Russian man asking about your grandmother and another man who specifically mentioned the egg.”
Grace pressed her lips together, but she didn’t argue or try to excuse her actions.
“I’ve put out some requests for intel,” said Merlin. “I expect a call back from Jean before we reach London.”
“Good thinking.” I hadn’t seen Jean in five years. He was our go-to expert during the Legacy operations in Afghanistan. The archaeologist had guided us through identifying genuine treasures among the fakes planted by insurgents. His knowledgeof ancient gold artifacts had likely saved our lives more than once as we tried to determine which pieces might be a diversion.
Grace took the backward-facing chair in the forward cabin, and I took the one across from her. Her eyebrows rose in my general direction, as though she expected more details about Jean. Chatter wasn’t my strong suit, so I placed Grace’s handbag on the table between her and me and left it at that.
“May I see it?” Arthur asked.
She withdrew the velvet pouch from her purse. She handed it to Arthur, who examined the bag itself before opening the drawstring. He removed the blue egg and studied it for a moment before zeroing in on the tiny stone.
“Press here?” he asked, finger hovering over the catch.
When Grace nodded, Arthur pressed gently. The egg popped open with a soft click. With care, he lifted the golden yolk and set the shell atop the bag to prevent it from rolling. Finding the second catch, he opened the yolk as well, revealing the jeweled hen inside. He arranged all the pieces in a neat row.
I leaned across the aisle to point at the hen. “There’s a nearly invisible seam around the hen’s breast. It probably opens, but there’s no obvious mechanism, and we shouldn’t force it.”
Arthur nodded. “Where did your grandmother get this, Grace?”
“I don’t know,” she sighed, watching the egg more than Arthur. “She loved telling stories. She told me everything about her life. At least, I thought she did. This doesn’t fit any of it.”
Merlin said, “No hints at all?”
“None. Except…” Grace pulled out the photograph of her grandmother and handed it to Arthur. “The Russian man who came into the café? This was in his pocket.”
Arthur examined it closely before laying it next to the disassembled egg. Grace’s grandmother stood in front of a crumbling building, her smile bold despite the destructionsurrounding her. The smile was the same as Grace’s. Her eyes were light, too, even in the photo. If it had been a color photo, green eyes would have been shining back at me.
Fuck. Why was it always green eyes?
“I’m guessing it was taken in France,” Grace said, “because of the French writing on the sign.”
Arthur slid the photo closer to Merlin. “It looks like Marseille, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re right.” Merlin flipped open his laptop again.
Grace’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“The Nazis destroyed parts of the city in 1943,” Arthur explained, “months before they surrendered the city. The port area was particularly hard hit. This looks like the aftermath of those bombings.”
Grace shook her head. “She said her first trip to France was in the ’70s.”
