Page 12 of Chaos and Crowns

As Odelle parked in front of the gray stone home in Lincoln Park, she reminded Antony, “Let me take the lead. I’ll ask most of the questions, and you just make a few comments about the collection to prove you know what you’re talking about.”

Antony nodded silently, looking pale, freckles standing out even more than usual. Odelle wanted to take pity on him, knowing that he was out of his element here. Still, they needed to get to the bottom of this.

Frederick Whitehall answered the door and beckoned them inside with all the pomp of a king welcoming visitors to his court.

“Welcome, welcome. It’s such an honor to have you, and I’m so glad you wanted to feature our humble collection in your special piece on Classical Greek antiquities.”

He shook Antony’s hand heartily, and Odelle thought she saw Antony suppress a wince at his grip. After all, Mr. Whitehall was built like a linebacker past his prime, his arm nearly as thick as Antony’s torso.

Meanwhile, Odelle looked around, hoping to spot Mr. Whitehall’s wife and confirm that she was the woman Odelle had met at the fundraiser. As if summoned by Odelle’s thoughts, a bird-boned woman emerged around the corner. Odelle shot a pointed look at Antony, glancing at the woman and raising her eyebrows.

“Mrs. Whitehall,” the woman introduced herself, offering a hand. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and when she shook Odelle’s hand, she only grasped her fingertips, as if she’d rather not be touching her at all.

Odelle bristled but plastered on her best reporter smile. Getting up-in-arms never helped anybody get information.

“Yes, we met at the fundraiser last weekend,” Odelle remarked. “I complimented your crown.”

“I wouldn’t remember,” Mrs. Whitehall commented as she shook Antony’s hand. “I received lots of compliments on it that night.”

Antony squinted at Mrs. Whitehall, looking her up and down. Odelle surreptitiously stepped on his foot before he could say anything. No matter how rude Mrs. Whitehall was, they couldn’t risk offending her before they were even out of the front hall.

“That’s actually exactly why I’m here,” Odelle interjected cheerily. “So many people would be interested in your collection, especially your fantastic new addition. I was actually already doing a feature on the archeology team that excavated it, and I thought it would really enrich the story to show the crown in your private collection.”

Mr. Whitehall began prattling on about his antiquities, talking about how he had first started his collection when he studied abroad in Greece in college, as he led them up the stairs. Odelle made sure to nod and oh! at the right moments, but she was conscious of Mrs. Whitehall trailing behind her and Antony. Something about her quiet presence reminded Odelle of a vulture circling, waiting for a carcass to scavenge. The sooner they could figure out if this crown was what the Shadow was after and get out of there, the better.

Up two flights of stairs, Mr. Whitehall led them into a room that had been arranged like a small museum gallery. Low glass cases lined the walls and a few plinths in the middle held black and red pottery. Odelle stopped in front of an amphora as Mr. Whitehall regaled her with tales of how he lent a piece to a museum in London. Odelle pretended to admire the geometric patterns and the image of Aphrodite riding a shell on the pottery as she listened, but instead watched Antony in her peripheral vision. He gravitated towards the glass case sparkling in the center of the room like a crown jewel. Mrs. Whitehall trailed after him, as if she too were magnetically drawn to the tiara on the stand. Odelle had hoped to give Antony a moment unobserved with the crown.

“Mrs. Whitehall,” Odelle interjected when Mr. Whitehall paused to take a breath. “Have you accompanied your husband on any of his trips to Greece?”

The woman turned her back to Antony and said something in a frosty tone that Odelle didn’t absorb. She was too busy watching Antony bend down until his nose nearly touched the glass as his eyes widened. His breath would have fogged the glass, but he didn’t appear to be breathing. Then he began reaching for the latch to the case and Odelle sprang into action.

“Antony!” she all but shouted.

The Whitehall’s spun to look at Antony where he stood by the crown. Unfortunately, instead of jumping back like Odelle had thought he would, Antony lurched forward in surprise. His forehead connected with the glass corner with a thud, and he grabbed at the plinth to avoid falling over.

Mrs. Whitehall gasped and clutched her chest in a reaction that was such a caricature of shock that Odelle would have laughed if she wasn’t so distracted. Instead, Odelle swore as Antony looked up to reveal blood dripping down his brow. She stepped around Mrs. Whitehall to reach Antony, who touched his head and then stared down at his fingers as if confused as to where the blood was coming from.

“Oh don’t get blood on my rug!” Mrs. Whitehall gasped behind her, and this time Odelle didn’t suppress her face of annoyance. Her back was turned anyway as she inspected Antony’s forehead.

“There’s a powder room across the hall,” Mr. Whitehall supplied, much more helpfully.

Odelle grabbed Antony’s elbow and dragged him out of the room before Mrs. Whitehall could have an aneurysm. She located the bathroom and pushed Antony inside, shutting the door behind them. Odelle looked around and snatched up a fluffy, white hand towel. She supposed she could have used a tissue to mop up the blood now dripping into Antony’s eye, but the Whitehall’s had enough money to replace one hand towel—and Mrs. Whitehall deserved it after caring more about her rug than a bleeding man.

Antony squeezed his eye shut as Odelle tried to dab the blood from it, squinting at her with his good eye. Trying to get a better look at the injury, Odelle pushed at his shoulder until he sat on the closed toilet seat behind him. The cut seemed to be shallow and ran up into Antony’s hairline. Odelle pushed his hair back from his face with one hand to get a better look at it, wiping some blood from his cheek with the cloth. As Antony looked up at her, the intimacy of this position struck her.

Antony’s copper curls were silky under her fingers and his knees brushed her thighs as she stood before him. His gaze was dazed—most likely from the blow to the head—as he stared up at her, eyes wide and lips slightly parted.

“That was graceful,” Odelle commented to dispel the tension in her chest. Still, the knot under her breastbone lingered as she brushed her fingers across his forehead. Now that she could see it properly, the cut seemed to be bleeding disproportionately to its size. Only a narrow graze ran across his forehead to his hairline. Odelle remembered Drew saying that head wounds tended to look more serious than they were, as scalps bled so easily.

“You surprised me,” Antony defended.

“So giving yourself a head wound wasn’t your brilliant strategy to get us out of there?”

“No, I just panicked,” Antony admitted.

Odelle snorted.

“I guess your warrior sorcerer reflexes are a little rusty after two thousand years of isolation.”