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“So for Katrina’s sake—for the family’s sake—I’m willing to look like something I find very distasteful,” Randall said. He made a face like he’d bitten a sour lemon and rubbed his beard. “I can only hope that I do a decent job, prove my worth. And that in time I can overcome that negative opinion. To that end,” he said, taking a deep breath, “give me six months with no salary. If you are pleased with my work after that, you can pay me. Until then, nothing. I won’t even take the customary commission on buying new works.”
“Who told you a commission is customary?” Erik said. “I can assure you, it is not.”
Randall looked surprised. “Oh!” he said. “But according to the records Benjamin—” And then he shut his jaw with an audible click.
“What?” Erik said. “According to the records Benjamin did what?”
Randall shook his head. “Speak no ill of the dead,” he said.
“If there is ill to speak about Benjamin filching money from the museum’s budget, I bloody well want it spoken!” Erik said.
Randall looked embarrassed. “I, um—I had assumed that, that it was, you know . . . because on every single transaction, um . . .”
“Benjamin took a piece of every transaction?” Erik said, turning bright red with anger. “ALL of them?!”
Randall nodded.
“How much?” Erik growled through clenched teeth.
Randall looked down. “Five percent,” he said.
Erik glared at Katrina as if it was her fault. “Why didn’t we know this?” he demanded. Without waiting for her answer he turned back to Randall. “Bring me those records,” he said. “I want to see for myself.”
Randall looked up at Erik and raised an eyebrow. For a moment, Erik frowned back at him, apparently puzzled that he had not been obeyed instantly. And Katrina could no longer stay silent. “Erik, for the love of God,” she blurted out, “you can’t order him around if he doesn’t have the job!”
Erik turned the frown on her and blinked. Then he got it. “Oh,” he said. He turned back to Randall. “You’re hired.”
CHAPTER
24
Monique couldn’t remember when it happened. It had probably been sometime in the last week, when all the prep was done and she’d started to work on the actual piece, but it really wasn’t possible to say for certain. She had studied the photos Riley had given her, made a few notes, and then started collecting all the photos and information she could. She made some rough sketches, gathered materials, and began.
She started the actual crafting of the piece exactly as she always did, slowly, methodically, paying extraordinary care to each minute detail, even those that would not be visible when she finished. But as she worked in her usual way, she couldn’t help thinking about what she was making, who she was making it for, and what all logic dictated had to be the result of trying something so completely insane. They’re going to kill him, she kept thinking. They’re going to kill Riley. She was certain of that: Riley would be killed. And it would be her fault because he’d said that his only chance would be if she made a perfect copy. That made it very hard to concentrate.
But Monique tried. She worked methodically, deliberately, carefully, and with a complete lack of inspiration. It all seemed mechanical, uninteresting—because no matter what she did, it couldn’t possibly be good enough, and Riley would be killed.
She didn’t want to think about why that mattered so much. She was not that interested in any of her other clients. She didn’t necessarily want them to die, but if they did, she would regret o
nly that she’d lost a client. She’d even said that to Riley. But with Riley, the thought felt different. If he died—if he was killed because her copy wasn’t good enough—
She told herself he was just another customer. But she didn’t believe herself. And when she asked why he was special, her mind would veer away from the question and tell her to get back to work. And she would try . . . But somehow, she knew that what she was doing was not good enough.
And then, for no real reason, it happened. As she worked and tried to kick her mind out of its self-digesting fugue, she stopped thinking and something else took over. Suddenly, Monique floated up out of her normal, careful working habits and elevated to a new, much higher plane. She didn’t plan it, didn’t do anything to make it happen. But she went from meticulous to obsessive. Time stopped having any meaning. Only this one small piece of work mattered—nothing else had any real existence.
Monique forgot to eat, sleep, bathe. She did nothing but work, rework, improve. When she was so exhausted she couldn’t stand up, she would snatch a quick nap on her sofa, only to jerk awake in a sweat with some new detail suddenly flooding her brain, and she would leap up and get back to work. Whatever new space she now inhabited, wherever the obsessive thoughts came from, it didn’t matter. She only knew this piece had to be the best thing she’d ever done. It had to be perfect. She no longer consciously thought that making it perfect might save Riley’s life, but that belief began to grow in her, too, without any reflection at all about why that might matter to her. She simply worked on, approaching an exquisite artistry she had never touched before.
At some point she became vaguely aware that someone was standing behind her, watching her work. Annoying, but not enough to make her stop or look. She didn’t know who it was, and she didn’t care. She was pretty sure it was Riley, but that didn’t matter. She was working.
“It’s beautiful,” the voice behind her said. Yes, that was Riley’s voice.
“Go away,” Monique said. “It isn’t ready.”
And it was, in fact, far from ready. The main jewel itself was set in the frame, with the crown filigree rising above it, but none of the detail was in place yet. So many smaller gems to set, so much elaborate fine work—and Monique was not really satisfied with the main setting, either. There was just so much . . . “Go away,” she repeated, frowning with concentration.
Again, some small watching piece of her consciousness knew that he stood there for a long moment, studying her now and not the piece she worked on. But finally he left, and Monique worked on.
There were so many details, so many small but vital pieces that had to be just right—had to be flawless—and somehow she had to keep them all in her head, their relation to one another, their comparative size and color . . . So many things to think of all at once. But she did. Somehow she could easily keep it all whirling at the same time in a mental picture of complete clarity. She was raised up to a level where everything was clear and perfect and she was a part of it and could not possibly make a mistake.
