The Empress's Tomb (27 page)

“Believe it or not, I have other friends who are in worse trouble than you.”

“Let's see what you think at the end of the day,” Molly challenged me, holding open the door of my first-period class. “There's nothing worse than losing your privacy. Have you ever heard of the observer effect?”

“No.”

“Don't you
ever
listen in class? The observer effect is one of those weird scientific phenomena. When people are put under observation, their behavior changes. It's like when you go into a store and a security guard starts following you.
You
know you're not going to shoplift anything, but you start feeling guilty, and then you start acting suspiciously. That's the observer effect. So here's my question. How can you know who you really are if you're being watched all the time?”

•     •     •

I didn't need the whole day to get Molly's point. When first period ended, I caught myself slinking through the hallways like an escaped convict on the run from the law. By second period I was clinically paranoid. Wherever I was, I could feel a thousand eyes crawling all over me. If I went to the bathroom, I'd emerge to find a teacher loitering outside. If I happened to pass within fifty feet of the school's exit, the sound level would dip as if people were holding their breath to see what would happen. I might have started hearing voices by third period, but when I took a seat in Mr. Dedly's classroom, the day began to look a little brighter.

The person sitting behind the desk at the front of the room didn't possess Mr. Dedly's copious nose hair, pained expression, or penchant for mismatched tweeds. Instead, it was a pretty Indian woman dressed in a shimmering turquoise sari. A tiny diamond set in her left nostril sparkled, and her gold bangles tinkled like a wind chime when she rose to address the class.

“Mr. Dedly was called away this morning. I am Ms. Mahadevi. I will be your substitute teacher today. Before I begin the lecture, I must speak with one of the students in this class.” She studied the roll book, her finger scrolling down the list until she stopped somewhere in the middle. “Ananka Fishbein. Please come to the front of the room. The rest of you may talk quietly amongst yourselves.”

My classmates were too busy gossiping to notice the strange new teacher take me by the arm and lead me out the door.

“Ananka,” she whispered without any trace of a Bombay accent. “It's me.”

“Betty?” I started to laugh till she shushed me. “What did you do with Mr. Dedly?”

“A couple of hours ago, the Amateur Archaeologists of Manhattan got a tip that a construction crew in Coney Island had discovered the remains of a pirate ship and were trying to hide the evidence. Your teacher's the president of the club, so he had to go check it out. Pretty good, huh? It was Luz's idea. We heard what happened at the museum last night. Kiki asked me to come see you. She thought you'd be under strict surveillance.”

“That's the least of it. My mother's shipping me to a boarding school in West Virginia on Thursday. Don't worry,” I added when Betty's face fell. “I'll come up with a plan. Who told you guys about the museum?”

“Oona. Who else? She said you got caught snooping around. I've never seen her so mad. I thought she was going to start foaming at the mouth.”

“Oh really? Did she tell you
why
I was snooping around?” Betty shook her head. “Yeah, I thought she might have left that part out. I was
snooping around
because there were Fu-Tsang at the museum.”

“No!” Betty's bracelets jangled as she clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Yes.
I saw a guy with a dragon tattoo on his butt. He was moving the paintings from an earlier exhibit. I thought he might be stealing them, so I followed him.”

“Was he?”

“No,” I admitted. “Turns out he was just taking them to another part of the museum. But I swear there's something weird going on over there. And the worst part is—Oona's got to be in on it. She saw the guy with the tattoo just like
I did. She knows the Fu-Tsang are involved, and she didn't tell anyone. I think she's stepped over to the dark side.”

Betty winced. “I wish I could say I was surprised. I'll call Kiki as soon as class is over.”

“Somebody needs to visit the museum, too. I'd go myself, but they said I was banned.”

“I'll go. My next period is free, and the museum's only a few blocks away. What do you want me to do when I get there?”

“Have a look at the painting I saw being moved last night. I'll find out what it's called. There was something strange about it, but I can't put a finger on what it was. It was a picture of a naked woman lying with her back to the painter. It looked like there was something peeking over her shoulder.”

“Sounds creepy. We should go online and look up the name of the painting as soon as I finish my lecture.”

“Perfect. So does that mean you're really planning to teach this class? Do you know anything about New York history?”

“There's one thing I know pretty well.” Her voice had already begun to adopt the mellifluous rhythm of an Indian accent. “Let's go inside. We'll talk again after class.”

•     •     •

The classroom grew quiet as Betty approached the podium. She held up a portrait of a hideous woman whose fleshy jowls sported a faint five o'clock shadow. Judging by the woman's curly black wig and blue silk dress, the painting dated from the mid-eighteenth century. I suddenly knew the subject of Betty's lecture, and I couldn't help but smile.

“Can anyone identify this unfortunate-looking woman?” Betty asked, her accent perfect once more. No one raised a hand. “Very well. This is a former governor of the British Colony of New York.
His
name was Edward Hyde.”

The class burst into laughter.

“Not only was he a poor excuse for a governor, Mr. Hyde loved to dress like his cousin Queen Anne. Unfortunately, as you can see, he did a very poor job of that as well. Today we will be reviewing a few techniques Mr. Hyde might have used to make his costume more convincing.”

For the first time that day, I was almost beginning to enjoy myself when the door opened and a lemurlike fourth grader passed a note to the substitute teacher.

“Ananka Fishbein,” she said with a touch of pity in her voice, “you have been summoned to the principal's office.”

•     •     •

Molly Donovan had just returned from walking the plank. I saw her shuffling out of the principal's office with her head hung and her spirit crushed. I took her arm and guided her around the corner.

“What's wrong?” I whispered. “What just happened?”

“I'm never getting out of here,” Molly moaned. “I told my calculus teacher where she could stick her protractor, and all I got was a ten-minute lecture. Wickham said my parents' donations don't make any difference to her. She says I'm still here 'cause I have potential.”

“I'm so sorry, Molly. Maybe you should tell her why you want to get expelled.”

“You really think
that
would help?” Molly despaired.
“These people are all the same. If they think you have potential they want to suck it right out of you.”

“I don't know if the principal's like that,” I argued. “She might want to help you.”

Molly snorted. “Face it, Ananka. I can't trust adults. You're my only hope.”

•     •     •

The principal was at her computer when I entered. I could see the screen's reflection in her glasses. She was looking at the file of an Atalanta student. I didn't need to ask to know it was mine.

“Please close the door, Ananka,” she ordered. “I wasn't aware that you're friends with Miss Donovan.”

“You heard us talking?”

Principal Wickham looked up and smiled slyly. “My sight may be failing, but my hearing's as sharp as ever. So am I to understand that Molly
would like
to be expelled?”

“She wants to get out of New York. She says her parents think she's special.”

“But Molly
is
special,” said the principal.

“Special enough to be brought out at parties to entertain her parents' guests? Special enough to see her shrinks three times a week and have cameras put in her bedroom?”

“Oh dear.” Principal Wickham took off her glasses and nibbled on the frame. “I'll have to think about what to do with Miss Donovan.”

“I hear the Borland Academy's accepting new students.” If I had to go, maybe I could take Molly with me.

“I appreciate the information, Ananka. But I didn't
ask you here to discuss Molly Donovan. I would like to have a little chat about
you.”

“Yeah, about that …” I grimaced as I said it. “I'm sorry for skipping school yesterday. I know you tried to help me. I apologize for letting you down.”

“Yes, it was very disappointing, Ananka.” Somehow her voice didn't match her words.

“And I'm sure my mother told you about the museum incident. Everyone's been watching me like I'm going to make a run for Mexico.”

“Your mother seems to think you might leave school a little too early today. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I've just finished reading your essay, and I thought it merited a discussion.”

I hadn't thought of the essay in more than a week, and I was mortified to remember what I had written. “I'm sorry for that, too. I'm sure it wasn't what you were expecting.”

“That is true. But it's nice to know that after fifty years at Atalanta I can still be pleasantly surprised.”

“You liked it?” I had never suspected she might take my work seriously.

“It's a remarkable piece of research. When Mr. Dedly returns, I'm certain he'll be pleased. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you receive an A for the semester. But tell me, how did you happen to find the Underground Railroad stop beneath Bialystoker Synagogue?”

“I do a little exploring here and there,” I managed weakly.

The principal laughed. “You lead an interesting life, Ananka. You know, when I was a child, my grandfather used to tell stories about hidden rooms beneath Manhattan. He claimed to have visited some in his youth, though
I doubt he was on any noble mission. Apparently he was a bit of a rogue.”

“He must have been one of the few who survived the plague,” I said.

“I'm sorry? Which plague was that?”

“That's a whole other essay, Principal Wickham.”

“Well, I'd love to read it when you're finished. I believe we might be able to have this one published.”

“No!” I said it a little too quickly. My heart skipped when I thought of Kiki's reaction. “I wrote it for
you.
I don't want anyone else to read it.”

“It's your essay, Ananka, but I urge you to reconsider. Information like this should be shared with the whole city. But I do believe we've discovered the source of your academic woes. You have a gift that has been ignored. We may need to take another look at your schedule.”

It was nice to know I was gifted, but I didn't think it made much of a difference. How many IQ points does it take to milk cows and make cheese?

“But, Principal Wickham, tomorrow's my last day at Atalanta. Didn't my mother tell you? I'm leaving for the Borland Academy on Thursday.”

Principal Wickham frowned. “This is all news to me,” she said, picking up the phone. “I must have a word with your mother. Would you mind excusing me?”

“Sure,” I said. Whatever she had planned, it wasn't going to work.

•     •     •

When I hit the hall, I knew one thing for certain. In fortyeight hours, I'd be in West Virginia. There was no point
in fighting it. As soon as the Irregulars knew the truth, there would be nothing left to keep me in New York. In a stunning display of recklessness, I had confessed a secret to someone I barely knew, thinking nothing could possibly come of it. Now the Shadow City was once more in danger of discovery, and it was all my doing.

I couldn't face Betty, so I ditched class and made my way to the library. I took a seat at a computer terminal, intending to type out my confession. My elbow hit the mouse, and the screen illuminated. An earlier visitor had been reading the daily gossip columns online. An item in the
New York Post
announced that Queen Livia of Pokrovia would soon return to the city to search for her long-lost niece. I signed on to my e-mail account, and with my fingers poised above the keys I paused to think. My disgrace was inevitable, but though the Irregulars wouldn't be my friends for long, I had to help them while I could. I e-mailed the gossip column to Kiki, brought up a new Web page, and typed in the URL of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The Empress Awakens
had replaced an exhibit entitled
From Venus to Vargas: A Celebration of the Female Form.
I had no doubt that it had been quite popular. It took little searching to identify the painting I had seen being moved.
Odalisque in Grisaille
was even lovelier than I remembered. But when I printed out a color copy, I saw no evidence of anything but a pillow behind the woman's shoulder. Paging through photos of the other works that had been on display, I found nudes lounging on sofas, nudes enjoying picnics, and nudes prancing
through parks. Judging from the artwork, there seemed to be no shortage of things one could do without clothes. As I stifled a yawn, I happened upon a painting of a large blond woman gazing into a mirror. I didn't even need to read the name of the artist. It was the painting Siu Fah had described. It was the one she had copied.

I had barely finished printing out images of the paintings in the exhibit when the bell rang. Racing through the crowded halls, I managed to catch Betty before the next period started.